When I was about four or five years old, the local recreation center put on a big play, which really had no script at all, as far as I could tell. The theme was "The Golden Age of the Silver Screen," and what seemed like about 50 kids were dressed up as movie stars from the Silent Era. I was a Keystone Cop, but was dressed like an English Bobbie, with a tall, round helmet and a plastic billy club. My job was to ride around in a paddy wagon (which was a real wagon that had sides to it), fall out, chase after the wagon, fall down several times, get up, keep chasing and then hop back in. That was it. There were about a half a dozen of us. I couldn't have been happier with my part. No lines, just stunts. Lots of stunts. Running and falling, running and falling. I could have made a living doing it. Well, when show time came, I fell out of the wagon on cue, did a few extras rolls for good measure, but quickly realized that the kids who were pushing the wagon were nervous, and were going as fast as they could. A couple of us Keystone Cops got left in the dust, and never did catch back up. So we bumped into each other, fell down, then ran offstage. What a debut! Forty-five years later, I remembered the joy of that experience, and wrote "The Three Bully Goats Griff," in which the entire cast gets to fall off a bridge onto a mat. When I directed it, the kids had so much fun that I had them jump off a second time during the curtain call, just for good measure. Sometimes the simplest joys are the best. |
