Nov. 5: Goldberg Street
Goldberg Street. Because they didn't have it. They had Rivka Street. They had Lemkin Street. There was no Goldberg Street.
My actor friend, Phil Sarsons, said those words onstage at the Nickle Theatre at Mount Royal College in October of 1992. He was playing an old man who was having a conversation with his daughter. Phil had braces on his teeth. I wondered if the audience noticed and, if they did, if it took them out of the play.
But who am I to judge? Phil Sarsons is ten times the actor I'll ever be.
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Goldberg Street is one of three short playlets in David Mamet's Three Jewish plays.
An old man tells about how he returned to France to visit a battle scene long after the war was over. The old man is Jewish and he is scarred by the anti-Semitism he experienced in the army.
I was 19. I wanted to ask the director why there would be anti-Semitism in the army. I thought the play was about World War II and I wondered why the allied soldiers would be anti-Semitic since that whole war seemed to be about anti-Semitism.
But I did not ask. I feared my question was too stupid and that everyone knew the answer because they were all much smarter than me.
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The one line I remember from Goldberg Street: "Patton slapped that Jewish boy."
I used to like to hide in the wings and hear Phil say it. There was something about the way he said it that I liked.
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I have said before that Goldberg Street was my introduction to serious acting. I was paired in a scene with another actor named Bob Manitopyes, who passed away a few years ago. Bob didn't like me. He thought I was a lazy actor who worked for praise. Bob was right.
There was a rehearsal one night. During the break, I was relaxing on stage and having a conversation with the stage manager, whose name was Jeff Turton. Jeff asked me what I thought of the play and I said I enjoyed it but I felt bad for Bob. He asked me why and I told him I thought Bob was frustrated working with me. "He's a much better actor than I am," I said. "In fact, I'd say he's the best actor I've ever worked with."
I went on, saying I hoped Bob succeeded as an actor and that the world recognized his genius. I was telling the truth. Perhaps I was overly naive but I meant what I said.
Jeff was wearing a communication device clipped to his belt. What I didn't know, what Jeff didn't realize, is that he had left his microphone on and our conversation was being broadcast in the boys' dressing room. The boys dressing room was filled with actors and one of them was Bob Manitopyes.
After that, Bob was friendly with me. He said he didn't think he was as great an actor as I insisted he was. What relieved him, I think, was that he was wrong about me. I might have been stubborn but maybe I still had a small capacity to learn.
My actor friend, Phil Sarsons, said those words onstage at the Nickle Theatre at Mount Royal College in October of 1992. He was playing an old man who was having a conversation with his daughter. Phil had braces on his teeth. I wondered if the audience noticed and, if they did, if it took them out of the play.
But who am I to judge? Phil Sarsons is ten times the actor I'll ever be.
-
Goldberg Street is one of three short playlets in David Mamet's Three Jewish plays.
An old man tells about how he returned to France to visit a battle scene long after the war was over. The old man is Jewish and he is scarred by the anti-Semitism he experienced in the army.
I was 19. I wanted to ask the director why there would be anti-Semitism in the army. I thought the play was about World War II and I wondered why the allied soldiers would be anti-Semitic since that whole war seemed to be about anti-Semitism.
But I did not ask. I feared my question was too stupid and that everyone knew the answer because they were all much smarter than me.
-
The one line I remember from Goldberg Street: "Patton slapped that Jewish boy."
I used to like to hide in the wings and hear Phil say it. There was something about the way he said it that I liked.
-
I have said before that Goldberg Street was my introduction to serious acting. I was paired in a scene with another actor named Bob Manitopyes, who passed away a few years ago. Bob didn't like me. He thought I was a lazy actor who worked for praise. Bob was right.
There was a rehearsal one night. During the break, I was relaxing on stage and having a conversation with the stage manager, whose name was Jeff Turton. Jeff asked me what I thought of the play and I said I enjoyed it but I felt bad for Bob. He asked me why and I told him I thought Bob was frustrated working with me. "He's a much better actor than I am," I said. "In fact, I'd say he's the best actor I've ever worked with."
I went on, saying I hoped Bob succeeded as an actor and that the world recognized his genius. I was telling the truth. Perhaps I was overly naive but I meant what I said.
Jeff was wearing a communication device clipped to his belt. What I didn't know, what Jeff didn't realize, is that he had left his microphone on and our conversation was being broadcast in the boys' dressing room. The boys dressing room was filled with actors and one of them was Bob Manitopyes.
After that, Bob was friendly with me. He said he didn't think he was as great an actor as I insisted he was. What relieved him, I think, was that he was wrong about me. I might have been stubborn but maybe I still had a small capacity to learn.
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