Deadline for a Critic Read online

  Koesler paused momentarily at Ridley Groendals coffin. Briefly he visualized Ridley’s mortal remains as last seen before the casket was closed. Koesler remembered Ridley as he had lived. The two of them as young boys sharing their secret hope of becoming priests. Koesler’s dream unalloyed; Ridley torn between becoming a professional musician and a priest. That dilemma solved for him when Dave Palmer sabotaged the musical career with a deliberate, if childish, trick. Then his seminary progress seriously threatened when Carroll Mitchell discovered Groendal to be a plagiarist, even though, in Ridley’s view, Mitch was the cause of the incident. Groendal’s priestly vocation finally ending with a one-sided homosexual “relationship” with Charlie Hogan. Again, Groendal managed to blame Hogan for that disaster.

  Finally, what Groendal considered the disgrace of a nervous breakdown, triggered by Jane Condon’s pregnancy. Once more, as far as Ridley was concerned, it was somebody else’s fault, even though in actuality Groendal was undoubtedly the father of Jane’s child.

  A strange man, thought Koesler. If there was any consistency to his life it was that he seemed constantly prone to shift the responsibility and blame for his own actions to others. Maybe it made him a happier person. Certainly it was not a realistic way to go through life.

  In point of fact, such behavior was Koesler’s pet peeve. He had long since been disenchanted with those who refused to accept responsibility for their own actions.

  Well, whatever. It was over. Ridley was gone. According to Koesler’s belief, Groendal had been judged. But Koesler was of two minds about that judgment. He liked to believe that when we die we will be judged by Love.

  It was a consoling theology offering almost infinite understanding and forgiveness. On the other hand, there was that admonition by Christ that on earth we should judge others with understanding and forgiveness—for we will finally be judged in the same way we judge others.

  In all truth, Groendal had left no legacy of understanding, forgiveness, or even fair judgment. In any case, whatever judgment Groendal deserved from God had already been given to him. What more could Koesler do than remember Ridley and pray for him for whatever good that might do.

  “May Christ’s peace be in your heart today, Peter,” Koesler said as he shook hands with Harison.

  Harison could not speak. He merely nodded as tears—unique at this funeral—streamed down his cheeks.

  As Koesler finished greeting as many in the congregation as possible in a brief time, his eyes swept the rest of the people. Smiling, he tried to communicate a peaceful wish to all. His gaze was arrested by the face of Carroll Mitchell. Koesler flashed the “V” for peace sign. Mitchell smiled and nodded, as if to say, “Yes, I am indeed at peace . . . now.”

  Koesler’s mind returned to the seminary of his day. Then, the greeting was called “the kiss of peace.” But it was about as removed from a “kiss” as possible. The “giver” placed his hands on the shoulders of the “receiver,” who supported the other’s elbows. The greeting was, “pax tecum”—peace be with you.” The response was, “et cum spiritu two”—“and with your spirit.” Koesler, Mitchell, and Groendal had exchanged this greeting many, many times.

  Koesler now wondered what might be on Mitchell’s mind. Would Mitch be generous enough to wish that Groendal be at peace now in death? Koesler was fairly sure that Mitch himself felt a greater sense of peace. If there were any doubt whatsoever in Koesler’s mind, that doubt would have been dispelled by a conversation the two had had recently.

  Koesler and Mitchell had not crossed paths for many years. That was to be expected; they traveled in vastly different circles. It was difficult enough for Koesler to keep in touch with all his priest friends without keeping in contact with someone he once knew in the seminary—even if they had been, at that time, good friends.

  Then, one day about two months before Ridley’s death, they chanced to meet in downtown Detroit. Mitchell’s wife was with him. It was midafternoon. The three found a quiet cafeteria where they could sit and visit over coffee.

  It did not take them long to review their histories since last they had met. Mitchell was far more familiar with what had been going on in Koesler’s life than vice versa. Koesler had been editor of the Detroit Catholic and had been involved in helping the police in several criminal investigations. So he had had some measure of publicity.

  “Well, I’ve read about you, too,” Koesler said. “Something about Hollywood?”

  “Something about Hollywood,” Mitchell repeated as if Hollywood had been a disease instead of a place. “Yeah, I go there from time to time. Screenplays. I go to L.A. either to write them or fix something somebody else wrote. It’s a living.”

  “It’s better than that” Lynn Mitchell amended. “It’s a darn good living.” She spoke with an unmistakable sense of pride in her husband.

  Mitch chuckled. “At least we don’t have to live there.”

  “You don’t?” Koesler had no idea what screenwriting involved, but he was not uninterested in learning something about it.

  “No. Generally, if I’m commissioned to write a screenplay, I do my research here or, if where the story takes place is vital, I go to the location. Whatever, I don’t write in L.A.—unless of course that’s the location of the story.”

  “But you must go to Hollywood sometime.”

  Mitch nodded. “When I finish the script. To present it to the producer and director. Once they read it and okay it, I get out of town until they start shooting.”

  “You’ve got to go back?”

  “It changes.”

  “It does?”

  “Once they begin filming, the script is likely to change by the day.”

  “After the producer and director already approved it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But that’s a problem right there. I figure not only can’t they write, they don’t read very well, either. So when they get together with the actors, it gets kind of existential. The actor isn’t comfortable with a scene. He or she wants a change in dialogue. Or the director wants to throw his weight around. So he calls in the writer and tells him to change everything.”

  “Why doesn’t he change it himself?”

  “Like I said, he can’t write.”

  “So what do you do then?”

  “I usually take the script he’s hacked to pieces and let it rest a while. Then I retype it just the way it was and give it back to him. And,” Mitch gestured offhandedly, “this time he loves it.”

  “But it’s the same material.”

  “I told you: He can’t read either.”

  “I’m beginning to see why you want to spend as little time there as possible.”

  “And,” Lynn added, “Mitch is considerate enough not to insist that I go along . . . unless I feel I need a vacation, that is.”

  “A vacation from the kids?” Koesler asked.

  “Thank you very much, Father.” Lynn smiled. “From the grandkids.”

  Koesler was thankful he had erred on the diplomatic side of flattery. But he was also taken back. This couple was his age, almost exactly. They were grandparents. With no children and thus no grandchildren he never consciously thought of himself being of a grandfatherly age. Maybe it was because everyone—whether they were much older or much younger than he—called him “Father.”

  Or, perhaps because he had no family of his own, he could not appraise himself as most other people. In the mainstream of life, human beings begin as children, then they marry, have children, watch those children mature and marry. Soon there are grandchildren; perhaps great-grandchildren.

  Seeing oneself reproduced through generations probably is nature’s way of reminding one of the aging process—and a preparation for one’s own death. The priest found that a rich thought. He would have to develop it in meditation sometime soon.

  “What I can’t quite understand,” Koesler said, “is why with all your screenplays, I haven’t seen your name in the papers more often?”

  Mitchell
shook his head. “That’s something else, Bob. For one thing, a lot of the scripts I work on never see the light of day. I’m given the assignment to work up something original, maybe adapt something from a book somebody else wrote. So I do the job and nothing happens. Maybe they run out of money before or during shooting. Or maybe they get the whole thing in the can and can’t find a distributor. Lots of things can happen.”

  He shook his head. “I know. I know. You thought every movie made gets shown. But no: Lots of times it stays in the can on the shelf of some producer’s home or in some studio.”

  Afternoon drive-time rush hour was approaching. Koesler wanted to start for his suburb before the majority of downtown workers joined him. Too, he sensed that Mitch and Lynn had other things planned besides talking to him. He crumpled his paper napkin and dropped it in his empty cup. The others caught the signal and began preparations for leaving.

  “Oh, by the way,” Koesler said. “I meant to ask you about the stage—the legitimate theater. You must be involved in that.”

  Though the question had been uppermost in Koesler’s mind from the moment he first recognized the Mitchells, it had slipped to the back with all the talk about movies. He would not have forgiven himself had he not asked about the stage. God only knew how long before he might bump into the Mitchells again.

  From the look that crossed Mitch’s face, Koesler realized he had broached a painful subject.

  Lynn cleared her throat. “It’s his first love, Father. It just hasn’t worked out the way we wanted.”

  Koesler felt awkward. He shouldn’t have introduced the matter. But how could he have known? “Well, that is too bad, Mitch. But then, you’ve got the movies. And from all you and Lynn have said, that pays pretty well.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “It’s not the same. It’s just not the same. The stage is where it’s at. For one thing, the playwright is in command in almost the same way the author is in command of a book. You’re reasonably sure going into it that if it’s performed, some halfwit isn’t going to mutilate it. On the stage, the director and actors usually enhance what you’ve written.

  “And best of all, it’s an act that lives. You make a movie and it’s in a can—or these days in a videocassette. But it’s like a body in a casket: It may deteriorate, but it isn’t going to change. Ever been in a movie house after a particularly good picture ends and the audience applauds?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “Well, what for?” Mitchell continued. “The applause is instinctive. It’s also futile. Nobody who had anything to do with making the movie is there to receive the audience’s appreciation. The writer, the producer, the director, the actors, the technicians; they’re nothing now but credits on the screen. The audience’s reaction—good or bad—has no effect on the performance. It’s all in the can. It can’t change. It’ll be the same performance yesterday, today, and forever.”

  “I think I see what you mean,” Koesler said.

  “Sure you do. On the stage, everything is just the opposite. It’s why actors can get up there and play the same role day after day and scarcely ever get tired of it. Each audience is different. Each night is like opening night. The audience and the actors derive nourishment from each other. If the actors are tired or not giving everything, the audience senses that and reacts. It works every which way. An especially enthusiastic audience can inspire the actors. And the playwright—the playwright can know that every time the work is performed, a little unpredictable magic can happen.”

  “Not unlike a sermon,” Koesler observed. “You give a lot and the congregation responds. Within the first few minutes, you know whether you’ve got them or not.”

  “Exactly! A live performance. A living thing.”

  “So,” Koesler paused, “then, what happened? It’s so obvious—just as I expected—that you’re in love with the stage. What goes?”

  Mitchell opened his hands on the tabletop. “A funny thing happened on the way to the theater.”

  “He has written plays, Father,” Lynn said. “He’s written excellent plays. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s just that they haven’t gone anywhere.” Mitchell completed her sentence.

  “Nowhere?”

  “He means, Father, that none of them have made it to Broadway. Not even to Off-Broadway.”

  “Is Broadway that important?”

  Since the previous move had proven a false departure, Lynn went for more coffee.

  “It’s heaven. Bob,” Mitchell explained. “I’ve been in limbo, sometimes purgatory. But not heaven. Some of my stuff has been put on here—Wayne State, the Institute of Arts, U. M., M.S.U., places like that.”

  “I’m going to have to pay closer attention.”

  “Not your fault, Bob. Very low-budget stagings. Little quality publicity . . . with even less mention of the author.

  “I’ve even gotten as far as some of the better places—outside of Manhattan, of course. Like the Long Wharf, the Studio Arena in Buffalo; Yale and the Goodman, and Steppenwolf in Chicago. But they barely get there. And when they do, they close quite promptly. Usually due to, or partially due to, poor to extremely bad notices.”

  “And they absolutely do not deserve those bad reviews.” Lynn was back with coffee. “It all comes down to the Actors Theatre of Louisville!”

  Mitchell snorted. “Lynn’s got this thing—”

  “Because it’s true!”

  “Well,” Mitchell said, “we had been wondering over the years. You know, nothing was making any sense. Here I was with a successful, if rather anonymous, career doing screenplays. I mean, I guess that indicated I had some talent for writing . . . you know what I’m getting at?”

  “I think so,” Koesler said. “It isn’t as if you were merely an aspiring writer. Good Lord, I’ve known so many of them. Some defensive, some aggressive—all out to prove that they can write. And some write very well. But they need somebody to affirm it for them. They need to be published. And with all those screenplays behind you, you don’t need anybody to tell you you can write. You make a good living. You’re a pro.”

  “Exactly. I’ve known all along I could write. Even in school—and stage writing is not all that different from screenwriting. I mean, it’s virtually all dialogue—almost nothing but dialogue—stage or camera directions, no narrative.

  “So, the question that’s been hounding us is: If I’m as successful as I am with screenwriting, what’s happening to playwriting?”

  “And the answer, Father, was at the Humana Festival in Louisville!” It was evident that Lynn felt very keenly about this.

  “I don’t understand,” Koesler confessed. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this . . . Humana Festival?”

  “It’s the new mecca for an entree to the theater,” Mitchell explained. “It’s run by Victor Jory’s son . . . you remember Victor Jory, the character actor?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “The festival is just a little more than ten years old, but it’s big, Bob. About eight hundred people attend—a good part of them critics and producers. The producers especially are looking for another Agnes of God or Crimes of the Heart or The Gin Game. And the critics are sharpening their stilettos. For the playwrights—none of them untried or unrepresented amateurs—it could be the start of something big.

  “Well, last spring I entered the festival for the first time. You see, I’ve grown kind of content with life the way it’s worked out. I’m satisfied to earn my living with screenplays and just dabble with the stage.”

  “I ask you, Father,” Lynn protested, “isn’t that a crime? This man normally couldn’t care less about Hollywood. He lives for the stage. And he’s talking about it as if it were an avocation. I mean!”

  Mitchell smiled at his wife. “Anyway, my agent talked me into it—to enter a play I wrote last year. It’s been staged a few places—one of the new requirements of the Humana. I didn’t really expect that much from it. But, on the other hand, there’s always hope.”

&nbs
p; “What he didn’t expect, Father, was to be screwed!”

  “Now . . .”

  “What do you mean, Lynn?” Koesler asked. “What happened?”

  “One of the critics there,” Mitchell clarified, “was Ridley Groendal.”

  “Ridley!” Things suddenly began to get a lot clearer for Koesler.

  “Yeah, Ridley. Lynn came up with a scenario that I’m afraid is stranger than fiction.”

  “It is not my imagination! That Groendal did everything he could to destroy you at that festival. And from what I learned, he’s been doing the same thing for years, every chance he gets.”

  “Lynn . . .”

  “It’s true! I was the one who went around to the various producers, after I found out what he was up to in Louisville. Face it, Mitch, it hasn’t been you all these years. It’s been Ridley Groendal. Your plays have been good. It’s been Groendal working hard and wielding all of his clout.”

  “I can’t believe that, Lynn. Could you believe it, Bob? You know Ridley; hell, the three of us were classmates once!”

  Koesler hesitated. “I don’t know, Mitch.”

  “I can’t bring myself to believe such a thing,” Mitchell said, “To me, the biggest argument against it is motive: Rid would have absolutely no reason to do anything like this . . . I mean, what reason could he have? I’ve never done anything to him. If anything, on the surface at least, I owe him: After all, he got me booted out of the seminary.”

  Koesler betrayed a surprised look.

  Mitchell laughed. “Oh, it’s all right, Bob. I told Lynn all about my most daring escapade in the sem. In fact, when things are glum, we laugh about it.

  “But I don’t even hold a grudge about that anymore. Hell, I ought to be grateful to Rid, the way it worked out. If I hadn’t been booted and told never to darken the seminary’s door again, I would have missed out on Lynn and the kids and the grandchildren. And I owe all this to Rid and his scheming mind.

  “And that’s what it comes down to, Bob. I long ago forgave what he did to me. And I didn’t do anything to him.” Mitchell looked reflective. “And God knows I could have.”