CHAPTER FIVE
OCT-DEC 1954

“Sydney is just a terrific guy, Angela. Salt of the earth type, no pretensions. He says he gets along with all his crazy producers because he never orders them, just tries to see their point of view.”

“What does Mr. Newman look like?” She sipped a glass of wine before getting up to make dinner.

“A bit heavy set, young, you know, late thirties, black moustache and bushy eyebrows — he’s from the National Film Board, not intellectual at all, but a good administrator, it seems. Claims he’s not artistic, but I think he must be. After all, he’s head of CBC drama.”

Stephanie was in her bedroom happily drawing pictures. During the conversation she would run in with another page of her drawings. Angela looked after her anxiously and then turned to Paul. “So now you’ll be getting a salary?”

“Darn right! Three seventy-five a month. Not one hundred a week yet...” Paul laughed. “Yesterday, Sydney introduced me to David Greene, he’s the top director here. And to his script assistant, Billie Powell, who looks tough; she’s Welsh, but awfully nice and helpful. Spent the afternoon filling me in on stuff I should know.”

Each producer had a script assistant, a kind of a secretary factotum, even a soul mate. “You’ll find you completely rely on us,” Billie went on, “and on the Studio Director, who’s with you for rehearsals. On the studio floor he relays your orders to the crew and cast. I guess, with Eva Langbord, that makes up our entire drama department — we turn out two dramas every week, one half hour and one hour.”

“You’ve never even seen a TV show — and you’re going to direct at the CBC? Across all Canada?” Angela could not stop her incredulity from showing.

“No no, not right away, I’m apprenticing first to David. He just finished on Tuesday Deadlier Than The Male, for General Motors Theatre. We’ll have to get a television set.” She looked up sharply. “I mean, I will...”

“Good. You know I can’t afford that.”

***

The first day of rehearsing The Picture of Dorian Gray! What would it be like, going out on the national television network — funded by the government? Acts of parliament, no expense spared. Paul was beside himself with excitement.

But arriving at the decrepit old warehouse in the downtrodden east end of Toronto, Paul had to think again. The River Street building had been a customs warehouse for liquor around the turn of the century, with nothing much done to it since then. Now, its ground floor held paint and carpenter shops, the second floor rehearsal rooms. Up the creaky stairs he went, down a dusty walkway between partitions into a low-ceilinged room lit by high, factory-style, cobwebbed windows.

David Greene was taller and more imposing than Paul’s skinny self; he’d been an actor in England and had come across the Atlantic, as had many others, when they heard CBC television was starting. David’s preferences were for classics and well-written thrillers, often British in background, just what Paul liked. A good match.

Soon the rest of the cast, headed by the ultimately handsome Lloyd Bochner, wandered in and gathered around the table for the first reading of the play.

David sat at the head of the long fold-up table with his script assistant Billie Powell on his left, and introduced Paul. Then he talked about his ideas for the production to be telecast live in ten days on Tuesday October 26th at 9.30 pm. Next, the great Russian designer, Nikolai Soloviov, rose to talk, sketches in hand. Nik had designed motion pictures in the thirties for the legendary Russian director, Sergei Eisenstein. The Design Department staffed all dramas, variety shows, Public Affairs and News departments, and had assigned Nik to David for this, and most of his shows. Nikolai commanded attention, being imposing and heavy with a fierce peaked face, receding hairline and tiny black pencil moustache. Stagehands were afraid of him, especially during the chaos of a studio day, when he could become a towering thunderstorm. But with a heart as big as a teddy bear, he was also well loved.

Nikolai showed his designs, sketched with charcoal on illustration boards and then sprayed with fixative. Then he and David walked around, pointing out for the actors the lines taped on the large worn floor boards to represent the walls of the sets. Nikolai described the “set dressing”: pictures on the walls, sideboards, chairs put side by side for sofas, and so on. Their first day in the studio, everything would be put in place by the night crew; one-hour dramas were given two days with cameras before going out live across the nation in black and white. Amazing, Paul thought: everyone well paid and loving their jobs; theatres he’d worked in so far had been far less lucky.

First the actors read the script out loud, some trying for performances and others mumbling, feeling for character — the latter being the more experienced.

The rehearsal broke up promptly on time, for each show had a union steward. Several actors stayed behind to chat to David as Paul watched respectfully. After the last cast had left, Paul gathered up his things and headed out with David and Billie. “Great cast, David.”

“One of my best shows, I think. Now, Kate wants you to come home to dinner one night. Would you like to?”

“Would I ever!” Kate Blake, David’s wife, was a leading actress. But for the time being, following the great David Greene through every phase of a show was just the cat’s meow.

***

But change was in the offing. Towards the end of rehearsals, before they went into studio, Sydney called Paul into his office.

Uh-oh, thought Paul. With my luck, it’s all over.

“Shut the door.” Sydney indicated the chair. “Look, I don’t think you can finish these rehearsals.”

Paul’s heart sank. He knew it. All too good to be true. Well, he’d enjoyed every minute. Now, back to looking for work. Awful — what could he do? Try for an extra job again? Head back to Montreal? No more Angela. No more CBC. How could he absorb this abject failure after such excitement? Preparing for the worst, he said a special fierce prayer to his Lord.

“I’ve got a studio free in ten days. Just enough time to do a half-hour show.” Paul frowned and looked up. Had he heard right? A show? “What did you say, Sydney?”

“Studio One is free. Wednesday, the week after David’s show. I have a script here that Mel Breen wrote. Not good enough for On Camera, but not bad: one set, four characters in a dorm room, not hard to cast. If you start right away, you should be able to do it.”

Again, Paul found himself speechless. He just looked at Sydney.

Sydney must have misinterpreted. “Oh don’t worry, it won’t go out live. It’s what we call a kinescope. We put it on 16mm film, shitty quality, but then we watch it afterwards.” Sydney looked at him. Paul still said nothing. “You’ll have the same camera crew as On Camera; I’ve arranged that. So it will be just as if you’re doing a live show. Think you can handle it?”

Paul nodded dumbly.

“I mentioned it to David, and he thought it was much too early, as did everyone else. You’ve only just arrived, after all. I even heard you’d never even seen television before...”

Paul shrugged. What could he say?

Sydney paused, then grinned. “But kid, I think you can do it.”

Finally, Paul found his tongue. “Damn right!” He got up. “But I can’t leave David’s show. I’ve been helping him some, fixing dialogue, et cetera. David and I get on so well together. I think he even... likes me being there. So I can’t think about anything until after The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“But that’s Tuesday night. General Motors goes out live, as you know. If you don’t start till the Wednesday morning, that gives you just one week. We always allot two weeks for half-hour dramas. Even ten days is too short.”

“Well, you said I can do it. I know I can.” Paul grinned. The old dynamism was returning. “Just give me that script of Mel’s...”

Sydney handed him the purple mimeographed script, and as he left called, “You know, we’re spending a couple of thousand on this.”

Paul reacted in horror, as Sydney had expected.

“Aah forget it, kid!” Sydney grinned. “We figure you’re worth it.”

Paul had seen Melwyn Breen around. A bit chunky with owl-like glasses, Mel proved to be gentle, friendly, a real writer. He’d been one of the four dozen applicants for Studio Director, a stepping stone to Producer, into which Paul had leapt right away.

“I’ll get Mel assigned to you,” Sydney said. “He’ll be a great help; he wants his play to be as good as possible. I’ve checked with him.”

And so on the Wednesday morning after David’s show, Paul plunged in. With Mel’s help, and a script assistant who had been assigned to him, he threw together Night Watch, the story of students in a dorm.

***

“I’m so glad everyone thought you did well.” Angela was frying up steaks for the three of them. Paul had taken this Friday off after his show, and had laid the table. “I go off on tour in January, remember.” She called out, “ Stephanie!” Her daughter came trotting down from her room. “Wash your hands, please.”

The plates were placed on the table and then Angela began again to unload her many tribulations. “Celia hasn’t given me anything more this autumn, either. I’m working so damn hard, and I’m dancing well, too.”

“I’m sure you are. But what do you —”

“Lilac Garden. The Tudor ballet. I really want the lead and she keeps saying I’m not ready.”

“Oh come on, I bet you are.”

“Thanks, old bean.” She went right on; Paul listened but had learned not to say anything during these nightly rants.

“Well,” Angela said, “tomorrow is Saturday, so we’ll have the weekend to relax. Let’s go to the botanical gardens. Or perhaps over to the Island. I haven’t been for ages. It’s nice to walk around there.”

Once again, it was not to be. Sydney phoned to ask if Paul could come into the office. Oh Lord, thought Paul, what next? He’s finally found me out. Sure: “Paul, just enjoy your Christmas holidays, you’re free to go.” Yeah, with no jobs, no money, no future. And no cheque. Maybe back to Apple Barrel? That would at least please his mother and Aunt Hilda. His mind whirled on and on.

Dutifully, Paul made his way down to the CBC as though to the guillotine. No one was in the department, so he didn’t shut the door. He sank into a chair and put on a brave smile. “Working Saturdays, Sydney?”

“Yeah. Now look, kid, I got the same studio again next Wednesday.”

Paul frowned. What was he saying?

“In four days. Don’t know if we can get anything together in time. Last night John Barnes told me: it’s just not possible.” John was above Sydney and head of all TV production. “He didn’t even want to let me have the studio! But I said, John, it’s there; it’s free; the crew is idle. So come on, let me give Paul Alford another shot. You see, when we had our big meeting in the autumn, we agreed that new producers could have two dry runs before they went on the air. It only made sense.”

While Sydney was talking, Paul felt his creative juices begin to flow.

“I got a little stinker here, a detective story.” He reached under a pile of scripts, pulled one out and handed it to Paul. “Piece of shit, but it’ll do. Easy task, one set, maybe you can make something of it.”

Paul just looked at him. “Sydney, this is not going out on air, is it?”

“No, I told ya, it’s a dry run. But who knows? If you made something out of it, we could rewrite and next season, we might do it.”

“Not good enough, Sydney!” Paul even surprised himself. “Look, if it’s not going out, I want to pick something myself.”

Sydney raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?” He sat back to look at Paul.

“Yes! What about T.S. Eliot’s, Sweeney Agonistes?”

“What?”

“Sydney, I was reading it again last week. Such a nice little half-hour.”

Silence fell in the room while Sydney thought for a while. “I don’t even know... What the hell is it, a chunk of dumb poetry?”

“All right, all right, I know it’s not for the masses, but you said it’s not going out. Why not do something worthwhile? Yes, Sydney, that’s what I want,” Paul concluded.

“Well, I’ve heard of TS Eliot. But what the hell are you trying to foist on me?”

“Sydney, it’s a Fragment of an Agon.” He threw that out as if any fool should know.

Sydney reacted just as Paul expected. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“An Agon, Sydney, an Agon — everyone knows what an Agon is.”

“Don’t be such a smart ass.”

Paul burst out laughing. He’d got him! “Look, it’s sort of a play, it’s written with characters, yeah, it’s got characters talking.”

“I thought it was poetry.”

“Well, it is, sort of.”

“Whaddya mean, sort of?”

“Look Sydney, it’s got real characters.”

“Real characters?”

“Yes, Sydney, two sexy girls. And a wise guy — maybe I could get Barry Morse.”

“Barry Morse? In a dry run? Never.”

“Sydney, Barry loves the classics. It’s a prestige item. It’s TS Eliot. I bet I can get him.”

Sydney looked at Paul with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. Then he shook his head and leaned forward. “I don’t know what to do with you guys. I really don’t.” He shook his head. “Okay kid, go ahead, do whatever you want.”

With a whoop of delight, Paul leapt up and tore out of the room.

Sydney yelled, “They all said it’s impossible. Now don’t let me down!”

Paul poked his head back in the door. “Count on me, Sydney.”

***

Sweeney Agonistes. What a challenge! Paul had better pull out all the stops. When he met with his technical producer from the On Camera series, he asked about every optical trick a cameraman could produce: prisms, upside-down lenses, anything never tried on air. Mystified, the TP — after Paul’s sales pitch – agreed. Bill Davis, excellent, efficient, was assigned as studio director. Then Paul called Barry Morse, who as predicted, agreed to play Sweeney.

Together they cooked up that, Sweeney, as a kind of seer, should have a glass eye. A half-blind seer. Great idea! Then Paul talked to Grant Strate and got him to join the cast and to choreograph a dance for Howard (Hi) Meadows and another male dancer. They would dance, not to music, but to the rhythm of Eliot’s words.

So much fun, thought Paul – even if Sydney will hate it! Why not go out in a blaze of glory? I haven’t even been paid yet...

So into Studio One they went.

 

SONG BY WAUCHOPE AND HORSFALL

Under the bamboo

Bamboo bamboo

Under the bamboo tree

Two live as one

One live as two

Two live as three

Under the bam

Under the boo

Under the bamboo tree...

 

One of the actors played the spoons, another used a wooden ladle on a selection of pots and pans as timpani, and they set up a rhythm to accompany the metre of the poem.

 

Tell me in what part of the wood

Do you want to flirt with me?

Under the breadfruit, banyan, palmleaf

Or under the bamboo tree?

Any old tree will do for me

Any old wood is just as good...

 

They rehearsed for just a couple of days. Chaos! But Paul had an idea, although no one else did, how it should all end up, and he persevered.

Studio One had never seen anything like it. Like a madman Paul rushed up and down the metal stairs from the control room to the studio, adjusting shots, coaching actors, leaping back up to the booth again, shirt-tails flapping, a veritable whirlwind.

During Grant’s dance, Barry decided that Sweeney would take out his glass eye, and tap it on the telephone! An eye on a phone: “So symbolic,” Paul shouted at his cameramen, no one understanding whatsoever, as he bounded back up the stairs to ready the cameras for the dress rehearsal.

During the dance, one cameraman put on a prism and turned it, so that six images of the dance rotated, Barry tapping in rhythm to the poem — oh so seriously with his glass eye — the dancers gyrating to Grant’s special choreography. Oddly enough, the production even seemed polished when they finally put it on kine. As they say in the classics, a good time was had by all.

Paul was so focussed on cutting from camera to camera, cueing actors, calling instructions to his crew over the mic into their headphones, he never looked behind. Had he done so, he’d have seen several producers and, indeed, even a few executives, dropping in to watch.

They observed, whispered together, and one after another went out. Who was this crazy new director? they apparently asked. “Having a lot of fun,” one of them commented, somewhat enviously, as reported to Paul by Angela who had come to sit discreetly but prettily at the back on a stool — herself an object of admiration for all and sundry.

A few days after the fun had subsided, Sydney called Paul into his office again. Paul sensed that his brief tenure was finally at an end. But he had sure enjoyed himself. Well, Christmas was coming. Maybe it was a good time to go back home. He might even get Angela to come. They’d have a lovely holiday before she went off on tour, and he’d begin all over again, hunting for work in Montreal.

Paul sat down, trying not to look too downcast. “I know, Sydney, I’m sorry. But look, we had so much fun...” He saw Sydney frown as he sat back in his chair, hands across his stomach. Paul went on a bit breathlessly, “You could see that, couldn’t you? The actors, too. The cameramen got new ideas about their equipment. So... so maybe if I come back one day, we could still have lunch, maybe?”

“Lunch? What are you telling me, kid? You’re going full time on Procter & Gamble’s On Camera,” he scolded, “with Leo Orenstein and Murray Cherkover alternating. You’ll do every second show.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No. You mean every two weeks, I do a half-hour?”

Sydney nodded. “No one’s seen anything like that damn Eliot you did. You’ll have a busy goddam winter.”