A Mercurial Theater of Thin Air Production
Starring Orson Welles as The Stage Manager
(Recently discovered transcript of a recording of the only rehearsal for an unproduced collaboration between Orson Welles and Thornton Wilder)
STAGE MANAGER (Welles)
Enters stage right and stands near the wings. Wearing a bow tie, tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, he pulls a pipe from his pocket, puts it in his mouth, pulls a match from another pocket and begins to light the pipe. He suddenly stops and addresses someone offstage
Why am I lighting a pipe with nothing in it? Am I supposed to have a pipe already full of tobacco just sitting in my pocket? Who does that? What? I don’t actually light the pipe? Just start to, then begin talking instead? Alright, that makes more sense but, wouldn’t it be better if I began filling the pipe before not lighting it? I mean. . . okay have it your way. Still, I’ve lost all credibility before I’ve even said a word, at least with anyone in the audience who’s ever smoked a pipe. . . I mean, there’s suspension of disbelief and there’s rank stupidity. . .
Turns from scowling offstage to address audience
Grovers Mill... I mean, Grover’s Corners. Nice Little town . . .
Turns to face offstage right again
Couldn’t it be a cigar? That would be better for me. . . No? Alright, alright, the script, yes, yes, yes, I heard you.
Addressing audience again
Grover’s Corners. Nice Little town, know what I mean?
Over there’s the church, there’s the steeple, look inside,
there’s all the . . .
Turns to face offstage right again
What? Of course I’ve read it. I glanced at it just before coming out here. Do you mind? Let me get on with it.
Addressing audience again
It’s a pleasant enough village, albeit unremarkable in every way, except for the large, fiery meteors falling from the sky over Main Street, landing on the town hall and post office as well as over on the wrong side of the tracks where the Italians, Poles and Irish live, crushing the only decent bakery in town. . . oh, the cannoli!
There’s panic everywhere. The meteors aren’t meteors! They’re spaceships! A hatch is opening and a creature is emerging, a Martian! Ladies and gentlemen, words cannot begin to describe the scene before me . . .
Turns to face offstage right again
So, now I’m supposed to describe something I’ve just said is indescribable and do it without using words? With what, then? Shadow puppets? Mime? Interpretive dance? Also, do they have to be Martians? That’s such a cliche. Why not Venusians, Plutonians, Neptunites? They’re made up, they can be from wherever we like.
You’re damn right I’m lighting a cigar. . . Well, If they can be Martians this cigar can be a pipe. Can we move this along? I’ve got a frozen peas commercial to record in an hour.
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