We made the London West End theatre reservation last year in 2023. As soon as we knew we’d be flying to NYC in Spring 2024 and taking a transatlantic cruise to Iceland and then onto Europe, we had booked the play in London’s West End, A Long Day’s Journey into Night. Brian Cox, the brilliant film and stage actor would play the lead role of patriarch, James Tyrone. The anticipation of returning to London brought back warm memories for me.

In Spring of 1988 I had auditioned for Yale School of Drama’s summer program at Oxford University, organized in conjunction with the British American Drama Academy (BADA). The day I auditioned at ACT in San Francisco, I was sick with a 101-degree temperature, a raspy cough, and most likely an undiagnosed flu. My friend Ricky, a fellow community theater actor, insisted that he drive me to San Francisco where he’d wait for me and if necessary, scoop me up from the pavement outside the theatre after the audition. On the phone the night before, he wouldn’t let me sign off until I promised to be outside my front door at exactly 9 a.m. the next morning when he’d pick me up in his Honda Accord and take me to my “dream of a lifetime” audition.

When we arrived at the theater, we noticed a sign on the stage door that read:

ENTER QUIETLY FOR YALE SCHOOL AUDITION.
PLEASE SIT QUIETLY UNTIL CALLED ON STAGE.

Squeezing Ricky’s hand, I swallowed hard, exited his car and opened the creaking stage door. About a dozen other actors sat silently on chairs in the narrow dressing room.

I spotted the Auditions list taped on the mirror and was thankful to see that I would be one of the first up that day, number three to be auditioned. I peeked out through the curtain to see Earl Gister, Dean of Yale’s Drama department sitting in the second row of the theater, holding a stack of paper. I recognized him from a photo I had seen in a newspaper article. He and a small cadre of his Yale colleagues were sweeping across the country to select twenty-five “best in class” actors from the hundreds of auditioning hopefuls for the Oxford University Yale summer program.

I had downed three capfuls of cough medicine that morning, smeared Vicks Vapor rub ointment across my chest before dressing and sucked on throat lozenges during the one-hour drive to San Francisco. I still felt dreadful standing against the wall in the dressing room. My head ached. My nose was stuffed. In the mirror opposite me, I could see my flushed red cheeks. My glassy eyes stared back at me.

When I heard my name called, I held my head high, cleared my throat, attempting to suppress my sniffles and cough. I pulled back the velvet curtain and walked downstage center, the bright lights upon me.

I could make out Dean Gister’s long slender body, his legs crossed, his dark hair unruly, with a few strands partially flopped over one eye. He was flanked by two female colleagues. I felt my head burning up as I waited for direction to begin my first of two monologues.

Instead of the nervous energy I usually had before an audition, all I yearned for was to get the task over with and retreat back to Ricky’s Honda Accord.

Dean Gister stared at me for what felt like an eternity and then finally spoke. He asked me for my name and where I lived. I managed to speak with some degree of confidence and without giving away a hint of poor health condition.

“My name is Linda Gunther,” I said. “I live here in Northern California, in the heart of Silicon Valley, but I grew up in the center of New York City. I want to thank you for inviting me to this audition. I am honored to be here.”

He half-smiled, tapped his pencil on some paperwork, which was likely my acting resume, and swept his hand in the air signaling me to begin.  I prefaced my audition with references to both monologues I’d be performing. The first would be Kathryn’s closing speech in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew and the second, Susan Sarandon’s opening monologue in Bull Durham.

I ended the first monologue on my knees, my arm held out, addressing my imaginary royal husband with the words, “My hand is ready. May it do him ease.”

Thank God I got through the Shakespeare segment. For some reason, my performance had been more genuine than ever before.  I found myself in the zone of “being” the character, versus “acting as if I was” the character. And frankly at that point, I didn’t care one way or the other about the outcome. I just wanted to survive the second half of the damn audition and then quickly escape.

My head seemed to float in some sort of miasmic coma as I performed the second monologue, Sarandon’s opening voiceover from Bull Durham. Despite the sickness, I was able to offer up the nonchalant lazy Southern accent to go with the style of the piece.

At the end of both pieces, I realized that I had performed with grace while under pressure. That’s all I wanted to accomplish. But I also knew that I lacked the high energy I usually had during an audition.

Dean Gister nodded and said, “Thank you Linda. We’ll let you know.” Doomsday words to me. I replied with a brief bout of raspy coughing, replied with a weak “thank you,” then rushed offstage and out the back door.

The memory of standing on that stage is now somewhat dimmed. What I vividly recall is the phone call I received seven days following the audition, from the Assistant to the Dean of Yale School of Drama. I had been accepted into the program, one of twenty-five young actors selected to attend. I remember sitting there, in shock, listening to the woman’s words on the phone. She said that I’d receive a letter in the mail in a few days with a detailed description of the summer program’s coursework as well as information regarding my designated dorm room at Balliol, a college on the Oxford University campus.

I kept quiet to friends and family until I received the letter which further explained that I’d be studying for two months with Brian Cox, stage and film actor. He would be our lead faculty member. Additionally, we’d be graced with several visiting faculty including Vanessa Redgrave, Janet Suzman and Jeremy Irons. Andrew Jack, a notable movement coach, would also be part of the instructor team. Other recognized West End theater Directors would do one-on-one coaching with students and give feedback as we performed assigned scene pieces from Ibsen, Shakespeare, Nabokov and other playwrights.

The program proved to be a life-changing experience for me. It enabled me to become brave and take risks; not only on stage but in life in general.  Brian Cox, Jeremy Irons and everyone on the faculty were more than generous with their time, their advice and routinely engaged with students at afternoon teatimes. I was also moved by the camaraderie amongst our group of students. We were a diverse clan from a variety of age groups and walks of life. Yet, we became more like one big family as we went through our two-month growth journey. We rehearsed lines together, supported one another when we had doubts about our talent and sat in pubs late at night sharing our insights. Oxford was a beautiful and supportive experience all around, one which I hold in my heart. And the outcome for me was that I fell in love with acting.

The memory of that summer in 1988 inspired me to further pursue stage acting, although my main gig as a professional has been as Human Resources leader in various Silicon Valley companies, which afforded me the luxury to enjoy my sideline acting career. The Oxford experience, under Brian’s great tutelage, provided the solid foundation of the craft and gave me the confidence necessary to pursue future stage roles. And most impactful, Brian modeled how to work collaboratively and lovingly with fellow actors.

And so, in Spring 2024, I was thrilled at the thought of seeing Brian Cox perform in London’s West End. Following the transatlantic cruise, my husband and I settled in London at our favorite hotel on the Thames, our picture window facing Big Ben. Just a few feet away from our hotel was the amazing London Eye, a mega Ferris wheel attraction by the river that gives tourists an amazing panoramic view of the city.

Unfortunately, on the last day or so of the cruise, I came down with a head cold, a full-blown hacking cough and an assortment of aching muscles. But that didn’t stop my husband and me from exploring London, walking 8-10 miles a day around the city, which was also my hometown six years in the late 70s where I did postgraduate work in psychotherapy and taught primary school in a west London suburb. So, it was my second home of sorts, a place that felt familiar, comfortable and also held my 1988 memory of Brian Cox and Oxford University.

On the day of A Long Day’s Journey into Night, we laid low in our room at the hotel. My sickness seemed to be under control. My cough had subsided thanks to the English brand of throat lozenges which seemed better than the typical American alternatives. I also took two Tylenol just before leaving the hotel for the evening. I was feeling so much better. It had been at least five days since I had started having my cold symptoms. The UK cough syrup was worse tasting than our American products, but it also seemed to be more effective.

That evening we started our West End theater experience with an early dinner at an elegantly decorated Indian restaurant, just steps from the Wyndham theatre. The restaurant host seated us at a lovely corner table and recommended their signature dishes. We feasted on chicken tikka masala, rice pilaf, vegetable samosas, and cilantro and onion stuffed paratha. Without question, this restaurant was a true “find” in the heart of London, a city where you can have the best of times or the worst of times when dining out.

The Wyndham Theater was packed, and although a stunning venue, the lobby was crowded with people lining the cramped stairways and tucked in the small spaces. The seats in the orchestra were situated so close to one another provided barely enough knee space for any degree of comfort. This was especially tough for Bob, my 6’2” husband. Yet, he didn’t seem to mind and was excited for me to see my esteemed acting mentor, Brian Cox, perform on stage again, something he knew I had dreamed about for the previous four months.

I was eager to read the Play Bill. And to my surprise, the costar of the play was an actress, Patricia Clarkson, who I had admired for years and had followed in her award-winning films. My heart beat fast as I anticipated the curtain opening. I felt the excitement of the crowd around us.

The man seated next to me introduced himself as Miguel, a Brazilian attorney who was there with his teenage daughter, Sara. She was studying acting in her high school in Rio and was excited to see the famous Brian Cox on stage. I smiled. I whispered to Miguel that I had been instructed by Brian Cox in the late 1980s at Oxford University, a time before Brian Cox had become a household name as a world-renowned actor.

Sara’s brown eyes opened wide. She asked me questions about the Oxford program, what it was like being instructed by such an esteemed actor. Our conversation was cut short when the overture music began. An announcement was made asking all patrons to turn off cell phones. No recording or photography would be permitted. The crowd hushed obediently, many taking out their phones to silence them. I smiled and winked at Sara. “Enjoy,” I whispered.

With throat lozenges in my purse and tissues readily available, I felt confident that the evening would go down as another fabulous travel experience.  Fortunately, I hadn’t coughed at all during our dinner, and there had been no hint of a problem at the theater. I was on the road to recovery, which was a blessing before the long flight home.  A sense of peace swept over me as I sat next to my husband awaiting a magical theater experience.

My husband squeezed my hand as the curtain opened. Brian Cox sat on a sofa on the stage in a sparsely decorated living room. The sound of his voice put a grin on my face although his first words were dramatically serious. He proved brilliant as the James Tyrone patriarch. Every move, every sentence he delivered was clear, crisp, and heartfelt. He had the gift of knowing exactly when to raise his voice, show an edge, be sarcastic, or get angry. And he also knew when to soften his tone, mumble his words, become almost inaudible for effect, like people do in real-life conversations.

The advice he had given me at Oxford came back to me as I watched him perform; how he described his personal preparation process when taking on a new role. I remember him explaining how he crept into the psyche of a given character, embodied the role, and brought his unique Brian Cox “self,” his own quirks, into the mix. He was a true artist.

There were four actors in A Long Day’s Journey into Night. Brian gave us a gem of a performance. It was a three-hour play, and we knew that going in. As I watched the first act, it struck me that I had read this Eugene O’Neill play while in college. I was a sophomore. I was home alone one afternoon in our family apartment in Queens, New York. My mother was at work. My younger sister and brother were at school.  My coveted pastime in those days was to collect books of stage plays written by great playwrights like Edward Albee, O’Neill, Henry Miller, and Tennessee Williams. And if nobody was around, I’d read the plays aloud. On that rainy afternoon, I chose Eugene O’Neill’s play, A Long Day’s Journey into Night. I had purchased a pack of cigarettes on the way home from my Queens College classes that day. It was something I had never done before. I wanted to teach myself how to smoke like many of my college friends, and hopefully appear comfortable smoking with them at parties. Using a small kitchen bowl as an ashtray, I thought I’d have my first cigarette as I read O’Neill’s play aloud to myself. I lit one up as I read the words, inhaling and exhaling as I smoked. This lasted for about two pages into the play. And then I choked. A coughing fit followed. I stamped out the cigarette in the bowl, shoved opened the bedroom window wide, ran to the kitchen for some water to stop my coughing and threw the cigarette pack in the trash, burying it beneath the food debris and packaging. That was the last time I ever smoked a cigarette except for a stage role I had years later where it was part of the script.

My husband took my hand which brought me back to the Wyndham Theater. Brian Cox stood from the sofa on stage. His entire body had a focused sense of urgency, his voice raised in anger, his finger poking furiously at the young actor playing his eldest son.  I watched in awe as he masterfully backed off his anger, appearing exasperated by his own behavior, and then how he was artfully able to show his inner conflict with his physical actions between speaking his words. It was magnificent acting. He retreated back to the sofa and hung his head in his hands as he wept. And that’s the exact moment when I started coughing. At first it was just a small hint of a cough. I desperately tried to calm myself. But the coughing continued, nonstop, for what seemed like 15 seconds or maybe longer. I noticed Brian hesitate on his lines, waiting a few hopeful seconds for the cougher to quiet down. And then it stopped. I knew that it would quickly start up again unless I could get out.

We were situated in the center of Orchestra row F, stage center seats. There was no way for me leave in the middle of such a pivotal scene. I had forgotten to purchase a bottle of water before we were seated. So, I had nothing to drink. I placed my hand on my husband’s sleeve and looked over at him. He shook his head, and mouthed the words, you can’t get out now. I held my breath hoping the urge to cough would pass. But my body did not cooperate. The coughing went into full gear. A coughing fit.

I felt so embarrassed, grabbed a lozenge from my purse and plucked out the face mask. I should have had it on the whole time, I thought to myself. I could almost feel the Brazilian man beside me tense his arm muscles. There seemed to be smoke coming from somewhere. An actor, one of the sons had lit a cigarette on stage. Crap! That’s what may have irritated my condition. But I knew that I really had no excuse. I felt selfish.

I wanted to apologize, let Brian know that I was so sorry. I just couldn’t suppress it. Finally, the lozenge seemed to silence the harsh noises coming from my throat. We could all, once again, hear the characters’ complete sentences. Within a few minutes, the curtain finally came down for intermission. Thank God.