The Legend of Zelda

In January of 1986, I was a stick-like, pimply, hyper-sensitive college student who wanted to be a professional actor. I was an above average performer, but after a few confused auditions at professional theaters around Seattle, I knew that I would need some serious training if I were ever going to actually get paid to act.

My best friend at the time, John Valadez, and I drove pell-mell down to San Francisco so I could audition for the acting programs at Juilliard and N.Y.U.

After bombing the Juilliard audition on a Saturday, I showed up for the N.Y.U. audition on a Sunday morning. I had a fresh resolve. The pressure I felt at the Juilliard audition to be some version of a well-spoken, well-put together classical “actor man”, had evaporated and I was ready to dig into my audition with sweat and passion.

I entered a conference room of a hotel in downtown San Francisco and was introduced to Zelda Fichandler, one of the legends of the American Theater.

She was quite dramatic with cat glasses, geometric earrings, and a severe black bang that slanted sideways over her cheekbones.

I did a ridiculously flamboyant version of Mercutio’s “Queen Mab” speech and then started in on Edmund’s sea monologue from “Long Days’ Journey Into Night.”

I started pontificating in a general philosophical reminiscence as the dramatic stand-in for a young Eugene O’Neill in a drunken conversation with his alcoholic actor father. “You’ve just told me some high spots in your memories. Want to hear mine? They’re all connected with the sea. Here’s one.”

Zelda stopped me, almost immediately and called me up front to the table where she sat with Associate Dean Michael Miller.

She said, “Sit across from Michael here and just speak the lines to him. Speak to him like he’s your father.”

I started hamily acting again, exactly like I had done the first time. She stopped me again.

“Stop ‘acting’,” she said. “Just talk to him. As simply as you can. Tell him the story. Just deeply pretend he’s your father and it’s 3 am and you are sharing your heart with him in a way you never have before.”

I took a deep breath and, for the first time in my life, truly acted. Relaxed, I spoke to Michael with truth and simplicity. It brought me to tears.

Zelda said simply, “We’ll be in touch.”

I spent the next three years at her acting training program at N.Y.U. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

Throughout it all, there was Zelda. She spoke with such precision and passion over those three years about the art form of the theater and the mystical responsibility of the actor, the storyteller.

Zelda had some of the deepest, most memorable quotes known to man. Such as: “We’re each given one life, the life of a fly when measured against eternity.”

And again: “There is a hunger to see the human presence acted out. As long as that need remains, people will find a way to do theater.”

As a founder of the Arena Stage in Washington D.C.in 1950, Zelda essentially founded the regional theater movement which brought great theater to every corner of America. She slept, ate and bled theater. She worshipped playwrights, promoted directors and devoted her life to the development of young actors.

Thousands were entertained by her work. Hundreds benefitted from her training. Zelda passed away last week and I want to shout out to the world: “Thank you, Zelda! If not for you, I would not be an actor. You made the world rich with stories, rich with heart. You will be missed.”

Rainn Wilson

In January of 1986, I was a stick-like, pimply, hyper-sensitive college student who wanted to be a professional actor. I was an above average performer, but after a few confused auditions at professional theaters around Seattle, I knew that I would need some serious training if I were ever going to actually get paid to act.

My best friend at the time, John Valadez, and I drove pell-mell down to San Francisco so I could audition for the acting programs at Juilliard and N.Y.U.

After bombing the Juilliard audition on a Saturday, I showed up for the N.Y.U. audition on a Sunday morning. I had a fresh resolve. The pressure I felt at the Juilliard audition to be some version of a well-spoken, well-put together classical “actor man”, had evaporated and I was ready to dig into my audition with sweat and passion.

I entered a conference room of a hotel in downtown San Francisco and was introduced to Zelda Fichandler, one of the legends of the American Theater.

She was quite dramatic with cat glasses, geometric earrings, and a severe black bang that slanted sideways over her cheekbones.

I did a ridiculously flamboyant version of Mercutio’s “Queen Mab” speech and then started in on Edmund’s sea monologue from “Long Days’ Journey Into Night.”

I started pontificating in a general philosophical reminiscence as the dramatic stand-in for a young Eugene O’Neill in a drunken conversation with his alcoholic actor father. “You’ve just told me some high spots in your memories. Want to hear mine? They’re all connected with the sea. Here’s one.”

Zelda stopped me, almost immediately and called me up front to the table where she sat with Associate Dean Michael Miller.

She said, “Sit across from Michael here and just speak the lines to him. Speak to him like he’s your father.”

I started hamily acting again, exactly like I had done the first time. She stopped me again.

“Stop ‘acting’,” she said. “Just talk to him. As simply as you can. Tell him the story. Just deeply pretend he’s your father and it’s 3 am and you are sharing your heart with him in a way you never have before.”

I took a deep breath and, for the first time in my life, truly acted. Relaxed, I spoke to Michael with truth and simplicity. It brought me to tears.

Zelda said simply, “We’ll be in touch.”

I spent the next three years at her acting training program at N.Y.U. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

Throughout it all, there was Zelda. She spoke with such precision and passion over those three years about the art form of the theater and the mystical responsibility of the actor, the storyteller.

Zelda had some of the deepest, most memorable quotes known to man. Such as: “We’re each given one life, the life of a fly when measured against eternity.”

And again: “There is a hunger to see the human presence acted out. As long as that need remains, people will find a way to do theater.”

As a founder of the Arena Stage in Washington D.C.in 1950, Zelda essentially founded the regional theater movement which brought great theater to every corner of America. She slept, ate and bled theater. She worshipped playwrights, promoted directors and devoted her life to the development of young actors.

Thousands were entertained by her work. Hundreds benefitted from her training. Zelda passed away last week and I want to shout out to the world:

“Thank you, Zelda! If not for you, I would not be an actor. You made the world rich with stories, rich with heart. You will be missed.”

-Rainn Wilson