What’s in a Surname?

I recently went to the What Exit? Theatre Company (as Bev Sheehan has whimsically named her troupe) in Maplewood, New Jersey to see Richard Dresser’s Rounding Third. I’ve caught this two-hander twice before. It’s about a stern, win-at-all-costs Little League coach whose new assistant is a laissez-faire guy who just wants the kids to enjoy themselves. Given that it’s now the end of the baseball season, I had decided ahead of time how to begin my review: “Who’ll be voted Manager of the Year in baseball for 2005? Terry Francona? Joe Torre?” — and then I’d use the name that Dresser gave his stern coach as the third choice before segueing into “Never heard of that third one? Perhaps that’s only because he heads a Little League team, but in Richard Dresser’s Rounding Third…,” blah-blah-blah.

I got to the theater and, after saying hello to Dresser himself — it was nice of him to make the trip from Manhattan — I sat and consulted my program. Hmm! I noted that the the coach was simply named “Don” and his assistant was “Michael.” “Well,” I thought, “their last names will probably be mentioned at some point in the play.” But while Michael eventually did state his surname (Johnson), Don didn’t.

At intermission, I approached Dresser and asked if Don would reveal his last name by play’s end. He shook his head no, so I told him my dilemma. “Would you come up with one by the end of the show?” I asked. He genially replied that he would. I returned to my seat and spent the rest of intermission wondering what he’d choose. When I first met Dresser in 2003, he told me what a rabid Boston Red Sox fan he was; that made me feel bad for him when, only a few days later, they blew their World Series hopes in typically ignominious fashion. When the team made its unprecedented comeback last year, one of the first people I thought of was Dresser, knowing how happy he’d be. I had a feeling that, for his coach, he’d pick the name of an esteemed Red Sox player — past or present. Don’s last name would be Williams (for Ted), Rice (Jim), or Damon (Johnny), unless Dresser really got fanciful and surnamed him Ortiz, Ramirez, or Yastrzemski.

The moment after the actors took their curtain calls, I rushed over to Dresser, who proudly proclaimed, “Baker. Don Baker.” Frankly, I was a bit disappointed. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, there is very little music in the name Baker. What’s more, as I pointed out to him, Don Baker had already been chosen as the name of the blind hero of Butterflies Are Free. Dresser cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, and I could see that he’d be keeping Don Baker as the name of his Little League coach because he’s already come to like the idea that this was the guy’s name. (By the way: Dresser didn’t choose it because Don is a baker by profession, but the playwright couldn’t very well have called him “Don Housepainter.”)

How do playwrights name their characters? I remember Arthur Laurents telling me that he was furious with the moviemakers who turned his Leona Samish in The Time of the Cuckoo into Jane Hudson for the film version, Summertime. “Jane Hudson,” he sneered. “That immediately and automatically makes her so less interesting.” I see his point. Some years later, when Laurents was writing Anyone Can Whistle, he gave the name Magruder to a corrupt official. Ten years after the show’s premiere, everyone in the nation knew of a corrupt official named Magruder; he was part of the Watergate scandal that brought down President Nixon. So can we agree that Laurents has good instincts for naming characters?

I find it interesting that the two greatest libretti in the history of musical theater — 1776 and Gypsy, in that order — have characters whose names aren’t proper nouns at all, but common ones. The former show has “Leather Apron,” a youth who wants to join the Continental Army, while the latter has a guy named “Cigar” and a woman named “Pastey” working at Wichita’s one and only burlesque theater.

If I asked you the trivia question “What’s the name of the guy who pushes (Sweet) Charity into Central Park Lake?” you might very well respond “Charlie,” for that is what Charity calls him. But, for some reason, book writer Neil Simon identifies him in the script simply as “Dark Glasses.” I once shared an elevator with Simon and I thought about asking him why he made this decision but instead queried about the name of another character he created: Victor Velasco in Barefoot in the Park. Back in 1963, soon before that show opened on Broadway, I remember reading in Variety that Simon had changed the character’s name during the tryout period. I hadn’t remembered the original name because I wasn’t paying much attention to a play that wasn’t yet a smash, so I asked Simon — who said that he didn’t remember, either.

Anyway, I guess I can be proud of having contributed to dramatic literature by spurring the addition of a character surname to Rounding Third. Richard, you may send my substantial share of the royalties to me in care of www.TheaterMania.com.

********************

[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]