What A Dump

		PASSION'S PLAYTHING

WHAT A DUMP

It was the first preview of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" The stars were Glenda Jackson and John Lithgow. The director Edward Albee. The year 1989. And the Doolittle Theatre in Hollywood was packed! As the lights began to dim, I and the three other understudies slipped into our seats eager to get the reaction of our first audience. The house went dark, and then as the lights came up on "George and Martha's" living room, everyone applauded the set. Offstage you could hear the stars approaching, in character and already bickering. Suddenly the front door blew open, and onstage stormed Miss Jackson to a thunderous ovation. Hard on her heels came Mr. Lithgow to another burst of applause. And we were off!

The entire audience leaned forward in anticipation. "Wadda dumpa!" said Miss Jackson. "Wadda dumpa?" thought the audience. Could this conceivably be an imitation of Bette Davis? The play called for Miss Jackson to do an impression of Bette Davis on this famous opening line. Was this was the best that she could come up with? “Wadda dumpa?” The audience sat back in their seats thinking, “It’s going to be a long night.”

I suppose we in the cast and crew had all gotten used to her rather peculiar delivery in rehearsals. Miss Jackson had never been able to do a convincing "What a dump," but we were all sure that the sheer weight of her talent would carry the day. Alas, her Bette Davis imitation was so misguided, that the audience began to doubt the wisdom of casting her in the first place. The irony was that this production was created with Miss Jackson in mind. She had recently played Lady Macbeth on stage, and Queen Elizabeth on TV. Presumably it was felt that "Martha" was the obvious successor to those legendary viragos.

But "Martha" is an American broad, and Miss Jackson is an Englishwoman. She was never for a second convincing as the hard-drinking Yankee intellectual. Also it was rumored that she was a huge fan of Bette Davis, and did not want to mock her idol. For whatever reason, there on the stage before our startled eyes was our star Glenda Jackson saying over and over again, "Wadda dumpa!" sounding more like an irate Anna Magnani than the Hollywood movie icon she was meant to parody.

Fortunately even after this shaky start, the play eventually got off the ground, and was greeted by great applause at the curtain calls. At the party after, I ran into our stage manager and asked him what he thought of "Wadda dumpa!" He sniggered slightly. I joked that the first five rows, already exposed to Charles Pierce and a clutch of lesser drag queens, could have risen as one, and done a better Bette Davis imitation than our star. At which point, we both flicked an imaginary cigarette, and in staccato delivery, simultaneously snapped, "WHAT A DUMP!"

The next morning a brush-up rehearsal was called, and we all arrived a little bleary-eyed, but ready for notes. The stars were on the stage, Mr. Albee in the front row and we understudies sat a few respectful seats back. However even before Mr. Albee had time to speak, Miss Jackson suddenly turned to me and said: "I hear that you can do a better Bette Davis imitation than I can." My jaw dropped. Everyone in the company turned to look at me. It appeared that not only was I critical of Miss Jackson's performance, but that I had the dubious distinction of being an expert Bette Davis impersonator.

"Yes," she continued, "our stage manager tells me that you are very good at it." Blind-sided, I turned in his direction only to see the coward disappear behind the front curtains. "Oh no, Miss Jackson, not at all," I replied trying to suggest that it had all been a terrible misunderstanding. "Come, come," she said, " let's see what you can do." I volunteered that we discuss it later in her dressing room. "NO! NO!" she snorted, "If I have to do it tonight in front of 1500 people, then you can do it to-day in front of 10!"

Our stars, the understudies and even Edward Albee were now transfixed by my dilemma. Like a man condemned, I walked up on the stage, and stood in front of her. With legs akimbo, I put one hand on my hip, and with the other attempted the peculiar cigarette gesture made famous by Bette Davis. "It has alot to do with the cigarette," I hesitated. "Forget the gesture, and do the bit." she trumpeted, eyes narrowing in impatience. After a long, long pause, I gave her my best: "WHAT A DUMP!"

You could have heard a pin drop. There was another long pause, during which time, I debated whether to attempt it again. Mercifully, Miss Jackson finally spoke, her lips curling faintly at the edges. "Thank you," she nodded, and dismissed me as if I were a naughty school child caught misbehaving. Relieved not to have to continue this exercise in humiliation, I returned to my seat, and back to my role as understudy. Of course if I had had a gun, I would have shot the stage manager.

As I waited for the second preview to begin, I consoled myself with the thought that even though what I had gone through was horrific, it would be worth it if it made the show better. And that night, I sat in the audience with some vague sense of pride and listened as the audience applauded Miss Jackson’s entrance. We all leaned forward in great anticipation. Then she bellowed, "Wadda dumpa!" And we all leaned back. It was going to be a long night!