So this is my Charles Nelson Reilly story: we met almost ten years ago at the York Theater Company’s Oscar Hammerstein Award presentation to Peter Stone. That night, Charles and I were asked to recreate a 10 minute scene from Skyscaper, one of his Broadway triumphs; I was to play a delivery man, the straight foil to Reilly’s madcap outrageousness. Of all the people on the bill, I was probably the most obscure–for the York that season, I’d had a minor triumph in their revival of Fade-Out, Fade-In, making me part of the family–and arrived for afternoon rehearsal feeling pretty superfluous. But Charles made that all disappear—from the moment we shook hands, I felt wrapped in such a generosity of spirit (and talent, of course) that my insecurities vanished. We plugged away at our scene all afternoon (and through the evening, for Charles was a hard worker); by the time we hit the stage at around 10pm, we’d obtained a rhythm of performance and friendship, thanks to Charles. Of course, he pretty much hijacked the evening and the scene; caught in the maelstrom of such comic genius, all I could do was hang on—something he’d been prepping me for the entire day.
Charles returned to Los Angeles, and for a time we exchanged the occasional phone call or postcard (he lightly razed me once for failing to grasp the cache of his zipcode—90210). Later, when I went back to finish college, Charles was encouraging. With typical generosity he wrote such an impressive recommendation (I know they were impressed because they wrote me a letter telling me that) the college administration awarded me a fellowship covering my tuition until the degree was completed.
We lost touch, typical with the obstacle of time-zones and busy schedules. His death knocked me out—how does a life force extinguish, stop, cease to be? Though he was 76, his death feels premature; today I’m filled with regret that ours was only a brief friendship, but grateful for the gift of even that. So, if you’re listening Charles, thanks.
he will be missed.