You’ve said before that many of your
plays are inspired by both an internal
and an external provocation. It sounds
like that was the case here…
The quote I always make in that connection comes from a Swedish poet, [Tomas]
Tranströmer. He wrote a poem in which
he talks about a magical moment when
there is a coincidence between some
external event and an internal need. In
the case of “Master Harold” … and the
boys, I can remember so clearly how that
coincidence took place. Long before actually writing Master Harold, I was trying to
write a two-hander involving just Sam and
Willie. Those two men were so important
in my life that I just felt a need to somehow celebrate them in a play. But I just
couldn’t find the element that created the
drama, the tension and the demand for
resolution that theatre usually involves. I
can remember struggling with the need
to find a play for these two beautiful men
when, quite separately, I was looking back
on my life and thinking, “My God, you’ve
got a lot to answer for, Master Harold.”
And suddenly I put Master Harold into the
equation with Sam and Willie, and like
Einstein I ended with E=MC2.
What can you tell us about your relationship with the real-life Sam Semela?
The Jubilee Boarding House is where so
much of my relationship with Sam really
started. The little cold, cement basement
room where he and Willie lived—
I can remember struggling with the need to find a play
for these two beautiful men when, quite separately,
I was looking back on my life and thinking, “My God,
you’ve got a lot to answer for, Master Harold.”
underneath the Jubilee Boarding
House—that was the safest place in my
world. When I would go in there and Sam
and Willie were sprawled out on their
beds, and they had those pictures of Joe
Louis and Fred Astaire on the walls, those
moments in that little room taught me
what a safe place was really about: that a
safe place is where you can be yourself.
Those memories of Sam and Willie down
in the basement, of Sam teaching me all
the time, and of coming in one day at the
lowest point in my still very young life,
and seeing Sam working on the floor on
something I couldn’t at first recognize.
Then it dawned on me: “Oh my God, Sam
is making a kite.” He was making a kite
so that he could teach me to look up. We
went to the Donkin Reserve [a park in
Port Elizabeth], where I ended up sitting
holding the string and admiring my kite,
but Sam couldn’t sit down because, by a
very brutal irony of South Africa, there
was a sign: “Whites Only.”
How did your relationship with Sam
change when your family took over
the St. George’s Park Tea Room,
where the play is set?
Well, the tea room was when our relationship acquired intellectual status,
because by then I had read a lot of books.
I was into mathematics, into science.
I was just greedy for knowledge. And
Sam happily ate the leftovers of my feast.
Like in the play, when Hally and Sam
debate what figure in history was a
“man of magnitude”…
That was a real, living moment
between Sam and myself!
You dedicated the published script not
only to Sam, but to your father as well.
What can you tell us about him?
Firstly, he was a beautiful man. He did
drink too much, and he was burdened
with traditional South African attitudes
of that period in terms of white and
black. He was in that sense a typical
racist white South African. But he was
also a gentle man and a superb storyteller. I don’t think I would have ended up
writing a single bloody play if I hadn’t
spent so many hours in the middle of
the night in the Jubilee Boarding House,
massaging his leg. He rewarded me for
those candlelit midnight hours by telling
me stories, wonderful stories about the
books he had read as a little boy:
Call of the Wild, The Hound of the
Baskervilles, The Man in the Iron Mask.
I think that was a decisive experience
in my evolution as a writer.
This will be your third time directing
Leon Addison Brown, who plays Sam in
this production. What does that familiarity bring to the rehearsal process?
My career in theatre is rooted in an
intimate relationship with a handful of
actors that I have used again and again
(left) Cedric Young, Nick Ferrin, and Kenn E. Head in Steppenwolf for Young Adults’ production of “Master Harold” … and the boys, 2005. (right) Duart Sylwain and John Kani in the South
African premiere of “Master Harold”… and the boys, 1983.
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played by Željko Ivanek. And I began to
realize at a certain point that both Željko
and Zakes were backing off from the moment when Hally spits in Sam’s face.
They were not confronting that moment
full-on. And it had to be confronted, because we had to put it in the face of the
audience. Can you think of an uglier way
of demonstrating racism, stupidity, vulgarity, evil? I can’t. Spit in another man’s
face? Holy God. So Željko once again just
sort of made a gesture and Zakes on his
side sort of made a little gesture. And I
finally stopped the rehearsal and said,
“No. No, no, no, no. Zakes and Željko,
come here.” They came and I said,
“Listen, chaps. What are you scared of?”
They both just said nothing. So I took
Zakes’ face in my hands and I spat in it.
Not once, not twice, but I think about six
times. After that, Zakes wiped his face
and we all went and got drunk together
at my favorite pub. And we never had
that problem again.
and again as we begin to understand each
other more and I begin to understand
how to challenge them. It happened first
with me and Yvonne Bryceland, who
created the important first performances
of Lena in Boesman and Lena, Millie in
People are Living There, Hester in Hello
and Goodbye. Look for the female portraits in my plays—Yvonne created almost
all of them. I didn’t write them to fit her,
I wrote them to challenge her. And then
there was that magnificent man,
Zakes Mokae, who got his Tony Award as
Sam in the original production of “Master
Harold” … and the boys. Then another
South African actor who I love to this day
called Sean Taylor. And then, of course,
John Kani and Winston Ntshona, who got
their Tonys for Sizwe Bansi is Dead. These
were long-term relationships. That is my
theatre: If I’ve got the actors that can rise
to the challenge, I use them again and
again. I know that I can challenge Leon
out of his skin. He’s not going to have an
easy time and he knows it.
Zakes Mokae was also a regular
collaborator of yours. Do you feel that
that kind of long-term relationship is
particularly important for this play?
I’ll tell you this little incident from the
Yale Rep production of “Master Harold”
... and the boys, which ended up on
Broadway. We were in rehearsal with
that in New Haven, Sam being played by
Zakes Mokae, and at that point Hally was
That is my theatre:
If I’ve got the actors
that can rise to the
challenge, I use
them again and
again. I know that
I can challenge
Leon out of his skin.
He’s not going to
have an easy time
and he knows it.
L EGACY P R O G RA M
What got you started thinking about
“Master Harold” … and the boys?
Oh my God. Having a chance to publicly
reckon with one of the most disgraceful moments in my private life, which is
when I spat in Sam’s face.
Ballroom dancing plays a key role in
the play. When you were twelve, you
and your sister Glenda became Eastern
Province Ballroom Junior Dancing
Champions. What is it that drew you –
like Sam and Willie – to that art form?
You see, in those days we danced to
the classic waltz, to the foxtrot, to the
quickstep. And the music that went
with them was the music my dad played
on the piano. It all just came together.
It was just the music, the fact that you
moved your body through space while
beautiful music was filling your ears.
Now, I don’t know about my doing any
ballroom dancing at this point…
(top) Leon Addison Brown in Signature Theatre’s production of The Painted Rocks at Revolver Creek, 2015
(above) Executive Director Erika Mallin and Athol Fugard at the first rehearsal of Blood Knot, 2012.
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