Recently I checked my voicemail and discovered a message from the NYPD, which is never a good sign. (I initially thought it was related to an incident when two undercover officers confronted me for impulsively slapping a subway train that had just closed its doors; long story short: I learned a valuable lesson about our surprisingly fragile public transport system.) It was worse than expected: my friend Donald Lyons had died. Trying to track down any next of kin, the officer was phoning everyone in Donald’s address book. I called the officer back and discovered Donald had passed after some years of health problems, in apparently as painless a manner as such things go.

Donald was a longtime theater critic, who was working for the New York Post when he happened to review a show of mine called Sherlock Holmes and The Secret of Making Whoopee. (I later wrote a sequel with, improbable as it seems, an even longer title.) He approved of it and, having met when I seated him before the show, we later ran into each other. Finding we shared similar tastes on most matters (and, on the rest, had opinions so diametrically opposed that they lent themselves to entertaining arguments), we occasionally would get a meal together and often as not catch a play.

A theater critic must see many plays, be they good or mediocre or bad (and within that subset, all too often bad in unentertaining ways; George Bernard Shaw once noted you should only be a critic for three years, because any more time would crush your spirits irreparably). Company’s inevitably appreciated, if only so after an incredible disaster you can step out on the street and say, “Seriously, you believe that s—?” before rephrasing your opinion in a slightly more newspaper-friendly manner. The worst, and hence most memorable, show was saw together was an adaptation of The Scarlet Letter by Suzan-Lori Parks, which she had named, in tribute to the mark of the adulteress, F—ing A. It was all downhill from the title and the show at a certain point crossed over from “bad” to “just awesomely bad”, possibly due to a bizarre staging choice whereby there was a slightly elevated stage that required the actors to use stairs when they exited. Simple enough, except the stairs were poorly lit, with the result that seemingly dozens of times an actor would make a melodramatic assertion and theatrically storm off the stage…only to have to come to a complete stop as they fumbled in the darkness to figure out where the frickin’ stairs were so they could leave already, a pattern of ineptitude that grew more delightful with each occurrence.

Years after seeing it, Donald gave me a copy of an audiobook written by Suzan-Lori Parks, just so we could relive those glorious memories of cast member Mos Def trying not to trip.

Donald was more than a theater critic. His friends included Paul Morrissey (the man who actually directed all the Andy Warhol movies) and Danny Fields (who helped the Doors find commercial success and is credited with discovering the MC5, the Stooges, and the Ramones). His non-theater writings include the book Independent Visions on independent film, which came out in the beginning of 1994 as the movement reached its peak. I was recently looking it over and noted that, while the book dealt with dozens of directors, there was a particularly striking passage in which he discussed how Quentin Tarantino might be able to maintain his own style while still finding success in Hollywood, a hope not offered for anyone else (and particularly bold at the time, since Pulp Fiction had yet to be released). Donald often discussed a biography of Eugene O’Neill he’d long been working on and which I always said I was eager to read whenever he was ready.

I have no idea if that book was ever completed. This is understandable, as I hadn’t seen Donald for at least two years. We’d been meaning to have lunch, but we’d always say we’d check in next week actually to schedule it, then next thing you know two weeks have passed and you realize, “Huh, guess we failed to get in touch about that and now I’m swamped.” Once I realized we hadn’t been in touch for so long I randomly sent him a card, only I somehow screwed up the zip code and weeks later had it sent back to me. (At the time I remember fleetingly being worried that something had happened, only to have my mind set at ease when we had a brief conversation promising to meet up, which we never got around to doing.)

From talking to the officer I learned his health problems had worsened at the end, limiting his ability to get around. (He lived right near the MoMA, so if you were partially immobilized, it was a good place to be stranded.) My last year has seen a bit of a body count: after years of grim setbacks and miraculous recoveries in her battle with cancer my aunt finally passed, as did the grandmother who helped raise me after my father’s death. With my aunt, however, I spent time with her at the end and as my grandmother’s health deteriorated she reached a point where she no longer recognized me and, to be honest, I really didn’t recognize the woman I knew either.

There was still more to say to Donald, and I regret I didn’t find the time to express it.

I’ve replayed in my mind a conversation we had about Lost in Translation. Any film that requires me to identify with the ennui of a beautiful, wealthy Yalie in her 20s staying at a seriously sweet-ass hotel fights a losing battle, but Donald (while acknowledging it was overrated) still insisted it should be seen: “I could watch Bill Murray brush his teeth.” I never asked if he’d put that statement to the ultimate test: watching Larger Than Life, a.k.a. the movie where Bill Murray starred with an elephant and Matthew McConaughey. I hope someday I’ll get a chance to pose that question, just as I hope a movie comes out in which Bill Murray not only brushes his teeth but flosses, gargles for a full 30 seconds, and finally uses a gum stimulator and I’ll think, “Donald, wherever you are, I hope you’re catching this.”

 

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