This performance has influenced my writing and acting for too long and it’s time to say goodbye. My instincts are clouded by romance, lethargic movement, classical music, suffering and longing, and all because I want to be as talented as Mozart but as gentle and wounded as Salieri.
I blame Ron Cohen and magic mushrooms. I took both into my house and watched this film. During my cry-laugh, scorn-sink, fall-rant, break-fist, torrent of emotion between these two characters my internal implosion began. I was split in two. One, the genius (arrogant and uncaring about his gifts). Two, a less talented hard worker who ends up blaming God for giving him the desire to be great but not the ability.
Here I am, 13 years later, working on another monologue, (Spoon River {Washington McNeely}) a 90 year old man, lived his life in wealthy affluence, had kids, and one by one instead of fulfilling all his dreams and making him a proud father, they humiliate, corrupt, embarrass, harangue, and destroy his family name through bad luck, pride, and fear.
He is so angry at God, not only for his children turning out to be “broken wing’d,” and “devoured by life,” but also for keeping him alive 90 years so he could watch every one of them die. He watched John flee the country, Jenny die in childbirth, Harry kill himself, Susan get divorced, Paul become an invalid, and Mary lock herself up at home unable to talk or look anyone in the face.
I used to think he got sad and more sad and more sad about this. But he’s not.
He’s angry. All he did was sit under his cedar tree. He could have talked to Harry, he could have listened to Susan, he could have had compassion for John, not much he could have done for Jenny but still he could have done so many active things to help but becasue he was embarrassed, didn’t want to get his hands dirty, in shock, disbelief, denial, unable to do anything, he chose to sit under his cedar tree and watch every member of his family die.
His last line thanks God for letting him live this long rather than killing him quickly. This man had a chance to commit suicide. He didn’t take it. He sat under his tree and boiled and boiled and burned and scorned and mocked and bit his lip till the taste of his own blood lost it’s flavor.
I have forgotten what this has to do with Amadeus.

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