Everett Quinton, Actor, Director, Hilarious Creative Genius, Dead at 71
He Was My Boss When I Volunteered at the Charles Ludlam Theater in Manhattan's Greenwich Village
Ages ago, circa early 1991, a culture-vulture friend invited me to see a Saturday evening performance at the Charles Ludlam Theater, located at the triangle on Sheridan Square, walking distance from my apartment on Perry Street in the West Village.
I’m pretty sure the play was Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities. This was not your average production but rather a Ridiculous Theatrical Company take on the classic. It was avant-garde meets gay meets literary genius meets hysterically funny performances. To successfully parody the classics, you have to know them well, and this troupe did.
I was so entertained and excited by the performance, and I fell madly in love with the brilliant Everett Quinton, who became managing director of the company after Charles Ludlam died in 1987 (right before a big breakthrough with Joseph Papp, who presented the annual free Shakespeare in the Park performances).
There was a moment during the play when I just knew I was going to meet Everett and do what I could for the troupe in appreciation of his singular talents.
That following Monday, I walked over to the theater after work and said I’d like to volunteer. I was warmly welcomed and became part of the house staff, working mostly under Everett’s brother John. Listening to every rehearsal was like an easy abs workout. Volunteering several days a week was a natural antidepressant.
There was a big mirror in the house, and often the male actors would use it to don their wigs and apply their makeup. One afternoon Everett caught me staring, transfixed, at whoever it was at that moment preening in the mirror. He cocked his head and said, “What’s wrong, Juli?”
“All the men look better in makeup and jewelry than I do.”
“Nonsense,” he said, then he grabbed a necklace from the props and put it on me. He took my hand and led me to the mirror. He stood behind me, reached around to my face, and lifted it up with one hand. “You don’t need makeup!”
He meant it, and in one fell swoop he vanquished the green-eyed monster.
At the time I started as a house staff volunteer, we were preparing for the 1991 Ridic-U-Thon, to raise money for the theater. It was my job to go round the West Village and get the local shops, such as the Patisserie, to donate food and drink for the event.
In 1993 I started going back and forth to the Big Bend region of Texas. Before I moved to Terlingua, I bought a memorial seat in honor of my dad. Was he gay? No. I knew he would’ve enjoyed the performances immensely, just like I did, and easily have gotten the humor and appreciated the professionalism.
Honestly, I thought Everett would live to be a hundred. His passing doesn’t seem quite right. I’m grateful that I had the absolute delight and pleasure of having known him. Thank you, Everett, for your kind words, your generosity of spirit, and countless laughs. Good night and God bless you, Mr. Quinton.
I'm so glad you posted this. I lived in the West Village in the 90s also, and came to your blog by way of your comment under Mark Crispin Miller's "In Memory of Those who Died Suddenly." I had a similar experience working under the composer Dean Drummond while in the Partch Ensemble, also a wonderful mentor, who died too young of cancer. Thank you again. Rebecca
It's always painful 💔 to lose a respected, talented and generous friend. You were lucky to have worked with him and he lucky to have known you. As you are well aware, you'll see him again one day to catch up on the gaps between your encounters. I really enjoyed reading you story about how you were acquainted. Thanks for sharing. Sending a virtual hug.