Dropped Names by Frank Langella Read Free Book Online

urtain, applause, and more magic to come.
    Each actor came forward, center, took a bow, Lily being the last, and then exited, leaving an empty stage. A wait of approximately five seconds. The two center doors upstage opened, and out came Miss Del Rio in a stunning white flowing gown over which hung an equally beautiful soft and voluminous long white coat. She floated to the apron of the stage, a radiant smile on her face, and sank into a deep curtsy as the applause swelled; then rose, arms outstretched, and beckoned the rest of the cast back out for a company bow. She and Lily were then left alone, bowed to each other and the audience, and Lily once again left, leaving Miss Del Rio alone in a spotlight.
    By now I was out of the prompter’s box and hovering by the back door of the theatre in order to watch my favorite ritual of the night: the sight of Dolores del Rio moving toward the French doors of the set, the audience behind her, then turning with a radiant smile to face them, bow once more, take the handles, and close the doors just before the curtain hit the stage. The house lights were very slowly timed to coincide with her next actions.
    In the dim backstage light, I watched as her attendant lifted the voluminous trains of her gown and coat and followed behind her across the carpet. Her driver, standing by the door, arm outstretched, took her hand, brought her down the steps, and put her into the waiting Rolls-Royce, its engine already humming. The yards and yards of material were pushed in and gathered around her, the backseat looking like a mass of cozy clouds. Her attendant moved to the front door and the mysterious lady was transported down the driveway, into the summer night, away from the theatre before the audience stopped applauding and the houselights were up full.
    O ne could, I suppose, remember her as a lonely older woman, desperate to preserve her beauty, living on illusion and reputation. Or one could see her through the eyes of this virtuous eighteen-year-old, as the epitome of glamour, discipline, and professionalism, exemplifying the magic of Live Theater.

JAMES MASON
    â€œD o you still love it?” asked possibly the most beautiful speaking voice I have ever heard, then or now. Original, distinct, and totally unself-conscious, it belonged to James Mason, the actor.
    He and his wife, Clarissa Kaye, sat across from my wife and me at a small round table in the home of Marilyn and Alan Bergman, the married composers of such classics as “The Windmills of Your Mind” and “The Way We Were.” It was the early 1980s. Scattered around at other tables were Tommy Thompson, the writer; Roddy McDowall, the actor; and Georgia Brown, the singer.
    I still remember Mr. Mason’s melancholy sadness and the wistful way he held his hand under his chin, his pinky resting on his lower lip as he spoke.
    â€œDo you still love acting?”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I do. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. Don’t you?”
    â€œOh no. Not anymore.”
    â€œWhy do you do it?”
    â€œFor her,” he said, glancing at his wife. “She wants it.”
    â€œWell, I find it very exciting still. I particularly like being onstage in front of a live audience.”
    â€œWell, don’t let me stop you,” he said in the perfectly modulated British style that gives no hint of opinion.
    H e was, to my mind, an absolutely marvelous actor whom I had never once seen give a bad performance. He is breathtakingly perfect as Humbert Humbert in Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita —funny and tragic. The same in A Star is Born opposite Judy Garland and particularly wonderful in Marlon Brando’s Julius Caesar— the perfect combination of truth and technique. He also had an androgynous sex appeal that made him seem languorously available to both genders.
    That night at the Bergmans he had about him an air of bemused resignation. I can still see him clearly, smaller than I had