About the author:
It's no secret that Martin Moran is an accomplished stage actor. His list of theatrical credits includes Bells Are Ringing, Cabaret, Titanic, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, A Man of No Importance, The Cider House Rules, Floyd Collins and Big River. But he is also a writer, and in 2001 he was awarded a Fellowship in Creative Non-Fiction from the New York Foundation for the Arts. Now he is combining both talents with The Tricky Part. The one-man show, which Moran wrote and stars in at off-Broadway's McGinn/Cazale Theatre, is a humorous perspective on the conflicts between Catholicism and sexuality. Here, Moran talks about a famous family member who taught him the importance of telling stories.

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As I am about to open in The Tricky Part, a play I've written, I find myself thinking of my Great Uncle Morgan, of things he shared with me before he died. Morgan was a wonderfully accomplished actor. He spoke of the stage as a calling. He said to me, "I'm a storyteller; stories are what shorten the distance between us."

I knew nothing of my uncle growing up. It seemed a miraculous fluke when, after my first year of college in 1979, I found him. I was studying pre-law and miserable when, one morning, a classmate talked me into auditioning for Disneyland--'All American College Singers and Dancers.' That's how I landed my first job--20 shows a week in the Land of Tomorrow. Grueling and silly as the gig was, it gave me courage to begin to express to my family this seemingly insane desire to act. I wrote a letter to my great aunt, who was a Cloistered nun. I loved her and I knew she held out hope that I might find a religious vocation. "Dear Aunt Marion," I scribbled from the lawn of my freshman dorm, "I don't think I'll ever be a priest. I believe I want to be an actor. I hope you understand." In her prompt and supportive reply she told me that I had a relative who was an actor who, if still alive, was in Los Angeles.

I was thrilled and vowed to find him.

On the first Sunday I could escape Disney, I took a bus into L.A. to meet Keene Curtis. A professor of mine knew Keene and had arranged this brunch with a "real working actor." I sat by Keene's little pool, chomping arugula, stunned to recognize him from all his TV shows. He told me to make myself at home while he went in to take a nap before his matinee. (He was playing Daddy Warbucks in Annie.) "May I use your phone?" I asked. "I'm trying to locate a lost relative." Keene brought me a phone book then turned to go inside. He paused to ask, "Who is this relative of yours?"

"Morgan Farley," I replied.

Keene's bald head furrowed with astonishment. "My dear boy," he bellowed, "do you know who Morgan is? He was one of the Broadway greats of the '20s and '30s." Without a moment's hesitation, Keene picked up the phone and dialed.

"Morgan, darling…I have a great nephew of yours poolside. Yes, yes really. Martin Moran." He handed me the phone.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, Martin…or is it Marty?"

He sounded like someone out of a Noel Coward movie.

Keene organized a brunch the following Sunday in honor of young blood finding old. His table was beautifully laid, his house full of guests--James Hurlihy (author of Midnight Cowboy) Teno, a guy I recognized from Gunsmoke…several others. They all told me how thrilled Morgan would be to meet a young actor from his own family. I noted that all the guests were men; that the last luncheon I'd been to like this was at a recruiting meeting for Saint Thomas' seminary.

Morgan was running late. "He just wants to make an entrance," Keene said.

The car arrived. We all looked out the den window. A small man with a cane emerged. He looked to have dropped from the turn of the century--blue blazer, red ascot. In his free hand he carried a little gold box. Refusing the arm of his driver, he shuffled up the walk. When he entered, everyone fell silent. Morgan took my hand and smiled. Keene ushered us into a small den so that we could be alone for a few minutes. Morgan sat on the couch; I perched on the edge of the coffee table.

"It's a brutal and great profession my dear boy. Are you sure you want to pursue it?"

"I think so."

"You must know."