Boris & the 2nd Avenue Muse
WHEN Boris called me in the summer of 1952, it had been a full three years since I had last heard from him; yet he launched into his proposition with only the most peremptory greeting.
“How would you like to play General MacArthur?”
“General MacArthur! It’s a fat role, I promise you, and you’re perfect for it.”
“What have you got going now,” I asked, “a war play?”
“A Jolson play,” he answered. “But the general is a very important character.”
“I think you should know that MacArthur is not one of my favorite people,” I replied.
“Who wants you to love him?” asked Boris with exasperation. “I only want you to play him.”
“Is this for money?”
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