O production illuminati, if you are out there, if you are one who makes sit-downs happen, if you are one who wears the pink Ralph Lauren shirts with the vicuña sweater tied around your neck and slide through SoCal clubs on vintage Top Siders making deals in between sips of Harvey Wallbangers (or Gibsons or whatever). If you are one of those sitting at the secret basement sushi bar making connections from your cell phone full of numbers – producers, accountants, directors, casting agents – you’ve collected since the days you were an extra on Family Ties. If you’re out there, I have a pitch for you. It’s one conversation, one meeting of two greats, like an episode of Inside the Actor’s Studio, but instead of James Lipton, it’s a conversation between his two greatest heirs: Moira Rose and Steven Toast. Moira Rose, of course you know: Sunrise Bay, the Crows Have Eyes III, Schitt’s Creek’s most elegant and best-spoken permanent visitor.
But who is this Steven Toast? you ask, o production illuminati, because you’re all LA and Toast is all London West End. London is even farther than New York and you won’t even look that far, how could you, in your color scheme and MIND diet? But that’s why I’m here, to bring the magnificence to you, save you having to look to London for anything other than the new Bond movies, and lo and behold, here I am, about to introduce you to the most likely next James Bond, and I’ll do it in about 800 words. So lay back on your pool chaise lounger or wherever you are and let me tell you about Steven Toast.
The Pitch:
It’s a foggy London morning, and you see him walk by. A portly handsome Londoneer in black and white tuxedo: black slacks, white jacket, and black oversized bowtie to match his black oversized manly mustache. All topped by a luscious head of black hair accented by his signature silver mallen streak. He must be an actor! Ladies and gents are captivated as he strolls by and as you catch his eye, you see they’re as deep as a Shakespearean sonnet read by Benedict Cumberbatch. This perfect British specimen combines the virility of Charles Dance with the smoothness of Peter O’Toole, and as he says his name, you notice his enunciation is très magnifique, heavenly, capable of the silkiest esses, the velvetiest vees, the nimblest ens, the most tempestuous tees: Toast, Steven Toast.
His perféctif perfectiveness is never better on display than in the One Perfect Episode: Bonus Ball. In which we get Toast a lá Bond. The episode kicks off as Toast auditions for the role of Britain’s greatest spy and babe magnet, Commander James Bond CMG RNVR. Competing for the role are Michael Fassbender (Macbeth) and Nigel Havers (Chariots of Fire). These two are no challenge, but the plot thickens when Toast gets embroiled in a gambling debt to Andrew Lloyd Weber (Jesus Christ Superstar) who sends his enforcer Michael Ball (Phantom of the Opera), a man who has double the amount of blood in his body than the common man, to collect.
But with true British phlegm, Toast continues his work, meeting with his agent Jane Plough (pronounced pluff) who assigns him to do voice over work (no job is too small for him). At the studio, Toast discovers he’ll be working opposite his archnemesis and raging homophobe, Ray “Fucking” Purchase. Studio engineer with World War I facial hair, Danny Bear, and his trusty work experience boy and internet sensation, Clem Fandango give the assignment: record English voiceover for German gay arthouse erotica. Toast clearly achieves the superior performance, especially during the kissing overdubs, where his combination of lip smacks and tongue swirls brings to life the deep soul of German eroticism, even though he is shoeless since he lost his shoes and £20,000 to Lloyd Weber and his silver cake spatula.
Meanwhile, Michael Ball, Lloyd Weber’s enforcer and double blood man, is after him to collect. In true Bond stylistics, Toast does not hesitate to keep a rendezvous with “feisty independently minded modern gal,” and no-charge prostitute, Mrs. Purchase. Her and Toast have a quick afternoon romp in the sack that leaves him momentarily blind from pleasure. They are surprised by Mrs. Purchase’s husband, Ray “Fucking” Purchase, who threatens to kill Toast: “I shit thee nay!” Toast uses his best Bondian sleight of hand, a high kick, and a head-first dive to escape the precarious occasion.
I will not spoil the thrilling climax, but I’ll insinuate something about an outstanding theater performance by Toast, double the amount of blood, and a two-hour standing ovation.
At this point I’m sure you can surely see how a conversation between Toast and Moira Rose would trigger a vortex of articulation that would bring James Lipton back from the great beyond amidst magical black and white auroras. The path of humanity would turn towards a brilliant well-poised, well-coiffed, and eloquently enunciated future, and we would finally understand the truth about Theater, or Theatre. O production illuminati, you can’t pass this up.
RC Hopgood was born in Puerto Rico, and lived in Texas, Mexico, NYC and Colorado. He is the author of “Bellows: Fables from the Musical Underground,” (Hmm, 2013) and a year-long 52 entry blog about his upbringing in Puerto Rico, “Cuentos del Barrio Machuchal” (machuchal.blogspot.com, 2014-2015). His words (in English and Español) have appeared in The Non-Alignment Pact, The Write Launch, La Calle Loíza, SPOT, Plasmotica, and elsewhere. Currently, he lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Twitter @rc_hopgood.
