Featured Author / Photographer ~ Fall/Winter 2018
Mark Burchard, a former Motion Picture Costumer, was inspired by the slaphappymoments in his 29th film,
“The Silence of the Lambs,” to try his hand at writing comedy. He quickly moved on to include poetry, fiction,
and memoir. Now with over 90 pieces in print, Mark is proud that his work has appeared in such diverse
publications as THE BATTERED SUITCASE, WESTWARD QUARTERLY, AUDIENCE MAGAZINE,
LITTLE EPISODES, KEROUAC’S DOG, DO HOOKERS KISS?, SKIVE MAGAZINE, and
THE STRAY BRANCH. Mark’s photographs were shown at the launch of Little Episodes in London, and can be
seen on the covers as well as within the pages of many of the magazines mentioned above.
His filmography can be found at IMDB.com.
A MEETING
AN EXCERPT FROM THE UP-COMING MEMOIR
A LIFE BELOW THE LINE
THE PRINCE OF TIDES
NEW YORK CITY, MAY 1990
“She’s here,” Ruth Morley, the costume designer, said with a sigh of resignation
as she hung up the phone. The expression on her face told me that she was not looking
forward to this meeting or dealing with this woman in anyway. Our star had a reputation
for being difficult, incredibly difficult, if not down right impossible.
“Let me finish this page,” I said. I was sitting at my desk doing the script
breakdown. “Then I’ll come and wait outside the fitting room in case you need anything.
Just give me a shout.” This was to be a ladies only fitting.
“Fine,” Ruth and Deb said in unison. They looked at each other with a start
and ran out of the office.
A few minutes later, as promised, I followed. As I settled in and leaned
against the counter that separated the office from the reception area at Grace’s,
Jimmy Holder, the office manager, ran through the door from the bustling workroom and
rifled through some papers on his desk. This rather handsome, lean, and usually the
calmest port in the worst of costuming storms, seemed to be shot with adrenaline if
not a hefty dose of speed. He pulled something out of a folder on his desk
and looked at me.
“How can you just stand there and look so cool? I’ve been hiding
ever since she arrived with her entourage.” Jimmy looked at the fitting room
door as if it there were a hideous monster behind it intent on devouring him whole.
As he ran back into the workroom he turned and spoke once more. “And I’m not
comin’ out again ‘til she’s gone.”
Jimmy may have thought I looked calm but on the inside I was a
nervous twit. I was a fan, a very big fan, in fact she was my idle. From the
moment I saw her in her first black and white television special, My Name is
Barbra, I was in love and envious. I wanted to do quirky things like stand
in the middle of Bergdorf-Goodman-one of the highest priced clothing stores
in the world, in a pair of pants made out of a shag rug and sing, “Brother Can
You Spare A Dime?” I liked the idea that she could be outlandish and
unconventional and get away with it. She was everything that my conservative
Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow me to be. On some deep psychological
level that I could never allow myself to fully explore, I must confess
I wanted to be her.
Meeting her seemed to be out of reach, something that only happened
to other people. Knowing that she was in the next room, only a few feet away
rattled my usually staid demeanor. To me, unlike Jimmy, the goddess of comedy
and song was on the other side of that door. Still I could hear my late
Irish grandmother say, like she did with so many other stars I was associated
with, “What would Barbra Streisand want with you?” Rather real or imagined
gramma’s words always made me feel very small, utterly useless, and a
bit of a fraud. After she spoke through her alcoholic haze I believed that I
could never live up to anyone’s expectations including my own.
Then I remembered that I hadn’t been introduced. So the chances
were fairly good, I reasoned, that she’d fly by on her way out without saying
a word even though I had a signed deal memo that said I would not only work on
her film until the end of principle photography but that I’d also do the
wrap. I took a few deep breaths as I tried to pull myself together. To distract
myself, I looked around the reception room.
The reception area in Grace Costumes was designed to impress. Costume
sketches covered the walls. Of course, these were the best of the bunch and showy.
They stood out from the forest green walls in gold frames and they were lit to
great effect. My favorites had always been the renderings done by Jose Verona
of the costumes worn by Beverly Sills when she sang the Donizetti Triple Crown,
the three Queens of England. For a few minutes I was lost in the memory of those
happy days at The New York City Opera, when she reigned supreme on the stage
of the State Theatre, and I was getting my start in the depths of its
sub-basement.
The voices in the fitting room suddenly rose and my blood pressure
followed. Then there was a loud “Then I’ll ask him myself!” It was her voice. No
doubt about that. The dressing room door flew open, and out she came
shrieking my name.
“MAAAARK!”
“Yes.” I responded in the calmest voice I could muster and then
I gulped. In an instant I found myself nose to nose with…well, the nose. “What
are we going to do about Nick? He stinks!”
For a second her words didn’t register. All I could do was feel the
pain in my hand. It was tightly gripping the counter for support because my knees
were beginning to buckle. I could see nothing but her and the nose, and all I
could hear were the words that were pounding in my head, “Barbra Streisand is
talking to me. Barbra Streisand is talking to me.” Her perfume was gardenia
something. I wanted to nip at the air. I couldn’t help wondering
if this was real or just a fantasy.
“Well, what are we going to do?” she asked.
The question as she presented it was loaded. What does she mean by,
“He stinks?” I asked myself. “Was I supposed to give him acting lessons
or a bath? What?”
“Can’t ya get ‘em to shower or somethin’?” Her voice slid up and
down the scales as her hands and those dragon lady fingernails poked at the
air in all directions.
I silently thanked her for answering the unspeakable question.
But then again, I knew that this wasn’t just any old question. This was my test.
I had to impress and establish myself as an experienced and knowledgeable
professional right then and there.
“Don’t worry,” I said. I was as calm as I could possibly be.
“I’ve dealt with the problem before and believe me, I’ve had to do more than
just tell an actor to take a shower. By the time I’m done with
Nick he’ll smell like a rose.”
She looked me square in the eye. “Promise?” she asked.
“Promise!” I replied.
She punched me on the shoulder lightly, walked back into the
dressing room, and slammed the door behind her.
“Ba…Ba…Ba…Barbra Streisand gave me a love tap,” I mumbled as I
slipped into a euphoric high. “Ba… Ba…Ba…Barbra Streisand gave me a love tap.”
Jimmy popped his head through the shop door. “Is it safe?” he asked.
“Ba…Ba…Ba…Barbra Streisand just gave me a love tap,” I said to him.
My smile was so broad and stiff that my face was beginning to ache. “I will
die a happy man.” Jimmy shook his head and laughed. “You’re nuts.”
“And so are you…but Ba…Ba…Ba…Barbra Streisand just gave
me ma love tap.”
In all fairness I have to add that Barbra and Nick’s physical
trainer made him run from his hotel to the rehearsal studio through New York City
traffic every morning to help him get in shape for the role of Coach
Tom Wingo. Who wouldn’t be a bit spritsy?