An Entertainment Legacy–Three Thrilling Acts
In seventh grade, I went to a new campus for school. Early in the year, we had an orientation to the library. A review of the Dewey decimal system, and how to use reference books, all that good stuff (does anyone under the age of 24 reading this have a clue what I’m talking about?). To show we’d learned something, we were each given a list of ten books to find, all from different sections of the library. Among the titles on my list was something called Three Plays about Crime and Criminals. I found the book and glanced at the cover and my jaw hit the floor. The book contained something called DETECTIVE STORY by Sidney Kingsley, the famous ARSENIC AND OLD LACE by Joseph Kesselring, and KIND LADY by Edward Chodorov. Somehow—and I still believe this was random chance—I had been assigned to find a book containing my grandfather’s play. I checked it out that day.
It’s a mystery story. And it’s creepy and disturbing. About an old lady kept prisoner in her own home. Cold-hearted bad guys, casual domestic violence, psychological torture, and violence—I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I knew he was a writer, of course, but it was the first time I actually saw his work. It cast my grandfather in a whole new light. I remembered him the way I think most people remember their grandfathers—as a fun, tough guy. He played with me, but he did it his way (one of my few very clear memories of him is when I taught him and my grandmother origami; we all had different colored pieces of paper, but he always spoke as if we all had his color. I’d say “ok, start colored side up,” and he’d ask, “red side up?”).
Well, this play was fun, and it was tough, but it was also grown up. Real people paid money to go see this play, and papa Eddie (as I called him) scared them and made them laugh too. And now there it was in my school library. Any of my friends could have gone into the library and found the same book and read it too. Even the popular kids could have gone into the library (hey, I had an active imagination), and found this awesome thing written by *my* grandfather. Things didn’t get much cooler for 12-year-old Max.
Not long after, my parents took me to a screening of the 1951 movie version of KIND LADY at the Museum of Modern Art. I had been in a lot of theaters with a lot of audiences, but I’d never heard one like this. They gasped out loud at the surprise twists, groaned at the sudden betrayals, and all but cheered at the heroine’s victories. This was powerful powerful stuff. But the entire meaning of KIND LADY to me was pretty much limited to “coolest thing ever” for several more years.
Until this happened.
I actually got to direct my grandfather’s play at the Monomoy Theatre in Chatham, MA. One of the best directing experiences I’ve had, and by far the most nervous I’ve ever been on opening night. Apart from the obvious, the play is, after all, a thriller. So it had to work 100%. If it’s not scary, I’ve got nothing. With a drama, if it’s not perfect, it might still be interesting, but if a thriller isn’t scary, there’s nothing else to offer. Plus we’d only had 2 ½ weeks to rehearse. Plus my parents were there. And my uncle. And my grandmother, who was there to see the original production back in 1935. And my step-grandmother, Papa Eddie’s widow. I had almost my entire entertainment legacy under one roof. I’ve had my tense moments—job interviews, asking a girl to prom, riding the Cyclone (falling is my number one phobia),but nothing compares to opening night of KIND LADY.
How did it go? Come on, weren’t you paying attention? I already told you that play is the coolest thing ever. In fact I said it twice. Papa Eddie knew what he was doing. The audience gasped at the surprise twists, groaned at the sudden betrayals, and they DID cheer at the heroine’s victories. Of course, it wasn’t until several stiff drinks later (my ever-faithful assistant director made a punch he called “Skip and Go Naked”) that I started to relax, but it was one of the all-time great nights in the theater.
The best part though, was the next evening having dinner with the family, when my mother told me Eddie was there that night. It meant a lot; a lot more even than you might think. My grandfather was a great man of the theater, but I knew he wasn’t always a great father. So hearing my mother pick those words to praise me did more than make me feel good about my work; it connected me to my history and brought home the family tradition I’m a part of.
This was how I put it at the time—the director’s notes I wrote for the program of KIND LADY.
Obviously, as Edward Chodorov was my grandfather, this is a particularly special experience for me. KIND LADY was the first play of my grandfather’s that I read, and as he died when I was 9, the first adult interaction I had with him. Most of what I know of him comes either from family stories, or from sources available to everyone. There’s a wonderful chapter on him in Moss Hart’s autobiography, Act One, but professionally, I think he’ll always be the author of KIND LADY to me, first and foremost.
It’s a strange point of connection. First, the play is an adaptation, and a far cry from his more politically-minded, anti-fascist wartime plays DECISION and COMMON GROUND. Second, knowing a relation through a thriller inevitably makes one wonder what demons were lurking underneath grampa who changed my diapers, took me to the park, and wore a pointy paper hat on his 80th birthday (I was four then).
He was certainly interested in breaking new ground. One of his best-known plays, OH, MEN! OH, WOMEN! Was one of the first plays to deal with psychoanalysis. But KIND LADY was also a landmark. It was the first play of its kind where the solution to the mystery is known early on. “Whodunit” is not the mystery; this is a “howdunit.” Literally seconds before setting out for Chatham, I was told that–before the play’s two successful Broadway runs, and two movie versions—Jed Harris, who produced Edward’s first play WONDER BOY, read KIND LADY and said, “You can’t do that! They know who did it—it doesn’t work.” Midway through our own rehearsal process here, one of the actors stopped me in passing to remark, “Max, your grandfather was a weird guy! This play is creepy, then it’s funny, then it’s creepy, then you’re not sure if it’s ok to laugh.”
I don’t know if he’s right about my grandfather, but I hope he’s right about the play. It isn’t like other mystery/thrillers, and for me at least, there are no other plays of any genre, by any author, quite like it.