CRY HAVOC

If I had known 1963 was to be my last year at my beloved Wesleyan, I would have paid more attention.  Looking back on that tumultuous year of change everything seems chaotic, mixed up; one incident melts into the next, moving faster and faster until I am breathless, as if I am on a train which is out of control, the views outside the windows are blurred and the destination I am hurtling toward is completely unknown.

Mr. Philips, the head of the drama department had left and in his place was a woman I neither liked nor trusted, a strange, eccentric little woman with odd ideas about the theater and a very visible dislike of my idol, Mr. Russell, who was his usual self-effacing, witty self.  He had decided to direct a play about World War II with a large all female cast called Cry Havoc from Shakespeare's famous line "Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war."  Indeed.

Rehearsals were fun.   We had all been born during the second World War and we found the clothes, the hairstyles and the slang to be completely outdated and wildly exotic.  The characters were all stereotypes, of course--the looker who really liked men, the quiet, sensitive young girl, the little Southern gal, the plain, but funny sidekick, the tough commanding officer with a heart of gold and me, the loathsome German spy who is naturally shot near the end of the play.  (Have you ever had to play dead, sprawled on a cot, in front of hundreds of people, unable to move a muscle and in constant fear of the surprise sneeze or sudden itch?)

But there was a fly in the ointment.   In spite of the always excellent direction we were receiving from Mr. Russell, our new department head found it necessary to add her own direction on the sly.  She would sidle up to us when our actual director was not around and give us notes which usually contradicted what Mr. Russell had said.  Now this is strictly forbidden in the theater and we all knew it.  As we became more conflicted, it was clear that something had to be done.  Some of us went to Mr. Russell individually and in private and told him what was happening.  I remember very little of what he actually said, but I clearly recall the quiet intensity of his message.  After that we had only one director.

The play was a huge success, but the die had been cast.