November 6, 2009
From: Lawrence Ryan
To: Douglas Monroe
Subject: Re: Ronald Gordon's plays
Dear Mr. Monroe,
I hope you can forgive the slight prevarication in my earlier missive. I am, in fact, still here in Lexington, but I was expecting to leave the next day when I received your e-mail, and did not believe I had the time to fit in a visit with you before my departure. As it turns out, I have had to postpone the return flight that was originally scheduled to leave this morning. If you happen to be available any time this afternoon or evening, I would be pleased if you could join me for a drink here at the Hotel Lexington. Do let me know.
Regards,
Larry Ryan
P.S. Our mutual friend speaks very highly of you.
* * *
* Larry *
Doug Monroe's website sports a suitably moody black-and-white portrait, but I am more interested in getting the sound files of his work to play than I am in contemplating what some creative photographer's lens has made the man himself appear to be. Having been in this business forty-some years, I know all too well how skillfully deceptive an artful headshot can be.
According to his online bio, Monroe launched his career fairly young with a well-regarded orchestral piece that still appears on concert programs from time to time. However, the bulk of his work since seems to have been chamber music: The website lists an array of testimonials from string quartets, wind ensembles, and less traditional groups of instruments that have performed his compositions to general acclaim over the last two decades. The most common word critics seem to use to describe his work is "neoromantic," whatever that means. All of which sounds promising, but gives me little to go on in judging his potential in writing dramatically for the voice.
Monroe is already there and waiting when I stroll into the Lexington's handsomely appointed bar Friday evening, which at least earns him points for punctuality. He turns out to be tall, with the slightly hunched posture that often comes from years of unconsciously attempting to minimize the difference in height from others. Dark, tousled hair with a few fetching streaks of gray, receding at the temples but still thick on the crown and sides. Pale complexion, possibly genetic, but I imagine more likely due to spending long hours locked in a studio with his muse. Intense silvery gray eyes, a little spooky in that pale face. A charmingly crooked smile, poorly disguising the fact that he is nervous. Long, elegant fingers on expressive hands—well, naturally, he's a pianist.
It's those hands that give him away. They fidget constantly with the stem of his wine glass as he talks—that is, whenever they are not waving around trying to illustrate some point. Fortunately for Mr. Monroe, I find the habit endearing. Ron fidgeted that way too.
The usual round of small talk that opens our conversation reveals little that is earth-shattering, apart from the rather unwelcome revelation that we both saw
Sunday in the Park with George
on Broadway—when Doug was a freshman in college. I would have been thirty-five at the time. Now I feel positively decrepit.
He is also somewhat cagey about his relationship with Scott, though he speaks warmly enough of him. Upon a little prodding, however, he reveals they met years ago when Doug was hired to write the incidental music for a play Scott was directing. They have stayed in touch since and, Doug acknowledges (with a slight blush, God only knows why) they make a point of getting together whenever Scott is in town.
Still, Sondheim's esoteric musical about art and the creative process provides opportunity enough to launch us into a conversation about Doug's creative process and vision. After he has expounded on the way the painting scenes in the play mirror his own experience of losing track of time while engrossed in composition, I finally sense my opening and go for the jugular.
"Let me ask you something that probably sounds insulting but I promise you is not intended that way: What do you think your music can bring to this story that Ron's words cannot?"
That rocks him, and he visibly retreats inward for a moment or two, pondering the question. That's good, he thinks before he speaks. When he does, it is in a softer, lower tone of voice, as though he is weighing each word carefully.
"I don't think any musical setting is a question of trying to improve on its source material. If that were the case, only the most arrogant of composers would ever attempt it—or would only write settings of inferior works. Music is a different art form, and the challenge of setting an existing text—and the fun of it—is in exploring the same material from a different perspective. Many operas pare their sources down to just the most crucial, dramatic scenes. They eliminate or consolidate secondary characters, gloss over time-consuming exposition, sometimes even eliminate entire acts. What's left is intensified, concentrated to its essence. That's what I would hope to do with Ron's work—not attempt to embroider on it, but to present a... a... distillation of it at its most dramatic and poetic." He pauses a beat, eyes searching my face. "Did that make any sense?"
Not bad. Not bad at all. But I am not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing his answer has pleased me. "And what scenes stand out to you as being worthy of setting in this proposed 'distillation'?"
Now Doug has warmed to his subject, he's more willing to push back. "I don't like the word 'worthy'—again, that's implying that I know better than the playwright, which obviously is not the case. What I
can
tell you is which scenes 'sing' to me, if that makes any sense: Thomas's farewell speech, of course, which first inspired me; his fiancée's internal struggle in
Likeness of a Sigh
; uh, the scene when the lovers first kiss at the end of
Lamps by Day
; the doctor's meditation on the limitations of medicine in
A Grave Man
..."
"You've done your homework, I see," I interrupt drily.
"I've done nothing but read those plays and think about them lately. I have to admit, I'm obsessed," he confesses.
"It's an occupational hazard, I believe," I assure him.
I have my own confession to make: I'm beginning to like this man, who speaks so passionately and articulately about his art, and who appears to respond to Ron's work with both intelligence and sincerity. He's let his guard down under my probing, and revealed his artist's soul. But I can't trust a job like this to passion alone.
"You know, I went through every work sample you have on your website," I tell him, "But I couldn't find any examples of your writing for voice."
Doug's face turns wry. "Do you know how much demand there is for art song these days?" he archly inquires, then silently answers his own question, holding up one hand with the fingers curved into the shape of a big fat zero. "I write vocal music for my own pleasure, but hardly any of it has ever been performed. I do have a few recordings in my files, though. I'd be happy to send them to you."
"Please do. Am I to assume you've already begun working on your setting of
A Grave Man
—for your own pleasure, of course?"
He nods, avoiding my eyes.
I can read you like a book, Mr. Monroe. Do you realize that? Fortunately for you, I'm rather intrigued by what this book is telling me.
"Then why don't you send me whatever you have just as soon as you think it's in suitable shape and we'll talk some more once I've had a chance to hear it?"
His face lights up with surprised gratitude. He obviously thought he had blown his chances.
Funny how those gray eyes don't seem creepy to me at all now.
We part with hearty handshakes and a promise that he will keep me posted on his progress over the next few months. We will reconvene at some mutually convenient date to discuss whether we think the project is worth pursuing further. I head back upstairs to my room to pack for the flight I so abruptly postponed early this morning.
I realize, to my exasperation, that I'm humming Sondheim to myself.
—————
* Doug *
I get to the hotel early and plant myself at the bar to wait for Dr. Ryan. When he shows up, it's a bit of a surprise. He's tall—not as tall as I am, but definitely above average height—with a head of thick graying hair that once must have been a striking auburn. He has what appears to be a trim, solid body beneath his well-fitted dress shirt. None of which matches the mental picture I had formed from the little I knew about him. I had half imagined a paunchy fellow in a tweed jacket with elbow patches, possibly complete with bow tie, pipe, and horn-rimmed glasses. (In point of fact, he's wearing a stylish, unobtrusive set of wire-frames.) Instead, I find myself exchanging a firm handshake with someone who was once, clearly, a formidable leading man in his own right.
"Mr. Monroe," he says. "I'm so pleased you could meet me on such short notice."
The sexy, articulate baritone voice throws me off, too. But it instantly helps make clear why Jeffrey Williams had been ideally cast to play a character modeled after Ryan's younger self.
"Thank you for taking the time," I answer. "I'm grateful for the opportunity."
I'm less grateful, however, once Ryan begins grilling me. He's not an asshole, not really, but it's clear I'm stepping on his turf, and he's not going to tolerate these plays being fucked around with. It's an audition, I remind myself, gritting my teeth and attempting to project the right combination of confidence, respect, and enthusiasm.
That voice is quite distracting, though. Every time he speaks, it seems to set the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
