David Schweizer: Sparkling Glee, Peerless Care

“Nothing human disgusts me.” Those are the words of Hannah Jelkes in Tennessee Williams’s gorgeous paean to the dissolute and disenchanted, Night of the Iguana. I was 17 when I did my first community theatre play, cast as Pedro, the iguana-wrestling cabaña boy among a troupe of seasoned, semi-professional actors, but those words have been tattooed on my soul ever since. They were amplified again decades later by my friend and frequent collaborator Jan Munroe in his unforgettable elegy to his recently deceased father. Today, writing barely 24 hours after the death of my lifelong friend, mentor, and convention-defying director David Schweizer, I find that sentence worth challenging. How could anyone not be disgusted by such a life cut short—a life so rich, so wide in its influence, so dedicated to making art despite hardships and adversity, so embracing of a vast diversity of actors, writers, designers, and producers, that the very notion of community builder must be included on his epitaph? Those of us who continue to make theatre know the significance of that role. Six years after my first foray into Williams’s oeuvre, at 23, I was part of a small group of apprentices at Arena Stage in D.C. We piled into a car and drove up to NYC to audition for Williamstown. By then, I had already begun exorcising some of the demons that held sway over me. Most significantly, as Shakespeare’s Caliban, I had given body, voice, and untapped fury to the monster I believed I’d kept hidden. That was the monologue I chose to show David in that first audition, also our first meeting. Stripping off my shirt, climbing on the boardroom-style table, I beat my bare chest and roared, When thou cam’st first Thou strok’st me and made much of me; Wouldst give me Water with berries in’t; and teach me how to name The bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night; and then I loved thee… Cursed be I that did so! David’s eyes sparkled with the glee familiar to those of us who’ve worked with him. Practicing professional restraint, head nodding with approval as he would often do when considering his next, calculated move, he took a deep breath and said, “I’d like you to stick around to meet Nikos,” meaning Nikos Psacharopoulos, Williamstown’s co-founding leader. I did, of course, and spent the next two summers at the festival, first under David’s tutelage in the second company, followed by the season of ’77, when I graduated to the mainstage and got my Equity card. My welcome mat to the professional theatre was laid at my feet by David Schweizer. That was just the beginning. The following year, as I was graduating from the advanced acting program at Juilliard, David called from California to say, “I’m directing Len Jenkin’s Kid Twist at Gordon Davidson’s Taper Too, and I need you for several roles. This week.” To which I said, “Great, graduation is this Friday, I can be there Saturday, okay?” To which he replied, “No, I need you here Wednesday.” I skipped graduation. I moved to L.A., where I’ve remained for the past 46 years. Over the course of time here, I’ve built a career as an actor, writer, director, producer, co-artistic director, and teacher—the trades we dyed-in-the-wool theatremakers ply. Through all of that, the single most consistent creative relationship I’ve maintained other than with my husband was with Schnitzelbrain (David’s personal moniker). Without hesitation, he would summon me, or answer the call when I needed him, craved his advice, or relied on his skills, his sense of humor, his intelligence. We worked together on my own material, brand new work by others, and classics, and not only in large and small theatres in Los Angeles as a member of his Modern Artists Company, but Off-Broadway and in London as well.