Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb Read Online Free PDF Page A

met his bride-to-be, Lillie Robertson—the granddaughter of the “king of the wildcatters,” Hugh Roy Cullen, one of Houston’s most illustrious oil men and philanthropists. Aside from being John’s spouse, it didn’t appear that Lillie held any official position at Force Ten, but when I received my copy of the Moose Murders Limited Partnership prospectus in April 1982, I found her listed as a co-partner of two other companies that were part of the Moose conglomerate—“Force Nine” and “Force Nine Explorations Ltd,” both based in Houston.
    John was also chairman of the board, CEO, president, and principal patron of the Production Company, an Off-Broadway production house founded in 1977 by yet another Carnegie graduate, Norman René, who served as the company’s artistic director until its closing in 1985. Norman, who died of complications from AIDS in 1996, was best known for his collaborations with writer Craig Lucas (including the stage and film versions of
Prelude to a Kiss
, and the groundbreaking 1990 film,
Longtime Companion
). I had the privilege of working with this engagingly demure and extraordinarily insightful man in 1978 when he directed his company’s production of
My Great Dead Sister
, and again in 1980 when we moved this same play uptown for a longer run Off Broadway.
    I handed a copy of my latest opus to Norman shortly after I’d pulled its final page out of the typewriter. Wisely foreseeing that this offbeat “mystery farce in two acts” would be too severe a departure from the Production Company’s usual bill of faire, Norman, in turn, tossed the hot potato over to John Roach and Force Ten Productions, thereby setting in motion a chain of events that would make theatrical history.
    That’s right. It was all Norman’s fault, and I’m happy to finally get that dirty little secret out in the open.
    Based on the sketchy background I’d been given by Norman, I expected to find John swaggering around in a ten-gallon hat like J. R. Ewing, or to be covered in oil from head to foot, like James Dean in the movie
Giant
. So I was a little surprised when he turned out to be a young version of Bob Newhart, both physically and in his dry style of comic delivery. With his fashionable eyeglasses, his receding hairline, and his carefully sculpted beard and moustache, there was nothing remotely “rootin’” or “tootin’” about John Roach.
    We hit it off right from the start—not just because we both got a kick out of my play, but because we instantly recognized each other for what we really were—two furtive hobgoblins masquerading as “nice guys.” Soft-spoken and mild-mannered on the outside, we were both secretly harboring fierce vendettas against the human race. Perhaps as a direct result of this duplicity, we both thought sarcasm was grossly undervalued as a literary form, and were great fans of deep, dark, deadpan humor. We cringed at noisy outbursts, gravitating instead to “throw-away” remarks and barely audible barbs muttered under the breath. And yet we were remarkably well-behaved in public. We didn’t like to rattle cages or rock boats—at least not while other people were looking.
    Given this shared penchant for understatement, you might wonder why John and I so eagerly began to conjure up great plans for launching a play filled to capacity with tasteless sight gags, broad slapstick, and an assortment of garish characters, each one more loathsome than the last. I’d like to say our inner hobgoblins made us do it, but the real reason is far more convoluted.
    This has always been the trickiest part of the whole Moose Capades to explain, so bear with me a minute. Like a lot of people I know, I’ve always loved the unintentional comedy that can come from a particularly bad play, movie, or TV show. Few things make me laugh harder than a really lousy performance delivered with irrepressible conviction. I’m also a sucker for inappropriately mundane or inappropriately