Crystal Cage
(portrait of…)

a play in two acts

The Characters

EVELYN Natasha Chandler Thaw, early to late 20s; ambitious, conniving, and sexy, Evelyn knows what she wants and how to get it, but underneath her façade she does care deeply about things, namely her brother;

GABE Chandler, early 20s; Evelyn’s brother, who suffers from a mental disorder that causes him to stutter, form words and sentences slower, and go off into little “daydreams” where he pretends to be various famous artist from throughout history;

HAROLD Thaw, mid 60s to mid 70s; a former television producer suffering from mild schizophrenia that is controlled by medication, he is richer than rich but getting crazier with age;

FORD Whitson, mid 20s to mid 30s; a not-so-bright, completely melodramatic Hollywood star with dreamy good looks and a head stuck in the clouds, but a good heart nonetheless;

HUGO Lassiter, late 30s to mid 40s; a fast-talking agent with a high temper who is full of biting sarcasm and is not entirely heterosexual;

A REPORTER, any age, male; represents every typical scumbag Hollywood reporter who will do anything for a picture or a story or a quote.

CHORAGOS, any age, male, also plays various smaller roles throughout the piece.

THE CHORUS, two men (A, C) and two women (B, D), mid 20’s to late 30’s.

Unless otherwise stated, the CHORAGOS also reads with the CHORUS.

ACT I

Act I, Scene 1

(A bare stage. After a few tense moments, the CHORAGOS enters solemnly. The rest of the CHORUS follows him after a moment.)

CHORAGOS.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to see a story that you already know by heart. It is a stirring tale, one of ambition, one of murder, one of -

CHORUS A.

Jealousy!

CHORUS B.

Rage!

CHORUS C.

Violence!

CHORUS D.

Fame!

CHORAGOS.

You’ve seen it splashed all over the tabloids, ladies and gentlemen, but tonight – tonight… you are going to see it right here in front of you.

CHORUS.

The Famed Tale of the Glorious Ford Whitson, and the Account of the Events Preceding and Directly Following His Untimely End.

(it’s funny)

CHORAGOS.

Of course, that is a bit of a mouthful, so we’ll just call it FORD: The Musical.

(The stage manager dashes onstage and whispers something to the CHORAGOS.)

CHORAGOS. (CONT’D)

FORD: The Play.

Yes, my dear audience, a story you know… with a cast I believe you know as well.

(FORD enters, followed by the REPORTER)

REPORTER.

Mr. Whitson! Ford!

(FORD turns. The REPORTER snaps his picture – the noise of the camera echoes eerily.)

REPORTER. (CONT’D)

Tell us about the movie, Ford!

FORD.

At this time I am not authorized to say anything more than what you already know.

REPORTER.

How’s the wife?

FORD.

She is… nonexistent, thank you.

(The REPORTER leans to take another picture. The flash goes off and as it does the two of them freeze, FORD illuminated by the light of the camera)

CHORAGOS.

Ford Whitson, Hollywood’s latest golden boy.

CHORUS.

The star: charming, talented.

CHORUS B.

Great hair.

CHORUS.

No motion picture considered complete without his name above the title

Women want him.

Men want to be him.

(During this last bit, HUGO has entered)

HUGO.

And certain men also want him.

(some of the CHORUS looks at him)

Well, not me. I was just saying.

(his cell phone rings)

Excuse me, I have to take this.

…Hello?

CHORAGOS.

Hugo Lassiter, the scumbag.

CHORUS.

The fast talking Hollywood agent with a head for business who fluently speaks but one language:

CHORAGOS.

The language of money.

HUGO.

(covering up his phone for a moment)

And English.

CHORAGOS.

Right. Well. Same thing.

HUGO.

I speak a little French, too.

CHORAGOS.

Stop talking.

(HUGO stares at him for a moment, then returns to his phone conversation)

HUGO.

Right, yes. Yes. Yes, I’m taking it down now. I’m writing it down now. I would – I would love to, I’d – no – I’d – tell you what. Let’s do lunch. Okay? I’ll have Amanda call you. I’ll –

(During this, FORD and the REPORTER have unfrozen and the CHORUS has moved upstage.)

REPORTER.

(overlap with HUGO)

What are you doing here, Ford?

FORD.

(overlap with HUGO)

Having lunch with my agent.

HUGO.

(sees FORD)

Gotta go. Bye.

REPORTER.

One more?

FORD.

One more lunch?

REPORTER.

(indicating camera)
Picture.

FORD.

Oh. Yes – yes, of course.

(Picture. That noise.)

REPORTER.

Thank you, Mr. Whitson.

FORD.

(overdramatically serious)

No… thank you.

(He wistfully looks at the reporter before slinking away to HUGO’s side of the stage. There is now somehow a table with two chairs there – a café. How it got there is not my issue. Perhaps it was there from the start and, blinded by our meaningless lives, we failed to see it, like the one true love that was there from the beginning… and now that we have opened our eyes… it is too late.)

(Only, it is not too late, because this is a table.)

(The REPORTER lurks in the background as FORD approaches HUGO, who shakes his hand)

(They both sit)

HUGO.

How goes it, Ford?

FORD.

Not too bad. Not too bad.

HUGO.

It shouldn’t be, considering I just negotiated you an extra 3 mil on that movie…

FORD.

Ah yes. Marshall told me. Uh – thanks.

HUGO.

Gonna buy yourself something nice?

FORD.

Eh. I’m bored with nice.

HUGO.

Well, your agent isn’t. Buy him something nice.

FORD.

Him I am treating to lunch.

HUGO.

Well, there’s an out of the ordinary treat. Lunch.

(FORD chuckles, but it’s painful)

(From here on out, FORD at least is played with desperately overdramatic seriousness. HUGO, to a lesser extent.)

FORD.

Hugo…

HUGO.

(lowering his voice significantly)

(with more annoyance than actual concern)

Christ, what is it?

FORD.

(quiet)

There are some things we need to discuss.

HUGO.

(louder)

Am I being dumped?

(He laughs. FORD doesn’t.)

FORD.

Stop. It’s… serious.

HUGO.

Here we go.

FORD.

My entire life is crumbling beneath my feet and I don’t know what to do. Every morning I get up and watch the sunrise and I think to myself, wow, you know? Something so beautiful can only mean that the day it brings on is to be as beautiful as it is – but it isn’t, Hugo, it just isn’t. In fact, the day it brings on repeatedly wanes in comparison to that beautiful sunrise – and the sunset! The sunset, at day’s end, watched from my penthouse suite – a quiet death, an exquisite death, the death of beauty, of life, replaced only darkness, only solemn darkness. That is what I feel, not just watching the sun recede behind the glistening ocean – nay, I feel it every second of every minute of every day! Of every week! Of every month of every year of every decade of every century of every millennium! Ah, there is a pain in my heart, nay – a pain in my very essence, in my very soul. Tell me, old friend, what is the meaning of this? Why should I feel these phantom pains in a soul that seems to have long ago dried up and been carried away by the morning breeze of the salty ocean? Carried on the wind of shattered dreams and abandoned hopes to a land where children cry and the once-revered elders are made to eat dog food?

HUGO.

France?

FORD.

Last night, I had a dream –

HUGO.

Oh god.

FORD.

In it, I was a statue, tall and proud and handsome and strong. Marble, the strongest of all… things that are like marble, and I stood tall and proud and handsome and strong in the courtyard of a village of fools. Until one day, I went to see a play, and in this play lovers danced and poets weaved their words into a quilt of love which they used to blanket the orphan and shelter the old woman from the storm. I never saw the end though, because, in the middle of the play a man wearing a black cape entered my box unbeknownst, and stabbeth me in the back before shooting me, here, in the back of my head!

HUGO.

Was it Booth?

FORD.

(ignoring him)

Good friend, I hath trusted you more than I trust my own flesh and blood. Tell me, what do you thinketh of all of this? What means it to you? Mine own eyes are too close, I believe, to see the full picture… much as one who, in a… I dunno, in an art museum or something… stands too close to a Seurat painting and thus sees only dots.

HUGO.

I think it means you’ve finally gone off the deep end, and you ought to kill yourself and leave your enormous fortune to me.

FORD.

Pardon?

HUGO.

Never mind. Listen to me – listen. We’ll discuss all this later, I swear.

(FORD drops his head into his hands, HUGO reaches out to comfort him and touches his arm.)

(The REPORTER takes a picture – that noise)

HUGO. (CONT’D)

I promise. But now is not the time.

(FORD doesn’t relent. HUGO sighs in frustration)

HUGO. (CONT’D)

Look. You know – you know – that a lunch for you, lunch here, for you – is not lunch. It’s a… it’s a production, it’s a show. And right now you’re not giving the kind of performance one would expect from an actor who’s agent just managed to negotiate him an extra THREE MILLION dollars. Know what I mean?

(FORD raises his head)

FORD.

Maybe I just have a really good agent.

HUGO.

Damn right you do. So humor me.

CHORAGOS.

(stepping up)

And now for the eerie foreshadowing.

CHORUS.

(leering)

Cue creepy dialogue.

HUGO.

So, uhm…

(is weary of the CHORUS for a moment)

Congrats on scoring that movie.

FORD.

Thanks. It’s nice to finally have some of the credit.

HUGO.

Whatever do you mean?

FORD.

With you, it’s always, “I got you this movie. I landed you this deal. I got you all this money.”

HUGO.

Please, this is not in the happy pleasant luncheon script, okay?

(beat)

So tell me about it.

FORD.

What?

HUGO.

The movie.

FORD.

At this point I am not authorized to say anything more than what you already know.

HUGO.

Cut that crap. What’s the damn thing called, I don’t even know what the damn thing is called.

FORD.

The working title is “The Crime of the Century.”

(The REPORTER takes a picture – that noise)

HUGO.

Ah, yes. Now I remember. “The Crime of the Century.”

(a pause)

FORD.

You knew that.

HUGO.

(darkly, yes, even though the line is not dark at all)

I was making conversation.

CHORAGOS.

And…

CHORUS.

FREEZE!

(HUGO and FORD freeze)

CHORAGOS.

Hey… that was awesome!

Unfreeze!

(Nothing happens. The CHORAGOS encourages the CHORUS.)

CHORUS.

UNFREEZE!

HUGO.

So, have you ever seen Finian’s Rainbow?

FORD.

What?

HUGO.

I saw it last night, it was fucking horrible.

CHORAGOS.

1, 2 -

CHORUS.

FREEZE!

(HUGO and FORD freeze)

CHORAGOS.

Wow!

I mean.

Enter Harold.

(As he says the word ‘Harold,’ the lights grow eerie and HAROLD enters)

CHORAGOS

You know him too…

CHORUS.

Or at least, you did, once.

But time has changed him, disfigured his shape

So that when one sees him now, one sees only a ghost

Only a glimmer of what -

Of who -

He once was.

And shining through that glimmer

Another glimmer

A glimmer of growing insanity –

HUGO.

Oh my god, would you just get on with it? Am I the only one here who’s not a drama queen?

(Everyone else looks at him pointedly)

HUGO. (CONT’D)

…Shut up.

CHORAGOS.

You’re supposed to be frozen.

(HUGO taps his finger on the table loudly and impatiently)

CHORAGOS.

Right. Harold Thaw.

CHORUS.

A former television producer; he made his fortune quickly and then retired, living the life of luxury. He’d been out of the spotlight for awhile now… but that was all about to change.

CHORAGOS.

So, there we are, ladies and gentlemen. We have – Ford.

CHORUS.
The star.

CHORAGOS.

Hugo.

CHORUS.

The agent.

CHORAGOS.

Harold.

CHORUS.

The lunatic.

CHORAGOS.

But… I’m afraid we’re missing someone.

(a pause)

And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… EVELYN NATASHA THAW!

(There is dramatic theatrical lighting, we see EVELYN upstage, her back to the audience, striking a pose. She is wearing some sexy sort of costume, sequins, fishnets, etc.)

CHORUS.

The catalyst.

(They recedes to the side or back of the stage, somehow out of the way, watching)

CHORAGOS.

For her first trick, Evelyn will perform an act of murderous proportions… without ever even moving.

EVELYN.

(still not turning around)
May I have a drum roll, please?

(There is a drumroll)

FORD.

No, I’ve never seen Finian’s Rainbow… but isn’t it a classic? What’s wrong with it?

HUGO.

Well, first of all they ought to rename it “The Lucky Charms Musical.” Honestly.

FORD.

(laughs, then says thoughtfully)

You know, I really don’t think musical theatre is something two eligible men, such as ourselves, should be discussing in public … people will talk.

(HAROLD starts to approach them)

HUGO.

Hey look, isn’t that – oh, god, what’s his name?

(FORD turns around)

FORD.

It’s, uhm –

HUGO.

The producer.

FORD.

Yes? I think.

(turns back around)

HUGO.

What’s his name?!

HAROLD.

Ford Whitson.

FORD.

No, that’s my name.

(turns to face HAROLD)

(HAROLD pulls out a gun and fires it before anyone realizes what is going on.)

(Gunshot. Silence. Blackout.)

(After a moment, spot on EVELYN, she turns to face the audience, winks. Cymbal. Blackout.)