THE END OF THE WORLD,by Arthur Kopit, The Bolton Theater, Directed by Tom Riccio

This was the first production of the play after its very short run on Broadway. I was not yet the dramaturg, but I had very definite notions about the script and what I would change if it were up to me. The author came out to work a little on the script and was on hand for the first read through. It was then and is still my opinion that the second act wanders off the spine of the play and covers the same material over and over. I was primed and ready to offer some specific cuts in much of that act, but before I could say anything, Mr. Kopit shared that he was excited that we were staging his play again, and that he was especially happy because he wanted to beef up the second act because it was, after all, the reason he had written the play in the first place! What could I do: I kept my mouth shut.

The show was tricky from a technical standpoint, because I narrated the thing in several monologues that took place during scene shifts, so I had to walk across moving platforms and be sure I wasn't under or behind flying set pieces. One night, I remember, a sub stagehand didn't know which rope was up and which was down and a huge, heavy window unit crashed down just behind me instead of flying out.

On a personal level, this was an extemely difficult run, because Will and Sharyn Rhys' son Evan, who was my son's friend and playmate was killed in a tragic fall down the back stairway of the Drury during the rehearsal process. His death four days later is the worst event in my memory. I was able to hold it together when I was with Will and Sharyn, but for weeks, I broke down and sobbed. Alas, Michael Trent, my character in EOW, had a long monologue in which he fantasized about throwing his son out a second story window to his death. The rehearsal the day after the accident, Mr. Riccio insisted I get through the speech. I have never experienced such willful cruelty. Just how I made it through that speech night after night is a mystery. To this day, I resent that my uncontrolled sobs--which many no doubt thought were fine acting--had been motivated by so senseless a loss.