For the last few months, as my Favorite Person has planned his move to the East Coast, we have taken to watching Julian Fellowes’ historical romance series, THE GILDED AGE, a two season melodrama that we usually take two episodes at a time, while taking turns hosting and providing dinner for one another, every Monday. Part of this is that my Favorite Person has become sort of low-key obsessed with New York City, in the way that virtually everyone does when they are planning a move there. After twenty years in this city, he is pursuing the same “fresh start” that many of my friends have already embarked on, and which is becoming more and more the most common response to the Pandemic, as these post-plague years soldier on. The other part is that we just have a long tradition of watching period dramas together, and this is one of the rare examples where he is introducing me to the work at hand.
Like Fellowes’ previous big success, DOWNTON ABBEY, THE GILDED AGE is a costume and scenery feast that is brightly lit, gently paced (well, until recently), and very well acted. An exploration of individual lives scattered across several different classes (though noticeably the wealthy over any other) in a bygone era, it is predominantly stories over plotlines, characters over action, and romance over accuracy. Like any well done period piece, one experiences when watching it a degree of escape made more impactful by an ability to identify with the characters, whose manners are antique but whose sensibilities are generally modern, or at least relatable. Though everyone on THE GILDED AGE exhibits a clever wit and comic timing in spades, making virtually all of them endearing, some figures naturally allure more than others, and in the Russell family, newly rich and loving it, many audiences have found an interest that often outshines the romantic and social tribulations of the ostensible heroine, played by Louisa Jacobson. In the role of patriarch to the Russell clan, I was profoundly delighted to discover a college friend, Morgan Spector, even though intellectually I knew he’d “made it” years ago, not too long after I ran into him in the hallways of 30 Grant, the site of American Conservatory of Theatre’s now defunct graduate program (which Morgan was attending). Still, it’s one thing to know someone you once got drunk at cast parties with is famous; it’s another to see them onscreen doing their thing. And while this isn’t the first time in my life I have had this happen, each time the moment of recognition, and then inevitably, self-comparison, is like the first time all over again.
“Don’t compare yourself to other people,” I can hear my father say, interrupting some tirade I was no doubt delivering while he was having coffee and reading the newspaper. “That’s just going to make you unhappy your whole life,” and he was and remains right. It never pays to stack your journey next to someone else’s because inevitably yours will always be found wanting, no matter where you are in life, or how much you have accomplished. But that, of course, is easier said than done, particularly if you live in a place and era which not only encourages you to compare yourself to others, but enables you to do it. And yes, there is a very hard to miss irony that every time I sit down to watch a show that is primarily about a bunch of rich people competing to be the most rich or respected or envied of all, I have to do a sort of personal spiritual journey with my own vanity and insecurity.
That I have moved amongst prestigious folks is undeniably true (I’ve even collaborated with some of them). In addition to Morgan, I have counted amongst my friends, at various times in my life, the author of a New York Times best seller, the winner of an Emmy Award (and a many times nominee), a recipient of the American Zoetrope Screenplay competition, a plethora of legitimately “working” television and film actors and writers, and at least one bonafide movie star. And that doesn’t even begin to include all the folks I know who have been on bigger stages than I, be it as a performer, a writer, a director… or the guy turning on the lights (another college friend has been running tech for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival for decades now). In almost every case, I feel very happy for these people, and very strongly that they deserve all the success they have achieved. These folks had a lot of drive, a lot of talent, and sure at least a handful of good connections and a whole lot of luck, but I’ve got my share of that too. Why it turns out one way for some, and one way for another is something you can ponder if you want to, I suppose, but then I hear my father’s voice and I opt for sanity, if not always satisfaction, with the assurance that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. 90% of the time, whatever pangs of insecurity and doubt I feel can be assuaged that way, but sometimes there are moments it’s still hard, and pretending it isn’t would be doing us all a disservice. Plus, maybe there is more I could be doing and that’s not a bad thing to ask, if what I want is what “they have.” It’s okay to be a little bit jealous, in my opinion, so long as it doesn’t lead to feeling entitled. Not because we don’t all deserve recognition, but because that tends to get in the way of making the work.
It's also important to remember that folks at every level in the arts and entertainment spheres who find themselves the object of much envy, will almost certainly still have someone or something around which to have their own complexes. I remember when I was reading James Ivory’s memoire, SOLID IVORY, that he would refer to Daniel Day Lewis as “The Very Famous Actor,” not even using his name he was so bitter about it, and in spite of the part where celebrities like Helena Bonham Carter and Whit Stillman were offering pull quotes on the cover of his book, in which whole chapters were about his relationships with Vanessa Redgrave, Raquel Welch, Bruce Chatwin, and more. Equally comforting is an anecdote once relayed to me by a famous writer I was working with, who told me how he had been rejected from writing an episode for BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, in spite of being one of the showrunner’s favorite novelists. “You’re just not what we’re looking for at BUFFY,” the famous writer had been told, and he’s cantankerous about it to this day. Last year, during the SF Opera’s run of OMAR, the composer Rhiannon Giddens came through my door asking for directions to the artistic director’s office where she had been promised she could change for the evening. When an usher told her that she couldn’t go there unattended, she replied (quite kindly) “But I’m the composer,” while the usher radioed for the AD to come meet her anyway. One might be the queen of contemporary American folk at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass or Coachella, but in those halls, right then, one was just a person asking for something that’s on the no list.
“And she puts her pants on one leg at a time, like the rest of us,” an actress I was working the 2023 SF Fringe with reminded me, when I told her about my often tense relationship with a local critic who once sat across from me on the BART and pretended not to see me the entire trip from Powell to Ashby. “They are neither above criticism, nor any more worthy of celebration, nor less worthy of compassion.” Three “C’s” to remember when one is playing Compare and Contrast: Celebrity Edition.
Recently, a good friend has asked me about the experience of writing this Substack, which from their perspective has done very well, and how the effect of people reading and responding to it has ultimately landed for me. In particular, they mention a mutual acquaintance of ours who is a very vocal and public fan, and in their attempt to articulate it I catch the faint perfume of jealousy. “Seriously, his devotion is so cute… if a little weird? Can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just the experience of watching someone fanboy about someone I actually know. Like maybe I’d feel this way if I were friends with Taylor Swift and my sister were a huge fan. I’d be like ‘I totally get it, she’s amazing and deserves the adoration, but also… calm down’.”
I let the incidental comparison to Taylor Swift stand and tried to offer a counter perspective:
“For every honest to God fan, I have a detractor, and numerous people who, even if they don't actively dislike or critique what I do, their indifference to it speaks volumes- unintentionally, probably, but still deafening. The amount of things I am NOT invited to join in on, comment on, submit to, far outnumbers all the opportunities that the outside sees me getting. That’s also partly my fault: I am a notorious non-participant, in that I rarely pursue anything or anyone who hasn't basically invited me to do so, and that's definitely because I don't like being rejected and can't be if I don't put myself out there. But even with my tendency to hedge my bets with known entities, I STILL end up with more no than yes in my life. And that’s probably something which is exponentially real and scales up the higher in profile someone is. All of which means, you might as well just do what it is you want to do, and if part of that is putting it out there, do it. Chances are you won’t get some Hollywood ending that, you know, ends in crowds cheering and opportunities arriving and, you know… Hollywood. Like going to actual Hollywood. But you might get something else. Something you need more. Like a reminder that this life is short and we only have so much time to say something. Anything. I guess, what you need to figure out is, what matters more to you: making noise or being heard.”
Which is all well and good, but also: sometimes it feels like I’m the only person I know who doesn’t have a Wikipedia entry, and that’s real too.
“I love how he’s basically just casting a bunch of Broadway stars,” I remark to my favorite person, when Donna Murphy shows up as Mrs. Astor. We have been trying to identify, on voice alone, the various humans behind our favorite cast recordings, and this one is my biggest win yet. “Like everyone on this show is basically a Broadway headliner of the past decade or so,” and when I say that I realize I count Morgan amongst them, which is a weird thing to do. Not because it’s inconceivable, but just strange to think that someone I knew, knows these people. If Morgan can be in a show with Christine Baranski and Nathan Lane, then like… those are living breathing humans and not gods and thus… anyone could potentially do that. We all put our pants on, one leg at a time, after all. Unless we’re wearing a skirt, I suppose.
“Oh, she was talking about underpants,” I say out loud, and we start the next episode.
**********************************************************************************************************
Hello!
Thank you for reading!
So, in a moment of just, fuck it, I'll give it a try, I am finally doing that thing people keep saying I should do and giving you the chance to support my writing.
If you liked what you read today and would like to show that gratitude in cash money, you can help keep this middle-aged single writer turned food equity coordinator/usher/online content creator/social media manager in the black. I accept Zelle (it's my phone number), PayPal (@stuartbousel), or CashAp ($Bousel) and I leave it up to you to decide what to give. You can also get a paid subscription to my Substack. I offer multiple options- two year, one year, and month to month subscriptions. All of them help.
Obviously, I'm not going to put anything behind a paywall and I'm honored you read anything I write at all. I'm going to try to write something here every Sunday/Monday, around this time, and if you have thoughts or feelings you'd like to share with me to write about I'd love that.
Be well. Reach out. You are a light.
Stuart
You may enjoy this podcast convo with the casting director of "The Gilded Age"! https://marksvincentelli.substack.com/p/a-chat-with-casting-director-bernard
Ooof. So many typos and spelling mistakes on the first version of this that went out to inboxes. My apologies, friends who read these in their email!