Death on a Pink Carpet
at Pilsen Theatre
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Married eight times. Romantically linked to Tyrone Power, Howard Hughes, Frank Sinatra, and Ava Gardner. Sexually voracious; according to a legendary quote, “If she saw a stagehand with tight pants and a muscular build, she’d invite him into her dressing room.” Battled alcoholism. Her father had been murdered over money won in a card game when she was nine; she had one daughter, Cheryl, fathered by two-time husband Steve Crane.
In 1957 Turner’s four-year marriage to Tarzan star Lex Barker (husband number five) ended when 13-year-old Cheryl revealed that he’d been molesting her. Coincidentally dropped from MGM’s roster earlier the same year and lonely after decades of single-minded careering, Turner was at her neediest emotionally when suave small-time gangster Johnny Stompanato obtained her private number and began courting her from afar. Later protestations to the contrary, she probably had some idea of his business from the get-go–she had a thing for bad boys–but miscalculated how hard he’d be to shake.
The documentary host-commentators (the program calls them “choruses”) prove a little unwieldy, especially at the start and finish when they’re center stage. But for the most part the device works, and actors Rachel Claff, Vanessa Greenway, and Dennis Watkins are properly opaque. The leads are all excellent: Kelly Lynn Hogan’s Lana shows just the right lilting star-system flair; Marco Verna’s Johnny is an appropriately handsome, menacing cartoon; and Dina Connolly’s Cheryl shines as the quietly sympathetic, thoroughly convincing center of the play. You could complain that the gossipy titillation of this chapter in Hollywood history doesn’t merit such extended dissection; still, this intelligent, understated production is absorbing throughout.
The script is a minor masterpiece in the grand tradition of the overliterate madman, concealing layers of truth beneath its ravings, swinging assuredly between persuasive and preposterous. But what really sells the piece is Martin’s wryly self-deprecating performance as the angry but resigned Hinckley, whose pretense of recovery is gradually broken down by invisible tormentors. Memorizing this drifting, looping, hour-plus monologue alone is a feat, and Martin was virtually flawless the night I attended, navigating the emotional ebb and flow of the slowly splintering Hinckley with unassuming genius (give credit also to director Kate Currier). Since Martin is moving to New Orleans in the spring, this may be the last chance to see his amazing work for some time.
