JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) by J. A. Jance
Authors: J. A. Jance
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stood to reason that a daughter who was headstrong and stubborn and who didn’t listen to her daddy wouldn’t rate high on my list of current favorites.
Of all the characters in the play, I sympathized most with old man Capulet, who, despite his white suit, straw hat, and good-old-boy mannerisms, was still, by God, a father trying to convince his strong-willed daughter to listen to reason. The Bard didn’t name his creation The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet because she shapes up and pays attention.
I don’t believe it was an innocent fluke of casting that caused Dinky Holloway’s Juliet, played by Tanya Dunseth, to be a red-haired beauty with translucently pale skin, while Romeo, played by a handsome young actor named James Renthrow, was exceedingly dark. I’d call James Renthrow an African-American, except the playbill says he’s from Jamaica. In deference to fully accurate cultural diversity, I don’t believe the term, “African-American” correctly applies to Jamaicans.
I will say that Dinky Holloway was doing her bit for the arts community in showcasing William Shakespeare’s immortal story in a “context designed to challenge the sensibilities of the audience.” That’s also a quote from the playbill. It seemed to me that Romeo and Juliet had enough problems to begin with without adding race relations into the already explosive mix, but then maybe that’s just the father in me talking.
During intermission, in an effort to pick up my end of the evening’s flagging conversation, I unwisely asked Alex how Dinky would, in these politically correct times, stage something like Othello , for instance? The question provoked an immediate firefight between Alex and me, much to the amusement of people seated around us. Our neighbors may have enjoyed the fireworks, but I was more than happy when action resumed onstage. I spent the next act worried that we’d still be at each other’s throats once the play was over.
I shouldn’t have. Alex isn’t one to pack grudges. Our intermission flare-up served to relieve the tension. By the final curtain, all was forgiven.
We left the theater in a throng of people. Juliet finished earlier than Henry . Outside, the noisy clang of staged swordplay told us the Elizabethan’s production was still in full swing.
“What now?” I asked, shivering in the surprising cold. “Head home, or crash the party?”
“Are you kidding?” Alexis demanded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I want to know exactly what that woman is up to. The party won’t start until after Henry . If you want to, we can go over to the Members’ Lounge and warm up. Dinky gave us a pass.”
Dinky again, but given the chill outdoor temperature, the option of waiting inside made sense. We dodged across the street through a flock of waiting tour buses and hotel shuttles. Alex led the way to the side, basement entrance of what looked like an old house. Inside, a vestibule opened into a furnished sitting room where a somewhat weary hostess presided over a small bar. She offered us our choice of beer, wine, coffee, or soft drinks. I took a soda. Alex chose wine.
“What time does Henry get out?” Alex asked.
She, too, had slipped into Ashland’s contagious one-word-title syndrome. From reading the playbill, I knew the full title was actually King Henry VI, Part Two , but then, who’s counting?
Glancing at her watch, the hostess shrugged. “Ten minutes or so,” she said.
Alex and I retreated to a bench seat that occupied one whole wall beneath a row of old-fashioned double-hung windows. Setting aside her wine, she fixed her lipstick and dabbed powder on her nose. She reminded me of a soldier gearing up for battle.
“How did it go with Kelly?” Alex asked, snapping shut the lid of her compact.
That was one topic I didn’t want to touch. “Can’t we discuss something else?”
Alex retrieved her wine and eyed me shrewdly over the rim of it. “That well, huh?”
“Worse. I’d much
Of all the characters in the play, I sympathized most with old man Capulet, who, despite his white suit, straw hat, and good-old-boy mannerisms, was still, by God, a father trying to convince his strong-willed daughter to listen to reason. The Bard didn’t name his creation The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet because she shapes up and pays attention.
I don’t believe it was an innocent fluke of casting that caused Dinky Holloway’s Juliet, played by Tanya Dunseth, to be a red-haired beauty with translucently pale skin, while Romeo, played by a handsome young actor named James Renthrow, was exceedingly dark. I’d call James Renthrow an African-American, except the playbill says he’s from Jamaica. In deference to fully accurate cultural diversity, I don’t believe the term, “African-American” correctly applies to Jamaicans.
I will say that Dinky Holloway was doing her bit for the arts community in showcasing William Shakespeare’s immortal story in a “context designed to challenge the sensibilities of the audience.” That’s also a quote from the playbill. It seemed to me that Romeo and Juliet had enough problems to begin with without adding race relations into the already explosive mix, but then maybe that’s just the father in me talking.
During intermission, in an effort to pick up my end of the evening’s flagging conversation, I unwisely asked Alex how Dinky would, in these politically correct times, stage something like Othello , for instance? The question provoked an immediate firefight between Alex and me, much to the amusement of people seated around us. Our neighbors may have enjoyed the fireworks, but I was more than happy when action resumed onstage. I spent the next act worried that we’d still be at each other’s throats once the play was over.
I shouldn’t have. Alex isn’t one to pack grudges. Our intermission flare-up served to relieve the tension. By the final curtain, all was forgiven.
We left the theater in a throng of people. Juliet finished earlier than Henry . Outside, the noisy clang of staged swordplay told us the Elizabethan’s production was still in full swing.
“What now?” I asked, shivering in the surprising cold. “Head home, or crash the party?”
“Are you kidding?” Alexis demanded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I want to know exactly what that woman is up to. The party won’t start until after Henry . If you want to, we can go over to the Members’ Lounge and warm up. Dinky gave us a pass.”
Dinky again, but given the chill outdoor temperature, the option of waiting inside made sense. We dodged across the street through a flock of waiting tour buses and hotel shuttles. Alex led the way to the side, basement entrance of what looked like an old house. Inside, a vestibule opened into a furnished sitting room where a somewhat weary hostess presided over a small bar. She offered us our choice of beer, wine, coffee, or soft drinks. I took a soda. Alex chose wine.
“What time does Henry get out?” Alex asked.
She, too, had slipped into Ashland’s contagious one-word-title syndrome. From reading the playbill, I knew the full title was actually King Henry VI, Part Two , but then, who’s counting?
Glancing at her watch, the hostess shrugged. “Ten minutes or so,” she said.
Alex and I retreated to a bench seat that occupied one whole wall beneath a row of old-fashioned double-hung windows. Setting aside her wine, she fixed her lipstick and dabbed powder on her nose. She reminded me of a soldier gearing up for battle.
“How did it go with Kelly?” Alex asked, snapping shut the lid of her compact.
That was one topic I didn’t want to touch. “Can’t we discuss something else?”
Alex retrieved her wine and eyed me shrewdly over the rim of it. “That well, huh?”
“Worse. I’d much
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