By Jack Canfora
Back in the waning days of the Coolidge Administration, I was but a young lad training to be a Shakespearean actor in London at a prestigious academy which, as I attended it, has reached a financial arrangement with me assuring I never mention it by name. We were taught by a man who presented himself in a way that suggested God decided to see just exactly how brilliantly quirky, quirkily brilliant, and eccentrically, quintessentially ENGLISH a theater artist He could make, and then afterwards worried He may have overdone it.
Anyway, he was amazing. Among the many gnomic pronouncements he improvised one day was after an actor had performed a monologue that she obviously felt had gone horribly wrong (in all fairness, we all sorta did) particularly resonated with me. As he deployed the unique British super power of devastating her with impeccable manners, she began to…
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