Backstage Blog - Dial 'M' for Murder

Dial M

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:08:00 -0500

Maida Vale has been my home for the past few weeks--I had a beautiful flat, stoically decorated en grisaille, beautiful clothes, a husband I was desperately trying to make happy, a former lover who was making his presence known, and a phone that seemed sometimes to have a life of its own. I have had to leave, first, Maida Vale, and second, Lancaster. Back in Brooklyn, the life of Dial M still circles around my mind, still demands my attention; my lower eyelashes still bear traces of the bountiful eyeliner Margot wore--I like that it clings a little, spiritually and physically. There is a separation of actor from part, actor from other actor, and I think I like the quiet outward expression of that loosening grip--at least, see a beauty in it amidst the sadness. I thought, maybe, that as I slip away from 61a Charrington Gardens in the London suburb, Maida Vale--a fictional street in an actual English town--that I might explore that geography as it exists in a non-dramatic realm. An aid, perhaps, in the dedomiciling that is under way.

I came to rehearsal with two photos from the actual Maida Vale--one of the tile work at its tube stop, and one of a slightly open window from the back of a town house much like the Wendices'. While there is no street in Maida Vale named Charrington Gardens, there is a Warrington Crescent, and this town house, window standing open for any intruder, faces that street. Mark Shanahan (Tony Wendice) provided me with Gary Giblin's Alfred Hitchcock's London, which tracks the locations used in Mr. Hitchcock's films to their origins, and also supports my assumption that Mr. Knott may have substituted the fictional Charrington Gardens for Warrington Crescent. Surprisingly, there neither was nor is a Maida Vale police station--a locale of great importance in Dial M. According to Gilblin, there was "a police station in nearby West Hampstead and according to Metropolitan Police historian Bernard Brown, its phone number was Maida Vale 1113." And that's how you dial M . . .

As I unpack my bags and reacclimate myself to my Brooklyn life, I am so grateful for Margot--and Tony, Max, the Inspector and his policeman, and ok, Lesgate too. I am grateful to the Fulton Theatre and all its remarkable staff for welcoming me back, and to the Lancastrians I have met and befriended who made my time in your city that much fuller and more special. It is a lovely and rare thing--and I thank you for sharing it with me. My best wishes to the cast of Annie!

Dial L

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 11:37:00 -0500

by Chris Thorn

"Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life." - Jack Kerouac

Landscape, long and winding road, Lancaster, PA.

The cycling this Fall, during our run of Dial M, has been particularly choice. Here's a recent Facebook status update of mine as evidence: "Lancaster city to Marietta at twilight: top ten bike rides of all time. I rode the last three miles as a cold rain started and swirling winds laid out a blanket of freshly raked leaves before me. Sweat. Sweet. Heaven."

I have a 20 year love affair with the bike and the road. A relationship made all the more rich during my last five weeks in Lancaster. In order to know a place I have to learn its pavement and experience it at street level. I've had many afternoons in Lancaster running laps on the streets downtown. I've had long rides east, west, north, and south. I finally found the Susquehanna in Marietta, PA. Lancaster county stands out as some of the most beautiful terrain I've covered on two wheels.

Being an actor requires a relationship with the road. New cities and new people are always on the horizon. Every actor handles the unfamiliar geography differently. It is a bittersweet thing to come to a community, be a part of its cultural life, and then quickly move on to the next experience. A friend of mine calls acting making "statues in snow." I've also heard it described as "writing in water." There is little to hold on to after a performance. Maybe you're able to take a small prop or purchase a costume piece or salvage a part of the set during strike; but the thing you really want to hold onto exists only as a memory. That's what I value about the road, it's a map for my memory. I'll remember the landscape of Dial M both on stage and off very fondly.

The following quote from Blue Highways ( a book about a man who circumnavigated the lower 48 states in a Dodge Caravan using only the pre-Interstate U.S. Route system) captures some of what I go through when I move on down the road. Thanks for having me to the Fulton and thanks for paying the taxes that help maintain the gorgeous Lancaster County pavement.

"What you've done becomes the judge of what you're going to do - especially in other people's minds. When you're traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don't have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road." ~William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways

Please stay tuned for the final installment of the Dial M blog--I'll be writing it from Brooklyn on Monday as the last couple of days here in Lancaster slipped by too quickly for me to devote to the blog the attention it demands. Margaret

Dial K

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:16:00 -0500

Margaret Loesser Robinson in Dial "M" for Murder. Photo by Craig Leaper.

Kelly, Grace. A fellow Scorpio. A Pennsylvanian native--maybe I can say I am one at heart. The Margot Wendice that all other Margot Wendices are based on. When I put on my dress for Act I, I feel as elegant as she always seemed; and her image persists as a emblem of style and, well, grace today. Walking along Madison Avenue in New York a week before I left for Lancaster, I passed by a Talbots, their new ad campaign featuring a black and white image of Grace, looking effortlessly chic. She wore clothes with such refinement and loveliness, and, as reported on her wikipedia page, humor:

"At the rehearsal for the scene in Rear Window when I wore a sheer nightgown, Hitchcock called for Edith Head. He came over here and said, 'Look, the bosom is not right, we're going to have to put something in there.' He was very sweet about it; he didn't want to upset me, so he spoke quietly to Edith. When we went into my dressing room and Edith said, 'Mr. Hitchcock is worried because there's a false pleat here. He wants me to put in falsies.' Well, I said, 'You can't put falsies in this, it's going to show and I'm not going to wear them.' And she said, 'What are we going to do?' So we quickly took it up here, made some adjustments there, and I just did what I could and stood as straight as possible - without falsies. When I walked out onto the set Hitchcock looked at me and at Edith and said, 'See what a difference they make?"

I can't help but think of my own sheer white nightgown in Dial M, but I think that's as much as I'll reveal.

Dial J

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 00:11:00 -0500

Mark Shanahan as Richard Hannay in The 39 Steps.

My thanks to our leading lady for letting me chime in with a blog entry.

As we near closing, it seems a good time to let you know just what a unique experience Dialing M at the Fulton has been for me. Like many in our audience, I know the film version of Knott's play well, and the chance to step inside of it has not only been a pleasure, but an eye opening reminder of the difference between the demands of film and stage.

On Mondays, when the theatre is dark, I teach a course at Fordham University on the films of Alfred Hitchcock. Last Monday, I added Dial "M" for Murder to the syllabus and spent my day off once more at the Wendices' flat, albeit introducing the film to a group of college juniors and seniors rather than plotting Margot's demise for a Fulton crowd. After a lively discussion of camera angles, the 3-D history of the film's original release, and a detailed discussion of Knott's script, one student asked, "if the film is practically unchanged from the play, what makes this a Hitchcock movie and not a Frederick Knott movie?" A complicated question, to be sure. The director was constantly looking for source material he could transform into a "Hitchcock" picture, and Dial M fit the bill.

Mark Shanahan and James Black as Hitchcock in Hitchcock Blonde at The Alley Theatre. Directed by Gregory Boyd.

When asked about Dial M, Hitchcock famously stated, "When the batteries are running low, take a hit play and film it." Interestingly, in recent years, the theatre has taken Hitchcock's philosophy and turned it on its head. In fact, Hitchcock, one of our towering cinematic legends, has become somewhat of a creative inspiration for theatre artists, with various scripts and productions ruminating on his life and works. I've been lucky enough to explore some of these works first hand, as an actor. But more on that later.

Of course, Hitchcock had a history in adapting stage plays and novels as a young filmmaker. The Lodger, the silent-era thriller which the director himself considered the first "Hitchcock" picture, was adapted from a novel and play, as was 1929's Blackmail, the first British talkie. Both, however, bore the singular stamp of the director, wildly diverging from their stage versions. Alternatively, 1930 saw Hitchcock take on Juno and The Paycock, the O'Casey masterpiece. Although Hitchcock was celebrated for his filmed version, he claimed " it had nothing to do with cinema," as he simply trained his camera on the play. Rope, a reworked, Americanized version of Patrick Hamilton's hit play, kept Hitchcock's camera confined on a stage set, restlessly roaming its various corners in what appears to the audience to be one long, brilliant take. Hitchcock loved the theatricality of confined spaces, similar to those of a stage set. In Rear Window, Lifeboat and The Lady Vanishes, the characters are practically defined by their enclosed environments.

Many of his masterpieces were altered so greatly from their source material, particularly novels, that one can barely recognize them. The script he developed with screenwriter Charles Bennett for The 39 Steps, based on John Buchan's adventure story, added various love interests and villains, and only tangentially retains the structure of the Buchan's work. In fact, in the middle of writing the screenplay, it is said that Bennett asked Hitchcock, "wait a minute, what are the 39 Steps?" Hitchcock answered, "we'll figure that out later." (In the novel, the steps are a location and in Hitchcock's scenario it is the name of a spy ring.) The Man Who Knew Too Much, which Hitchcock filmed twice, retains only the title of G.K. Chesterton's novel. Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca gave Hitchcock an opportunity to shoot a Gothic romance complete with his trademark suspenseful flourishes, and DuMaurier's The Birds, a European World War II parable, became an early 60's masterpiece addressing a changing American culture. Psycho, of course, is much more than the elements laid out in Robert Bloch's novel and deserves a blog for another day.

Hitchcock's pictures often use the settings of the theatre itself. The 39 Steps opens and closes in a theatre. Saboteur finds the villain stepping off Radio City's stage, pursued by the hero. The Man Who Knew Too Much virtually climaxes at The Royal Albert Hall (Dial M gives it a shout out!). Stage Fright literally delves into the world of footlights and greasepaint.

But, it is North By Northwest which references Hitchcock's fascination with the theatre with the most finesse. When Cary Grant is mistaken for a spy named George Kaplan, a villainous James Mason scoffs at his denials, stating "With such expert playacting, you make this very room a theater... Has anyone ever told you that you overplay your various roles rather severely, Mr. Kaplan?" In a great bit of world weary Cary Grant-ishness, our hero answers, "Apparently the only performance that will satisfy you is when I play dead." Says Mason, "Your very next role, and you'll be quite convincing, I assure you." Indeed, many of Hitchcock's characters seem to be fueled by the art of acting and the need to create themselves in performance. Sometimes, taking on a character can have terrible consequences, of course. I'm looking at you, Norman Bates!

Which brings us to Dial M. Filmed in thirty-six days on a sound stage, the picture was often dismissed by Hitchcock as a minor effort. "There isn't very much we can say about that one, is there?" he said to Francois Truffaut. I'm not so sure about that.

Unlike so many of his other films, Hitchcock barely altered the script from the stage play, hiring Knott himself for screenwriting duties. The director noted that a great play relies on recognizing its very theatricality. To open up Dial M for scenes in courtrooms and the streets of London, or with flashbacks, would rob the play of its excellence. "The basic quality of any play is precisely its confinement within the proscenium," he said. Even though the film was to be released in 3-D, the director doesn't seem to make many concessions to the 3-D fad. Outside of the celebrated scissors shot, Hitchcock once again places his camera in furtive places, peering around lamps and desks, in keeping with his interests in voyeurism.

And Knott's play seems entirely well suited to all of the hallmarks of a Hitchcock picture. We have a sociopathic villain disguised as a gentleman (Suspicion, 39 Steps, Frenzy, North By Northwest), various metaphors and complications with keys and handbags (Marnie, Notorious), the shadowy doppelgangers that are Tony and Lesgate (Strangers On A Train, Shadow of a Doubt), the wrongly accused innocent person (The Wrong Man and...well, take your pick!) and of course, the icy cool Hitchcock Blonde, the centerpiece of so many of Hitchcock's pictures. Is she simply a victim, or the strong survivor who defies the evil men in her life?

Notice how Hitchcock opens his film, with Kelly in white, happily eating breakfast with her husband. Her eyes glance at a newspaper announcement that the Queen Mary is arriving in London. Cut to Kelly, dressed in scarlet red, secretly meeting her lover. Before a word is uttered, Hitchcock has told us an entire story, expertly cutting these images together. The play opens with an equally skilled first moment. We discover Margot alone with Max, her boyfriend. She turns off the radio and says "For a minute I thought that was Tony. I'm sorry, what were you saying?" And we're off to the races, with secrets, lies and passion bubbling just below the surface.

At the Fulton, we have spent the past few weeks delving into Knott's great play. Every night, we seem to find something new about these people. Although it is fun to wear tuxes and drink highballs and speak witty lines in British accents, these people are pretty brutal characters. All of them are up to no good, to some extent. Of course, some more so than others. After an entire act laying out the proposed murder of my wife, I love the opening line of Act Two. We find our characters talking about a tennis match and I remark on a particular player, "after that he lost his concentration and he didn't win another game." And of course, I don't win another game either, as everything comes undone. Knott basically states that all of those great plans from Act One are about to go downhill rapidly. And isn't that the fun of watching what transpires?

The audience at the Fulton seems to love the fact that Knott's play demands justice be done. The Inspector always gets a great response, as does Margot's boyfriend Max, as they put two and two together to uncover the truth of Tony Wendice's deception. But can they catch him at it? Knott knew how to play on his audience's emotions as though he were playing a pipe organ, much as Hitchcock described his role as a director. There are times where I feel the audience rooting for me to get away with murder, so to speak, and times where I know they want me thrown into jail! Only a great writer can lead you through those emotions.

Now, a few words about what it means for me to step into this world. Our own director, Bill Roudebush, has given me a great gift in inviting me to play Tony. He has demanded that we throw away any preconceived notions about the play and make these characters our own, with all due respect to Ray Milland, Grace Kelly and company. He has encouraged us to try and always stay a step ahead, and batter the audience around, not to be afraid to drop the polite veneer of these characters and show them for what they are.

And it's great fun to actually be in Tony and Margot's house. To actually play in the Hitchcock universe a bit, which has become something of a habit for me. I mentioned up top that whereas Hitchcock took a hit play and filmed it, the theatre has looked to him for inspiration. I was fortunate enough to be a member of the original Broadway company of the hit comedy The 39 Steps. Although that play lovingly spoofs Hitchcock's film, it is a fantastic tribute to the theatre itself. It was great fun to play Hannay and shout "What ARE the 39 Steps!?" Equally, I found myself in the curious position a few years ago of performing Terry Johnson's Hitchcock Blonde at the Alley Theatre in Houston. In that piece, I played a Hitchcock film professor, of all things. In the opening scene I was to be seen grading a student's paper. One night, I couldn't help myself and actually brought a real student's paper onstage with me! Johnson's play is fascinating, pondering our own obsessions with a filmmaker who was preoccupied with obsession himself. Hitchcock is alive and well not only on our screens, but on our stages as well.

Being at the Fulton has been a joy. I've loved working with the cast and staff and meeting the audience members, so many of whom stop us in the street to talk about the play. If you want to do a time honored, well oiled play like Dial M, you want to do it right. The Fulton is the place to come, if that's the case. I hope you thought we were up to the task, as we have loved every minute of it.

Hitchcock said of murder (or cutting together films?), "the best way to do it is with scissors." What a joy to be at the Fulton to take a . . . stab at this great play. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

Dial I

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 10:35:00 -0500

The Wyeth Museum on a beautiful fall day

In which I celebrate myself--my birthday. I'm very happy to spend a birthday in Lancaster, doing what I love to do. My parents came to town for the show and the occasion, and we had a nice dinner at Gibraltar. On the day off, we drove out to the Brandywine Conservancy to visit the Wyeth Museum, a really lovely place. I made my second visit ever to a WaWa. And I enjoyed the day very much.

Been wondering how we make those phone calls? This is me preparing to call Tony from the theatre--Max and I are at a show called Sweet Yesterday according the tickets we've been given.

The show continues to grow and change and every day I delight in it a little more. As I returned home after a recent performance, a woman approached me from next door--and it turns out Eva was part of the family I'd seen moving in some six months ago when I was here for The Foreigner. Now firmly rooted as the next door neighbor to the building the Fulton has just for actor housing, she described how it was a little mystery at first to figure out why the residents next door seemed not to stay very long, and kept, perhaps, odd hours but when she found out the story of the building and its changing inhabitants, it became for her an important part of her Lancaster living experience. She and her granddaughter see the shows and are always looking forward to seeing new actors come by. Eva's seen Dial M twice, and has even been following the blog--as she said, she and I were already best friends even though I didn't quite yet know it! It sounds to me like something out of a Noel Streetfield novel--like Ballet Shoes--an insight to the world outside but thoroughly of the theatre; the comings and goings of people on their way to become other people, live other lives, always to return at night from where they left in the morning, as habitual as anything else--and that Eva gets to see the same slice of life over again, and over, but with a changing cast of characters.

Dial H

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 11:47:00 -0500

Lisa Albrecht from Visage a Visage and me, perfectly coiffed.

Halloween is one of my most favorite times of the year--it happens to be the day some years ago that my mother went into labor, and carved some pumpkins before going to the hospital. But besides being near the day of my birth, it was always a day I loved to celebrate. My mom made me awesome costumes ( I've often bemoaned my ineptitude with a sewing machine knowing my future child will suffer on October 31st), and well, to be frank, I love candy. This year my costumes were provided by the Fulton Theatre, and candy was handed out by Aaron Young (he only had candy that begins with an M--M&Ms, Milky Ways, 3 Musketeers). I broke a mirror, a black cat ran in front of me in Grant Alley, and the full moon is approaching. Mark, Chris, and I celebrated by watching The Haunting with Julie Harris, carving pumpkins, making red velvet cupcakes with black icing, and eating candy corn--I have an unfortunate rapport with the sugary stuff and went to town on the bag bought at Rite Aid on Queen Street. I was up until five in the morning. I was really into The Haunting--I like idea of houses being living things, with hearts, wombs, minds, and how they can turn on you, betray you. In Dial M, curtains hide an intruder, keys are hidden and lost, doors are locked, windows broken; humans and house share secrets.

Pumpkin carving

I've had a few lovely surprises this week--some beautiful flowers delivered to my dressing room, a visit from Matthew Toronto, who directed me in The Foreigner last season, and word from Lisa Albrecht at Visage a Visage on North Lime Street--who does my hair for the show--that a lot of her clients are Fulton Theatre goers and are excited to have a hair salon connection to one of the actors.

Deb, Jane, and Dave, I'm so glad you liked the show. We love performing for you!

The finished products.

PA Bryan enjoys one of my goulish treats.

Dial G

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 03:53:00 -0400

We really didn't have a clue

Gossip Girl has stolen my Gimlet glory! This week's episode features the opening of a prohibition-era style club called, you guessed it, Gimlet. Or maybe Margot Wendice and I started a trend that can be felt all the way from Lancaster to New York City.

On my day off this week, I drove down Old Philadelphia Pike and stopped in the Quilt Museum in Kettle Kitchen Village. I took the tour of the Amish House and Farm, which stands in unharmonious proximity to Target. I watched for the third time Double Indemnity, graciously provided for me from Mark's extensive lending library, and was surprised that I hadn't remembered its similarities to Dial M--only, of course, in reverse. I started to try to think of movies I've seen that share in Dial M's murderous matrimony--How to Murder Your Wife with Jack Lemmon and Virna Lisi came to mind as a comedic, and way more overtly, misogynistic parallel to our play. But perhaps we should all watch Volver again and see just how the tables might be turned. . .

I took this photo of the floor backstage left. These are the markings left over from painting the art that hangs on the Wendice's bedroom wall; theatres are layered with performances past, paint layered over paint over paint--it fades, is covered over, but will always be underneath.

As Halloween approaches, I'm immersing myself in all kinds of horror besides that that I face on stage every night--Paranormal Activities made my hair stand on end for a few moments, I'm gearing up to watch The Haunting while carving my pumpkins, and I was really looking forward to visiting one of the several frightastic locales this town has to offer--Field of Screams, Chamber of Fear, Jason's Woods. Sadly, I don't think we'll be able to get to any of these places--that darn phone keeps ringing every night and I just keep answering it. We played the worst game of Clue ever last night--we thought maybe we'd be above average players considering our current positions, but alas, no. No. We did however, have a great post-show feast: savory pies, carrot soup, poached pear. And a wine, again suited to our play--Sinister Hand.

Weekly Blog Feature: Dialing Through Time

Sometimes, early telephone operators would get to know their customers so well, the customers would ask for a reminder call when it was time to remove a cake from the oven, leave the phone off the hook near their sleeping child when they left the house, hoping the operator would hear any cries of distress, request a wake up call before taking a long nap.

Dial F

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 10:02:00 -0400

Mark and me at Fenz on opening night.

Fenz was bursting with Fulton Theatre subscribers, staffers, and actors on Thursday night after our opening night performance--great food, champagne cocktails, and company. The show itself went really well--we all had a lot of fun--and while we were sad to say good-bye to our fearless leader, director Bill Roudebush, we were very excited to begin our run. I still can't believe I get to wear those beautiful clothes everyday for the next two weeks, get to work with such interesting and smart actors day in and day out, get to go to work at such a beautiful theatre eight times a week. It really is extraordinary.

My wonderful parents sent me this bouquet of flowers and scissors with a note telling me to "Stab 'em in the back."

As our first week of performances comes to an end, I've been struck by how very good a play Dial M is--not that the idea hadn't occurred to me before but as I get to know it better and better it really stands out as a well written piece of theatre. In his obituary, the NY Times describes Frederick Knott, the author of our play as "notoriously unprolific." Knott was born in China to Quaker missionaries, was educated at Cambridge, and served in the Royal Artillery. He wrote Dial M for Murder while holed up at his parent's Sussex home for 18 months, and had, reportedly, such a hard time attracting any interest to this, his first play, that he very nearly gave up. In his obit, his widow is recorded as saying that he had imagined two unpenned plays, and had turned down countless commissions for new work--so it seems we're quite lucky to have this script to begin with. And I can't wait to hear how you find it--Dave T., your silence is deafening!

An example of an actor's dressing room station.

I've already experienced a working actor's rite of passage--that of being recognized about town: once at the Tanger outlets, where the woman helping mw find some (silk) stockings suddenly said "are you in the theatre?! I saw you last night--I knew I knew you!" and the several people at the Marriott this weekend--a heartfelt thank you to the gentleman who sent me a much needed glass of wine as I waited for my dinner. It's neat to be in a community where so many of the people around you have seen the work you're doing on any given day!

A scene from the opening night shindig.

Dial E

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 16:07:00 -0400

My Dad picked this wine out just for me. And Captain Lesgate.

Everyone has a favorite part of whatever town they live in, and even though I'll only be living here for a little over a month, I have found mine. Walking east on Prince Street on the first dry and sunny day in the past 72 hours, I turned left on Vine Street and found my way through streets of houses I'd seen pictured in Lancaster tourism brochures. Winding streets, quaint houses with autumnal window baskets, an alley gate melded to form a spider's web, rose bushes offering their last blooms to the pedestrians of the Red Rose City. It's idyllic. On my way back into town, I stopped in Penn Square by the Visitors Center; I'd been in before, of course, but for some reason hadn't made my way through the upstairs museum. The Masonic Lodge on the second floor is startlingly beautiful, and the artwork interesting. I was most taken with the example of printing called Fraktur, especially the calligraphed envelopes written in white ink on black and navy papers. Upstairs from the Lodge was just about on par for me as the Bonbonniere--a functioning print studio. Although the printer wasn't there the day I stopped by, I did still get to add my own decoration to the wall of typeset, pictured to the right. See if you can find it when you visit . . . I also stopped by the Newseum, and enjoyed seeing the different presses used in Lancaster--I think there are few structures of wood and steel more beautiful than a printing press--they hold so much promise and possibility. Rather like a theatre, a place to imprint ideas and dreams. Only in the theatre, the results are less tangible and more open to variation.

Suddenly, scissors everywhere.

We had our first audience last night--it's the one element we've been missing--and I'm looking forward to opening the show this week. There are always a few surprises when you first bring people into the seats--folks laugh at unexpected places, respond in certain ways to what's happening on stage that help us as actors understand what the play is trying to do in a particular moment. And also, it's just really cool to be able to share what we've been working on with all of you; the theatre is truly a collaborative art and you're a part of that! We had a few missteps last night--some prop issues, some costume malfunctions--things that seem to only happen the first time they're available to your scrutiny. Like they're shy or something and have to get used to being around new people. And so after the show, the cast and some of our crew headed out to the Marriott for a cocktail and some of those crazy good butter pretzels they have at the bar. We will rehearse once again before our preview tonight, and then we're off--can't wait to see you at the stage door!

Thanks to Jane Miller for writing in--that's an astute observation about technical elements deserving their own mention in the program. In this play, maybe the telephone should have its own bio.

Weekly Blog Feature: Dialing Through Time

In the early 1880's some well-to-do telephone owners started the unusual trend of paying to have a theatre employee hold a telephone receiver backstage, transmitting live plays and operas into their living rooms.

Dial D

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 16:49:00 -0400

Darling. We all call each other darling in this play, and it's the sort of thing that bleeds into an actor's everyday lexicon: Man hands me one of the best lattes around at Square One--"Thank you, darling;" Friends call out my name--"Yes, darling?" I really rather like being called darling at the moment--who wouldn't when surrounded by the men of Dial M?

Rehearsals have been going well; we had a photo call this week, which was our first chance to see each other in some of our costumes. We also got to see the set for the first time--which is really stunning. I can't wait to start living there as we move our rehearsals from the clubhouse on Water Street to the theatre. We had our first official run-through yesterday for the design team, who were there to see where we've been blocked and how we use the set so that they can refine all the technical aspects of the production as we prepare to start technical rehearsals. That's when we finally put our costumes on, finally get to be on stage, and we begin to work out the details of the lighting and its cues, along with sounds, and music. It's when you can really start to see how the show will be coming all together. I missed out on some cast bonding--I was the only one without an appointment at American Male on Queen Street for a haircut. Go figure.

At Marc Robin's home

We had a nice reprieve from our homework this week when Marc Robin and Curt Dale Clark invited the cast to their home for dinner. Their house is exquisitely designed and decorated, and with fires roaring and several dogs running around, we felt quite at home. I was grateful for the food and the company--sometimes you need a break from the world of the play. More comfort was sought one evening this week when we all gathered at my apartment for dinner and running lines. The menu included roast chicken, obtained from Central Market, along with some squash, vegetable terrine, peas, soup, and carrot cake. A truly autumnal feast.

A pair of shoes

Dave, I'm glad you enjoyed the radio plays--I hope you didn't listen to them alone in a dark room on one of these stormy nights. I must admit my relief that there is no phone in my Lancaster apartment to startle me, though oddly, and he says, only by accident, a certain actor playing a certain role left his shoes in my living room after a cast get together. His shoes play a pivotal role on stage in Dial M and were a disturbing sight to come across in the middle of the night. . .

Mark Shanahan at the PSYCHO house

Weekly Blog Supplement: Resident Hitchcock know-it-all, Tony Wendice, Talks Shop

From Mark Shanahan's Golden Curls and Bloody Footprints

London, 1926. Fade in on the face of a woman, screaming.

Soon, she will be discovered, dead, on the embankment of the Thames. She is the seventh victim of The Avenger, a serial killer who strikes only on Tuesday nights, preying upon young women with blonde hair. Cut to a flashing theatre marquee, advertising, "To-Night, Golden Curls." The promise and fantasy of the theatre, it seems, go hand in hand with the fiendish work of the murderer. A pretty, young model hurriedly walks home, hiding her blonde locks beneath a brunette wig, fearful of the Avenger's curious fetish. Will she be the next victim?

We are watching the opening of the silent masterpiece, The Lodger: A Story of The London Fog, directed by the young Alfred Hitchcock. Indeed, there would be more victims, many more blonde women, tormented throughout the next half century of the director's storied career. While not the first of Hitchcock's directorial efforts, The Lodger is generally considered to be the first "true" Hitchcock movie, containing many elements of what would become the hallmarks of his films: fiendish subject matter, visual inventiveness, the focus on a man falsely accused, and, of course the fascination with a blonde.

"If cinema has a language, then Alfred Hitchcock is its grammar," said filmmaker Brian De Palma. Influenced by the Russian and German pioneers of early cinema, Hitchcock's works were romantic, yet macabre, political though personal, timeless morality plays disguised as contextual period pieces, and murderous horror movies which he labeled "comedies." His popularity and influence have become so great that his name has been appropriated as a genre all its own: "Hitchcockian." Although he was nominated five times as Best Director, he never won an Academy Award. "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," he remarked to Evan Hunter, screenwriter of The Birds. When the Academy tried to right this wrong, eventually honoring him with a lifetime achievement award, Hitchcock merely said, "Thank you," and walked offstage.

Hitchcock considered himself a technician, above all, fascinated by what he called "pure cinema . . . the assembling of pieces of film which must create emotion in the audience." Said Hitchcock, "I am a philanthropist, I give the people what they want. People love being horrified, terrified." His writers were expected to deal with a story's internal logic, and his actors were expected to say their lines, hit their marks and let his camera do his work. To Hitchcock, the art of cinema happened in the planning and editing of his films, and he meticulously storyboarded every image he desired before arriving on set. He shot only that which could be assembled as he saw fit, ensuring that no studio chief could tamper with his work. Producer David O. Selznick referred to Hitchcock's footage as a "damned jigsaw puzzle." Hitchcock likened himself to the builder of a roller coaster, anticipating the thrills he concocted. When asked why he never watched his films with an audience, he replied, "I can hear them scream when I am making the picture."

"Hitchcock knew fear and he knew it very well," noted Psycho screenwriter Joseph Stephano. "I don't know how he knew this since he had always lived a charmed life." Indeed, the filmmaker who would become a Hollywood legend and knight of the British Empire was born of humble beginnings as a greengrocer's son in the East London area known as Leytonstone, in 1899. "I think my mother scared me when I was three months old," joked Hitchcock. "She said 'boo!' All mothers do it, you know, that's how fear starts in everyone." In public, he spoke little of his parents and his early youth, noting that it was his Jesuit education that taught him, above all, the value of fear.

In his later years the director had amassed a handy collection of anecdotes, trotting them out to appease hungry reporters and critics eager to explain his genius. . . "Blondes make the best victims," he said. "They're like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints." When he arrived in Hollywood in 1940, he immediately placed the fair haired Joan Fontaine in harms way in that year's winner for Best Picture, Rebecca. In America, Hitchcock flourished, taking full advantage of the studio system and working with top writers and actors. The blondes he found in Hollywood, of course, had to adhere to his standards, perfectly balancing their palpable sexuality with the longing of desire.

"You know why I favor sophisticated blondes in my films?" he explained to Francois Truffaut. "We're after the drawing-room type, the real ladies, who become whores once they're in the bedroom... Sex should not be advertised... because without the element of surprise the scenes become meaningless. There's no possibility to discover sex." To Hitchcock, sex and suspense are inherently intertwined. The director sought to expose his blondes emotionally as well as physically. "Tear them down at the very start, that's the best way," he said.

And tear them down he did. Think Ingrid Bergman, held at gunpoint in Spellbound and poisoned by Nazis in Notorious. Think Grace Kelly, nearly sent to the gallows in Dial M for Murder and attacked by a ruthless murderer in Rear Window. Think Eva Marie Saint, precariously dangling from Mt. Rushmore in North By Northwest. Tippi Hedren, attacked by a flock of birds. And think of Janet Leigh as Marion Crane, whose illicit afternoon trysts with her lover entice her to steal $40,000 and flee to a lonely, roadside motel. There she meets both a kindred spirit in Norman Bates and a horrifying death at the hands of "Mother."

Indeed, the Hitchcock Blonde must be icily cool and reserved, seducing her man with the exposed nape of her neck, an elegant gray suit and her exquisite evening dresses. Her hair is styled, repressing her inner sexual fires. The Blonde's captivating beauty also carries the intimation of danger, for her motives are often duplicitous and she may not be entirely trusted. In North by Northwest Cary Grant asks of Eva Marie Saint, "How does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?" "Lucky I guess," she responds. "No, not lucky," counters Grant. "Naughty, wicked, up to no good. Ever kill anyone? Because I bet you could tease a man to death without half trying." Such was their allure that Hitchcock's leading ladies would come to epitomize Hollywood glamour. They were often dressed by legendary costume designer Edith Head to Hitchcock's exact specification, reveling in both fashion and fetish. In the intensely personal film, Vertigo, James Stewart, one of Hitchcock's favorite alter egos, confronts his love, Judy, played by Kim Novak, who has murderously conspired with Stewart's old friend to betray him. "He made you over, Judy!" shouts Stewart. "Did he train you? Did he rehearse you? Did he tell you exactly what to do and what to say?" One can imagine Stewart referring not only to the film's villain, but to Hitchcock himself, famous for taking great care with his actress' appearances. Just as Stewart oversees Novak's transformation in Vertigo, Hitchcock was known to take his actresses on personal shopping sprees, overseeing the creation of their Hitchcockian personas.

In fact, Hitchcock took equal fascination in dressing and undressing his blondes. In 1972's Frenzy, his penultimate film, Hitchcock would take advantage of the changing cultural climate and finally show nudity and rape in graphic terms. In the more modest year of 1960, Psycho's Janet Leigh is displayed in both a white and a black bra, depending on the darkness of her state of mind. For most of his career, however, the director relied on the intoxicating power of suggestion. Even in Psycho's celebrated shower scene, Hitchcock shows neither nudity nor the penetration of the knife, merely suggesting it through montage, cutting over thirty pieces of film in twenty two seconds of footage. Indeed, suggestion is Hitchcock's, as well as the Blonde's, greatest weapon. Consider Grace Kelly in Rear Window, pulling a negligee from her suitcase and teasing James Stewart, "Preview of coming attractions." In North by Northwest, Eva Marie Saint tempts Cary Grant over lunch, saying "I never make love on an empty stomach." In To Catch a Thief, again we find Kelly, this time paired with Grant, serving from a picnic basket and asking, "Do you want a leg or a breast?" to which Grant responds, "You make the choice."

Grant's answer speaks to an important aspect of the Hitchcock Blonde. She has power over her men. Hitchcock's women are often independent, smart, and heroic. Though often beaten, they fight back. It is the men in his films, perhaps afraid of the Blonde's very hold on them, who are portrayed as perverse, twisted, and murderous. Joseph Cotton's Uncle Charlie in Shadow of a Doubt, Robert Walker's Bruno in Strangers on a Train, and Anthony Perkins' Norman in Psycho are the obvious monsters. But even Hitchcock's charming heroes like those played by Stewart and Grant show a sadistic streak, full of self-loathing, often psychologically or physically crippled. They are often taken to ogling the Blonde, fantasizing about her. Voyeurism is a constant theme throughout Hitchcock's work, the camera showing us not only what the characters see, but also what Hitchcock wants us, his audience, to see.

Alone in the dark, watching Hitchcock's screen, we indulge in the very pleasure and fantasy offered by his films. We are Norman Bates peering through a peephole into Cabin Number One, or James Stewart spying on his neighbors from a rear window. Certainly, Hitchcock knows what he is doing to us. "I've been called a ghoul, but I know when an audience is going to scream. I enjoy it, and I have to smile to myself in anticipation of what I'm doing to them," he said. "I always make the audience suffer as much as possible." Like the Blonde, Hitchcock puts us through the ringer, exploring our dreams and nightmares, daring us to look away.

"Audiences love to dip their toes into the cold waters of fear," he said. With Hitchcock, we wade into deep waters. He knows what we love. He knows what we fear. It is Tuesday night. The Avenger stalks the streets. "To-Night," promises Hitchcock, "Golden Curls."