March 9, 2002
By Elisabeth Gray

Friday, March 16, 2001.
I had just seen Marlowe's Edward II with Joseph Fiennes performing the title role. On a hint from Beate, I entered the Crucible Theater's Long Bar in pursuit of Joseph Fiennes.

No Luck.

After 15 minutes, the actor had yet to appear. All of the other actors had emerged to sop up the praise of the adoring fans (most of whom were there for Joseph, but would gladly accept James D'Arcy as an alternate heart throb.) I made the rounds, congratulating many of them on their excellent performances and expressing my awe at the magnitude of the production.

Just as I prepared to depart, Mr.Fiennes appeared, humbly dressed. In a New York Yankees cap and cargo pants, the man seemed normal enough. But he was quickly identified and mass hysteria broke out as every woman in the room swarmed him for an autograph and an opportunity to look into those hazel eyes.

I couldn't compete.

From a distance, an amoebae comprised of women is quite threatening. One risks the chance of being engulfed in the mob. I just was not prepared. So I missed my opportunity, and instead pitied the writer's cramp such a man must endure.

He sat down with his beer, and people left him alone. I had not yet registered his presence in the room, nor the opportunity I had missed by not obtaining the token signature required to prove to all my envious friends back home that I had actually traveled from Asheville, North Carolina to the milltown of Sheffield, England in order to meet this man.

He rose from his table in his preparation to depart, interrupting my thoughts. I was about to miss my opportunity. "Now or Never," my mother reminded me. She was right.

I approached, with my best attempt to strut across the room with my invisible hips and microscopic breasts, trying not to trip on the high heels I had worn in preparation for the "encounter." The heels were large enough, perhaps the result of that adolescent theory that the taller the shoes, the older one must seem. But as a 5'8" girl with 4 inch heels, I looked more like a gawky giant who had taken too many growth hormones.

What a mistake.

I arrived at the side of a significantly shorter man. Why did they say he was six feet tall? Either he had shrunk since he was last measured, or Hollywood had conveniently added a few inches to his slight build. I was speechless. Already, my meticulously planned encounter (I would look Joseph in the eye, swoon, and he would promptly ask for my hand in marriage) was going astray! How could I remedy the situation?

I was desperate.

I stuck out my program and asked for his signature. "This should stall him," I thought, and proceeded to search my brain for any commonalties we might share. Hmmmmmmm...... (Right about now, the Jeopardy theme song began to ring through my mind.) What does one say to a human being one only knows through the characters they've played on film?

Absolutely nothing.

Unless, of course, one has the strange desire to make a fool of herself. I happen to be one of the aforementioned humans who has an incredible capacity to be ridiculous at just the wrong moment. So I went for it, not thinking of what babble flowed out of my mouth, only realizing that I would never speak to this man again.

"Mr.Fiennes, could I ask you a strange question?"

"Certainly, go ahead, shoot." (At least the guy is gracious in ridiculous situations...even if he is a midget*.)

I'll never forget how shy he was, how difficult it was for him to keep eye contact. He reminded me of a prepubescent boy who simply could not speak to members of the opposite sex for fear of acquiring the dreaded cooties. My feet had his eyes' focus most of the time, perhaps because the poor man could not conceive the existence of such ridiculously large heels, or, more likely, he was testing his supernatural powers to remove any object by concentrating on it long enough. (After all, it is through his eyes that the man takes our breaths away.) Perhaps he rationalized that he could remove the rest of the swooning object with enough focus.

He was unsuccessful.

I proceeded with my query, not knowing what words could burst forth from my blabbering mouth.

"Ummmmm....Mr.Fiennes.....Is there any work of fiction that affects your approach to theater?"

What in the world? Where did that come from? These thoughts were as much my own as I'm sure they were his. To this day, I proclaim Joseph Fiennes as one of the most gracious individuals in the world for not running with fear or laughing in my face.

He answered my question.

"Well, um, I would have to say The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. I've always loved Russian literature, and the purity of the book really pulls something out of me that I want in my acting."

As he finished his statement, in his butter-melting tone of voice, he gave me a paranoid look, as if he wondered if I were an undercover interviewer, determined to plague him with ridiculous questions until his popularity passes. "Nope," I assured him with my dreamlike daze, "I'm just an eccentric fan."

And eccentric fan I continue to be. At Edward II, my dream world met my reality, and continues to shape my life today. While in England, I discovered the wonders of Oxford University and decided to apply. The topic up for discussion at my interview this past December? Marlowe's Edward II. I was accepted to Oriel College (founded by Edward II, ironically enough) and will attend there in the fall to study English Literature.

If nothing else, the trip to Sheffield was a life statement; I will follow my heart. Though in the remainder of my life, I may never come closer to Mr.Fiennes than the Silver Screen, the concepts that he represents will continue to guide me in my daily pursuit of life.

Live a little. You never know what will happen if you follow a midget* halfway around the world :)

(midget*- Of course, Mr.Fiennes is not an actual midget and I mean no insult to his mighty character through the use of the term. However, I use the term with literary license in order to accentuate the humor and moral of my story.)