Joe Marino Capodice, a veteran of West Marin theater who lived a stripped-down life in Inverness, died this month. He was 80 years old.
Joe, who for over four decades lived in a roughly 100-square-foot cabin almost completely off the grid, played a major part in the West Marin theater scene in the ’70s and ’80s, acting and directing with the Dance Palace Players and the Hot Tomales Players. He was kind and thoughtful with loved ones, but exacting on stage.
“He had a vision. He didn’t let you slack off,” said Nick Whitney, a close friend and the executor of his estate.
Joe, born in 1936, was from Chicago’s Southside, Nick said. His father was a grocer and the family of five, which had Sicilian roots, lived in an Irish neighborhood.
Joe studied drama at the Art Institute of Chicago, and then moved to New York City to pursue his ambitions. He landed some notable roles, including as understudy for Uncle Vanya in a production of that Chekhov play.
But not too long afterward, he hitchhiked to California. As Nick put it, “The ’60s happened and he moved to the Haight Ashbury.”
Joe soon landed in West Marin, where he washed dishes alongside Gene Ptak, a major facet of the local theater scene, at Manka’s Restaurant, at the time still a traditional Czech establishment. “We realized we had the same love: theater,” said Gene. He said Joe loved ’50s and ’60s-era American playwrights, including Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams and Sam Shepard.
His first foray into the theater world of West Marin happened because of Gene: Joe and Nick were playing backgammon one day, Nick said, when Gene, who directed plays with the Dance Palace Players, ask if they would audition for an upcoming production. They didn’t show up, but Gene cast them anyway.
“He was remarkable,” Gene said of Joe’s acting. “He internalized his character. He became the character. It was remarkable to watch it happen.”
Gene recalled a production of the Sam Shepard play “Operation Sidewinder,” in which Joe played a Native American. The production of the play, which involves a military computer in the form of a snake that gets loose in the desert, included building a snake that lit up on stage. Joe was “brilliant” in his role, Gene said, and Mr. Shepard came to see the play. “We were good,” he said.
In 1975, a cohort that included Nick and Joe branched off with a new group called the Hot Tomales Players, where Joe turned to directing. His early productions, often staged at the Marshall Tavern, included “A Streetcar Named Desire” by Tennessee Williams and Michael McClure’s “The Beard.” Joe wasn’t deterred by controversy; the latter play, about a heavenly encounter between famous actress Jean Harlow and Billy the Kid, ends with the Kid performing simulated oral sex. It was considered so sexually explicit that, in the ’60s, both the San Francisco and Los Angeles Police Departments arrested the lead actors in those productions under charges of obscenity and public lewd behavior.
Joe was a serious and methodical director, pushing actors to understand their characters motivations and immerse themselves in the action. Nick recalled rehearsals for “A Street Car,” particularly for the opening scene when Stanley meets Blanche. “Stanley takes his shirt off, and Joe worked and worked till I got the sexuality of the scene, and that Stanley was primping for Blanche. We did it again and again, until there was a tension and power in the scene.”
Despite the gravity with which he approached his craft, Joe wasn’t afraid to take chances on people, either. He tapped Bolinas resident Jon Cozzi to play a character in one play, even though he had no acting experience. But Jon, a tree worker who recently participated in a staged reading of the play “Love Letters” at the Bolinas library, said he was thankful for the opportunity Joe gave him.
West Marin’s booming theater scene in the ’70s and ’80s eventually started to peter out. The Hot Tomales Players faded away due to a mixture of many difficulties: actors got older and started families, West Marin became a little more expensive and the Dance Palace moved from Main Street to B Street. Even until recent years, Joe longed to do another play, but it never materialized.
Instead, he continued to live a simple existence in the tiny cabin on a small plot of land he bought in the ’70s. (A house had once stood on the land before he bought it, but the home slid down the hill during a rainstorm.) He lived in a cabin that had no electricity, propane or even running water. And in his later years, he also stopped driving, choosing to walk, take the Stagecoach or get a ride with friends. He spent time walking to Chicken Ranch Beach, where he loved to swim, and for many years he practiced yoga.
“He was a real minimalist,” Nick said.
Yet his style, with clothes procured from the thrift store, was “dapper,” said a close friend, Deborah Quinn. And he had his indulgences—namely, betting on horse races. It was perhaps in large part a mental exercise, as he kept close track of the results and was “always working on the system” to maximize his chances of betting on a winning horse, Nick said.
Joe also cared deeply for his loved ones. Despite living alone and far from immediate family, he was careful to stay in touch with his close friends. Though he had no children, he was a godfather to Dakota Whitney, Nick’s daughter.
“He took that job very seriously,” said Ms. Quinn, Dakota’s godmother. She said he would often take Dakota out for her birthday or picked up useful or thoughtful gifts from the thrift store. “He was very serious about the people he cared about. He created a family in the West Marin community.”