Lady Parts (21 page)

But I was so determined to live out my fantasy of being a circus performer and, more importantly, to inspire the audience with Stephen Schwartz’s life-affirming lyrics, that I was willing to put aside my fear.

I was told to show up at circus school in Brooklyn and meet my trainer one early morning. Even though I’d always worked out, it became startlingly clear as I tried the different apparatus that I had to completely change my body. Turns out, thirty minutes on the elliptical reading
Vanity Fair
three times a week doesn’t help you when you have to hang twelve feet above a stage. I had to build my upper body strength and my core, at sixty-six years old. Not since
Rocky.
From then on, my workout regimen became daily weight lifting and cardio training in the gym, Pilates three times a week, and hot yoga. Plus I lowered my carb intake and cut out all gluten and dairy.

Yannick, one of the French acrobats in the cast, volunteered to be my partner. Gypsy methodically and patiently created a trapeze routine for us. We began with simple movements on the trapeze, low to the ground. Incrementally as I continued training with Yannick daily, I grew stronger, and the trapeze was slowly raised until we were floating twelve feet above the stage.

The
Pippin
workshop was a success. Diane Paulus’s reimagining of the show was inspired brilliance. Two months
later, we opened in Boston for a limited run to rave reviews and the show quickly transferred to Broadway.

We opened at the Music Box Theatre, in New York, on April 25, 2013, again to rave reviews, and for the next six months, eight times a week, Yannick and I performed our routine. And eight times a week, his hands became the only thing keeping me from plunging to my death. Every night as we were raised twelve feet above the stage on a rotating trapeze, my gorgeous twenty-five-year-old French partner looked into my eyes and quietly said in the most reassuring tone, “I will never let you fall. You can trust me.” And I did. There was no net beneath us, no harness, no wires, and yet I was completely surrendered in his arms. There was no room for doubt as I lay suspended horizontally in mid-air, my body rigid in a plank position, my partner’s fingers splayed across the outer edges of my firm belly as he held me beneath him while hanging by his knees on the trapeze. I looked graceful, relaxed, like a gliding bird, my arms outstretched, legs pressed tightly together behind me, my head held high as I stared into the audience with a smile on my face that reached the last row of the theatre.

Twenty years after winning my first Tony Award, I won my second for
Pippin.
When my name was called, I ran onstage and thanked all my collaborators—Stephen, Diane, Gypsy, and especially Yannick. I told the viewing audience, “I want to thank my partner, Yannick Thomas.
Merci, mon chéri, je t’adore.
” I continued, unconscious of the double
entendre that slipped out of my mouth: “Do you know how wonderful it is for a woman of my age to be held in the arms of a man and not be dropped?” It was an unintended joke, but this portion of my acceptance speech was printed in media outlets across the country.

Over the run, friends and colleagues often came to my dressing room, and all of them asked the same question: “Aren’t you scared on that trapeze?”

Each time, I said the same thing: “I’m aware when I’m up there that I have only two choices: to trust or to panic. I always choose trust. And then I’m not scared.”

My last performance with
Pippin
was on September 22, 2013. For one last time, I took off the sexy, revealing corseted trapeze outfit that the gracious and inspired Dominique Lemieux had designed for me. I walked directly to Magnolia Bakery. Since then, I haven’t stopped eating carbs, nor have I set foot in a gym. But oh, what a glorious year I had flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

The daring young character actress on the flying trapeze.

L
adies and gentlemen, the past program director of
SCTV
, Mrs. Edith Prickley.

“Hello, Canada and select cities in the USA. Edith Prickley here. And believe me, I don’t want to be.
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!
I got better things to do than reminisce. I still have a whole drawer of underwear to wash and iron. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t turn my back on an old friend. Andrea called me out of the blue this morning. Haven’t heard hide nor hair from her in thirty years. There we were, Mr. Prickley and I, watching reruns of
Shark Tank
in our newly renovated ensuite at the Barrie Country Club and Retirement Village, when the phone rang.

“I thought it was those damn animal activists again. They cornered me in the parking lot at 7 a.m., just as my Zumba class was getting out. I was headed to kundalini practice when they started picketing my leopard outfit. They walked over to me and yelled, ‘Edith, do you know how many animals had to die so you could wear that jacket?’ and I said, ‘Do you know how many animals I had to sleep with to get it?’
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!
At my age, I speak my mind.

“Well, it turns out, it wasn’t those fanatics on the other end, it was a sad Armenian clown, and she was in a pickle. Saved her SCTV chapter for last and didn’t know where to begin. She needed her memory jump-started and that’s why she called me, yours truly, Mrs. P., to do her dirty work. Well, she called the wrong person. I don’t remember a damn thing about my life or hers. I’m old. But personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I make up stuff all the time. And that’s just what I told her to do. Who the hell’s gonna know the difference? No one cares about the truth, they just want to know if John Candy was as nice a guy as he seemed. And he was. And if everyone got along. And they did. Fear will get you nowhere, Ms. Martin, so as my first husband, William Carlos Williams, said, ‘Write what’s in front of your nose.’

“And, while we’re on the subject, let me tell you something about fear, folks. Fear is a redhead, capable of anything. Fear is the worst thing in the world, if you don’t count audience participation.
These days I embrace everything about my life. And so does Mr. Prickley. He can’t keep his horny hands off me.
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!
Why is everyone so afraid of getting older? Every time I get an invitation to join CARP, I fly into a violent rage. People think I look good for my age. That’s some condescending bullshit—’You look good for your age.’ You mean if I were younger and looked like this, you’d be rushing me to the emergency ward?

“I’m at that awkward age between retirement and a lovely coma.

“I’m so old, I still think Mel Gibson’s a catch.

“I’m so old, macramé’s starting to make sense to me.

“I’m so old, I remember when the Dead Sea was only sick.

“But that doesn’t stop me. I keep on going. I say what I want and don’t give a shit what anyone thinks.”

“And so must you, Ms. Martin. Write whatever the hell comes to mind. Invent stuff. And then hire a lawyer.”

Aw … Mrs. Edith Prickley. I love that broad. She’s my alter ego. Who needs Pema Chödrön for enlightenment when you’ve got Edith Prickley by your side? She may not be a Buddhist nun, and she’s loud and garish, but she’s fearless. She imparts words of wisdom to the common man.

Mrs. Prickley has rescued me many times in my life. Just thinking of her makes me feel indomitable.

Edith was my go-to character for
SCTV.
When we were short on material, I’d get into my leopard outfit, stand in front of the camera, and spout off whatever came into my mind, on whatever subject was given to me. Not that everything that came out of my mouth was brilliantly funny, by any means, but audiences seemed to like Edith because she said what they wanted to say but couldn’t. The ’70s was a much more innocent time, and outrageously outspoken, off-colour comediennes were not as prevalent as they are today. Back then there was the trailblazing and incomparable Phyllis Diller, and her distant cousin, Mrs. Prickley.

Edith Prickley wasn’t created during
SCTV,
however; she was created while I was performing with Second City in Toronto in 1977, at the Old Firehall theatre on Adelaide Street. And it is my darling and genius friend, Catherine O’Hara, to whom I credit Mrs. Prickley’s birth.

The format of Second City has always been the same since its inception in Chicago in the ’50s: a scripted segment is performed nightly, after which the improvisation begins—sketches based on audience suggestions. One evening, someone suggested we improvise a parent-teacher conference. The cast was backstage in the tiny shared dressing room, where we’d gather after the scripted segment was finished to wait for that night’s list of suggestions. It was a grungy space in which males and females disrobed at the same time, and the air was permeated with the odour of stale cigarette smoke and booze. I was the only member of the cast who didn’t smoke, and every night after the show I’d go home and shower for what seemed like hours to get the smell of smoke off my body and out of my hair. Irish coffee was the drink of choice backstage among the cast at Second City: hot coffee with Irish whiskey, topped with whipped cream and served in glass mugs. I don’t know why that stands out in my memory, but it does. It’s so vivid, my mental picture of Catherine, Eugene Levy, Dave Thomas, and especially Joe Flaherty and John Candy, standing by their cubicles, laughing and smoking and sipping hot toddies out of those dainty glass mugs.

Then we’d receive the list of audience suggestions, and the frenzy would begin. While the audience took an intermission, we had twenty minutes to decide which ideas we’d use for the second part of the show. Costumes and wigs and hats and props would be strewn about the room, everyone yelling out ideas and pulling clothes from the racks for
scenes we were about to improvise for characters we were about to create.

Improv for me was both electrifying and terrifying. How I survived those nightly improvs is a total mystery. I really felt like a fish out of water. My performing experience before joining Second City had been scripted plays and musical theatre. But I loved the cast, and the excitement and challenge of being on stage nightly without a net outweighed my fear. And I was never ever bored. Improv kept me sharp
and
petrified. In the ’70s, Second City was the only improvisational comedy institution around. Now improv is the fad. There’s Upright Citizens Brigade, Chicago City Limits, The Groundlings, and, of course, Second City, which continues to produce some of the most gifted and successful comedians today. Tina Fey, Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph, Will Ferrell, Amy Poehler, Jane Lynch, Melissa McCarthy, Steve Carell, and Stephen Colbert are just some of the new wave of talented folks who got their start in improv. As I wrote that, I realized that my version of “new wave” comedians are people in their forties and fifties. So allow Whistler’s mother to continue.

Improvisational companies have become an invaluable training ground for so many successful comedians. Improv is as important a tool for an actor today as the methods of Stella Adler and Lee Strasberg were for actors beginning in the ’50s. I have no doubt that the experience I received at Second City has had a lasting impact on my career. It taught me to stay present. There is no time for second-guessing when you improvise. You have to think on your feet, and if
you are organically funny, it is the perfect vehicle in which to give voice to your comedic talent.

Which brings me, finally, again, to backstage at the Firehall Theatre and the creation of Edith Prickley.

The costumes on the dressing-room racks consisted of items we had either brought from our own homes or purchased cheaply at what was then known as Crippled Civilians, a used clothing store. Could there be a more politically incorrect name now? Crippled Civilians used to be on Jarvis Street, right around the corner from the Old Firehall theatre. It was a bargain basement of eclectic discarded outfits: oversized and shapeless wool overcoats, ’50s party dresses, ratty bathrobes, ornately decorated and coloured sweaters—items that inspired the wackiest of characters in the wackiest of scenes. Also on the rack backstage was the ’50s faux leopard jacket and hat that had belonged to Catherine O’Hara’s mom.

As the cast frantically brainstormed about the parent-teacher conference sketch, it was decided that Catherine would be the teacher and the rest of us would act as the obnoxious, unruly parents. We all started grabbing clothes and pinning up or slicking back our hair, and finding props to define our characters. Catherine combed her hair in a demure French twist and put on a skirt and cropped cardigan to complete the teacher look. The guys pulled glasses and suits and ties from the racks. I grabbed the leopard jacket and hat, put on a pair of rhinestone glasses I found on the costume-jewellery shelf, and smeared bright red lipstick on my mouth. We all then waited backstage to make our entrances one by one.

We improvised the scene on that cold night in 1977, and the audience loved it. In Second City, if an improvised scene went well, we continued to do it as an improv for a few months and, if was funny enough, it was then fully scripted and became one of the scenes in the next main show. Here’s the scene:

“Teacher”

As the lights come up on the stage, Catherine, as the teacher, is writing on an imaginary chalkboard. Dave Thomas enters.

DAVE: Is this fourth grade?

CATHERINE: Yes, I’m Mrs. Meighan, the fourth-grade teacher. And you are …?

DAVE: Bob Clarke.

CATHERINE: Oh, Tommy’s father?

DAVE: Right.

CATHERINE: Thank you for coming to the meeting, Mr. Clarke.

DAVE: Is this some of their artwork?

CATHERINE: Yes, this is the children’s artwork. That’s Tommy’s piece right there, the blank sheet of paper. I understand it meant something to him, so I put it up. Do you know what it is?

DAVE: It’s a pictorial representation of the order of his mother’s mind.

Eugene Levy enters.

CATHERINE: I’m Mrs. Meighen, and you are …?

EUGENE: I’m Wayne’s father.

CATHERINE: You’re Mr. Klugie?

EUGENE: Yeah. How did you know?

CATHERINE: You said Wayne, Wayne Klugie.

EUGENE: Well, that’s why you are the teacher!

CATHERINE: Thank you for coming to the meeting.

EUGENE: Well, I wanted to meet you ‘cause Wayne has told me so much about you.

CATHERINE: Uh-oh.

EUGENE: Yes, he says you’re the prettiest teacher in the whole wide world.

CATHERINE: He does?

EUGENE: Yes. And you know something? He was right! You are the prettiest teacher in the whole wide world.

CATHERINE: Oh, go on!

EUGENE: All right. (
He goes to exit.
)

CATHERINE: No! I didn’t mean leave. Thank you for coming.

EUGENE: So! This is where the little critters do their learning, huh?

CATHERINE: Yes. This is where Wayne spends his days. Would you like to sit where he sits? He sits right here at the head of the class, right by me.

EUGENE: Oh wow! How about that! My Wayne right at the head of the class.

CATHERINE: Well, he sits there.

Andrea enters.

CATHERINE: I’m Mrs. Meighen, and you are …?

ANDREA: I’m Sebastian’s mother.

CATHERINE: Oh, Mrs. Prickley.

ANDREA: That’s right, dear, Edith Prickley.

Edith’s the name, Sebastian’s the game.

CATHERINE: It’s nice to meet you.

ANDREA: Nice to meet you too, dear … You must be Slag Ass. That’s what Sebastian says the kids all call you. No worries. You know how kids are … always saying it like it is.
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!

CATHERINE: It is so important for parents to be involved in their children’s schooling, and overseeing their homework is one of the best ways to do that. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Prickley?

ANDREA: Absolutely, dear, I always help Sebastian with his homework. I say the family that plays together stays together. I do his homework, Sebastian pours the drinks!
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!
No, I’m kidding! I’d like to help Sebastian with his homework but I just don’t have the time, dear. I’ve got my hands full with the hubby. Boy does he keep my hands full.
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!
(
Mimes juggling balls
.)