Authors: Garson Kanin
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Melanie and I tried. Jesus God, the agony. She was sick and in pain the whole time. Then, the month before, two false alarms. And finally—the morning. Too soon. Her obstetrician is one of these modern, progressive sons of bitches, so of course I had to be there—dressed like him, green cap and smock—and hold her hand and mop the brow and share the experiences. Finally—stillborn. God! I have nightmares about it even now…And that’s all this. We’re trying to create something that’ll have a life of its own someday. So it’s painful.”
“I see that,” I said.
He looked at me, lovingly, and said, “You are a dear girl, Midge Maghakian, and I am so glad you are with us. With me.”
I was embarrassed, tried to respond in kind but all that came out was a whispered, “Thank you.”
“Let’s go to bed,” he said.
I was framing what I hoped would be an inoffensive reply when he laughed.
“Oh my God!” he said. “I didn’t mean—well, please forgive me. What I meant to say—actually—was, 'Let’s go to
sleep
.’ It’s late. You look tired. I’m about to keel over. Here’s the taxi money.”
“Never mind. I’ll put it on expense.”
He walked me through the hall to the elevator, leaned over, hugged me, said, “Good night. Pleasant dreams,” and left.
At home, I locked the door and turned on the TV. The Late Show. Clark Gable and Deborah Kerr in
The Hucksters
. A hare-brained old friend but worth watching for those Gable dimples. I washed my underclothes and hung them up to dry. Mom used to say, “Don’t try to do two things at once, you’ll ruin them both.” Baloney. Here I was doing
three
things at once—perfectly: my laundry, the TV, and the show and its troubles. And Larry. And Art. Four things.
Five
. TV off. Into bed. I wished someone were beside me. The last thing Larry had said was, “Pleasant dreams.” Good advice. I tried, but failed miserably. How I tried was by thinking of a lot of pleasant thoughts as I was drifting off. Jean-Pierre. Paris. A new dress. Swimming naked in the surf at Del Monte. Bouillabaisse and chilled Montrachet on the terrace of La Loup in Saint-Tropez. But when sleep came, the dream or dreams were of Art beating people with a policeman’s club. Watching an abortion being performed. Myself in a mirror weighing at least three hundred pounds. Fistfights. Many. Hy and Larry and Val. I woke in a sweat. Another shower. Fresh nightgown. What’s the time? 4:05. TV on again. Alan Ladd.
The Blue Dahlia
in black and white. I watch it groggily. I sleep. The set is still on when I wake. The “Today Show.” I get breakfast and wonder if I should quit. This world I am living in may be too much for me.
Larry to the company:
“Let’s talk about acting today. We know that players in a musical aren’t supposed to be great actors and actresses. We expect them to sing, to dance, and to play scenes nicely. We don’t look for, nor do we often get, great acting, even in the great musicals. But that’s not to say we shouldn’t aim for the highest form of this remarkable craft.
“There’s nothing mysterious about acting. Nothing esoteric. There’s no mystique about it, even though some celebrated gurus would like to make us think so. Everyone acts. Everyone acts every day. It’s a part of civilized existence to act. God forbid that everyone went around saying precisely what they thought, or reacting exactly as they felt, or doing what they felt like doing at any given moment. We all have faces and we all wear masks.
“Come to think of it, even animals act. Have you ever seen a cat stalking an imaginary mouse? Have you ever seen a cat pretending to be a tiger? Pouncing. On what? On nothing. Pouncing for the sake of pouncing. Acting the ferocious monster with the tiny atavistic atom that’s left in the final mutation. No longer a tiger, but want to act like a tiger. And what about puppies? Pretending to fight. They’re not really fighting. They’re
acting
at fighting. That’s why they enjoy doing it. I doubt they’d enjoy fighting.
“Maybe the reason the public appreciates great acting is that they recognize it, envy it, admire it. They realize that they’re watching actors do something they do all day long, except not as well. 'My God, I wish I could lie as brilliantly and get away with it!’ 'I wish I could snow a girl the way
he’s
snowing
her
.’ 'Does he mean what he’s saying, or is he pretending?’
“What I have to say next applies mainly to you, Calvin. The male-female game, as most of us know it, is essentially acting. The whole macho cult in present-day life is based on acting, on a pose, on assuming a character a man thinks is going to be appealing to the woman. By the same token, women act. They put on their makeup just as you do in your dressing rooms. They put on their costumes in order to play their parts in the ritual. And there’s a kind of scenario for most people. 'What are you doing after the show?’ 'Do you live with your folks?’ 'Let’s have a cup of coffee.’ 'How about going up to my place for a drink?’ These are lines in the boy-girl colloquy that’s been going on for thousands of years in every language.
“Acting is nothing like brain surgery. Brain surgery is something only a very few people could do. Acting is something
everyone
can do, that everyone does. Some do it better than others; some do it professionally. Now, in order to do it professionally, techniques are required, disciplines that the actors in life don’t necessarily need to follow. Up and down Madison Avenue, the boys who seem to be running our world these days live a whole life of acting, pretending. What else does it mean when they say, 'Listen, I think we can con them into such and so’? 'Why don’t we do a hype on this product?’
“Policemen. Think of New York cops. I get the feeling they love to act. They have a fine costume, terrific props—pistols, handcuffs, walkie-talkies. They get lots of attention as they walk the streets.
You
look at them.
I
do. No one looks at a cop without some apprehension, so that makes the cop feel a little bit above it all. And cops act, believe it or not, like cops. When they’re seemingly angry, I doubt they’re truly angry. But I think they feel, correctly, that if they appear to be angry, the crowd will disperse or the suspect will be intimidated—so they put on a bit. When they’re approaching someone they think may be dangerous or crazy, they act calm, but they’re probably nervous.
“And that’s what I want you to do. Act. Play. Pretend. Let go. Do it!”
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Thursday, October 11
NEW NUMBER
: Our show has acquired a new number which will be performed by Joey Faye in Scene 8, Act I. It is called “Merry-Go-Round.”
WIGS
: The girl dancers will be fitted for wigs tomorrow at 5:00 P.M. Appointments will follow shortly for singers and principals.
NAMES OF THE EVERLEIGH SISTERS
: The Everleigh Girls listed previously as A, B, C, D, E and F have been given names in the script and they will be played as follows:
Vera -------------------- Peggy Wells
Belle -------------------- Diana Van Rijn
Lily --------------------- Lee Nelson
Maggie ----------------- Rosie Zellen
Cathy ------------------ Gloria Fuller
Ginny ------------------ Sharon Vaughn
PRODUCTION CONFERENCES
:
are proceeding with the Production Carpenter, Louis J. Thomas, and the Production Electrician, Edward Kavanaugh.
BACKGROUND READING
: It has been suggested that the cast read
Come Into My Parlor
by Charles Washburn. Copies may be obtained by calling Midge Maghakian.
REQUEST
: Please give all information (name, address, and phone number) on your hotel in Boston to Midge today. A new directory has to be made up before we leave for Boston. Also,
IMPORTANT,
if any of you change your hotels in Boston, please let Midge know immediately. We must be able to reach you.
HEALTH AND STRENGTH
: Our principal mutual concern at this moment is the health of the company. We are in very good shape artistically, and the only thing that could do us serious damage would be illness or accident. So this is a special passionate plea to one and all to button up your overcoats, take your vitamins, don’t eat crazy, watch yourselves in the bathtub, cross on green lights only, and do not fool with electrical switches. Extra care as to rest, fresh air, exercise, and sensible foods will be greatly appreciated. We are now completely interdependent and have others to think of.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: EDDIE CONVERY
(Boyle)
I went—or was pushed—on the stage at the age of five. The great Elitch’s Gardens Stock Company in Denver, Colorado, where I was born 42 years ago. The name of the play was SEEN BUT NOT HEARD…My mother saw me as a meal ticket and that’s what I was for the next thirteen years—all over the country with periodic trips (seven) to Hollywood, where nothing ever happened beyond a day or two here and there, or a bit, or a test…Lessons, lessons. Dancing, singing, acting…Twenty years ago I came to New York and right off got a job in THE WORLD OF SUZIE WONG (straight), next: REDHEAD (musical) with the great Gwen Verdon. Since then, I’ve done plenty, but I prefer to list the hits only: GEORGE M!, WEST SIDE STORY (revival), PIPPIN (2 years), HAIR (understudy), and GREASE…I thank you.
REHEARSAL SCHEDULE
: We endeavor to keep the rehearsal schedule as it is printed. However, it is sometimes unavoidable that we fall behind. Therefore, please do not leave one rehearsal place for another before you have checked with a stage manager. (Eddie Convery and Patti Rolph: Your “Big Town” rehearsal will be in the lobby at 5:00 P.M. today.)
In Boston we will be using some local dressers, probably two or three. They will be available to assist with changes, but remember that they do not know the show in the way that you do and will have to be carefully coached by you in what is required.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“Remember (particularly during the irritable stage) that you must not tell an actor too much at once. Not more than two or three important things can be borne at one rehearsal; and don’t mention trifles, such as slips in business or words, in a heart-broken desperate way, as if the world were crumbling in ruins. Don’t mention anything that doesn’t really matter. Be prepared for the same mistake being repeated time after time, and your directions being forgotten until you have given them three or four days running.”
George Bernard Shaw—
THE ART OF REHEARSAL, 1928
There are now 8 days remaining until our opening in Boston.
The fact that I am the Production Secretary makes all of them consider me something of a machine, a piece of equipment; like a tape recorder or an IBM Copier. They say and do just about anything in my presence. Well, actually, I
have
no presence. I am invisible (during working hours). At first, I found this disconcerting—and—what’s the word? Dehumanizing. Yes, that’s it. Then I began to see the advantage of it, the excitement, and, ultimately, the enjoyment. That Proust quotation: “Thanks to art, we are able to see a world not only with our own eyes, but to see as many worlds as there are original artists.”
In my position—since I work at different times with every single member of this mad family, as well as groups of them in various combinations—my opportunity for an overview is complete. What fascinates me is the double-dealing and triple expression and quadruple chicanery that are the order of the day.
This includes Christopher Feller, a real operator. So far as I can see, there is nothing
not
devious about him. What he says to one, he does not say to others. What’s more, he does not say what he thinks—he says what he thinks they
want
him to say. I suppose that is why he is one of the most popular members of the whole company. He is an All-American boy. Male-model type. Athletic. Runs in the park. Swims at NYAC. Suit and tie at all times. Efficient. Uninspired. Chris is a loner, and seems to be welcome in any and every group.
Right after rehearsal on Thursday, he asked me if I would go over the changes and inserts with him. His own script, he said, was a mess. I was not surprised. I am having quite a time keeping my own in shape.
“Where would you rather?” I asked. “Here or the stage? Production office?”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Let’s stay here.”
We did, but after an hour or so—the pilot light (the only thing on) became oppressive, and we moved up to the production office, originally Dressing Room #2 but now in one of the small dressing rooms on the third floor. Half an hour in that airless atmosphere was enough. We stopped.
“The glamorous theatre,” said Chris, mockingly. “Does the audience know, do you suppose, that behind all the beauty they see—is this horrid, stinking, massive urinal?”
“Awful,” I said. “Are they
all
like this?”
“No. Three or four have been moved into the present century by human owners—but by and large—this is what we have.”
“We could go up to my place,” I said. “I’m not far.”
“Or mine,” he suggested. “Across the street.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The Edison. Not grand, but better than this.”
“Fine.”
“How about some food first?” he asked. “Unless you have a dinner date, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Me?” I said. “I’m not allowed to have dinner dates. Not until after opening night.”
He looked at the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “Do you think that day is ever likely to come?” he asked. “Right now, it seems like next to never.”
“It’ll come all right. Too soon. All of a sudden. You’ll see.”
As we left the theatre, he said, “I’ve got a better idea.”
“Yes?”
“My place now, and let’s finish up fast—I mean, as fast as we can—then go have a proper dinner—no rush—drinks and everything.”
“Suits me.”
His room was neat and orderly—a reflection of himself. I used his bathroom, perfectly arranged, titillatingly “manny.”
By the time I came out, he had set up a bridge table and two chairs, side by side.
We went to work. He made additional changes as we went along—he is one of those writers who wants to get it over with—said, “Good enough” quite a lot. He seems completely uninvolved, simply doing a job of piecework; manuscript by the foot. When he cut a line I thought good, I mentioned it.
“Yes,” he said. “I like it, too, but Art wants it out. I'm not here to argue. I give the customer what he wants. What’s the difference? A show like this. However you slice it—it’s all knockwurst.”
We finished the last page and stood up. He said, “Thank you, Midge.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. I hate a man kissing my cheek. It suggests either that
he’s
a woman or that
I’m
a faggot. He said, “I won’t be a minute,” went into the bathroom, but left the door open. He took off his shirt and washed up—the way Pa used to do when he came home from work—and came out. He put his soiled shirt into a laundry bag in his closet, got out a fresh shirt, and put it on. While he was doing all this, I framed a sentence, rehearsed it silently, was about to say it, changed my mind. The lost remark was: “You must think I'm made of
ice cream,
mister.” Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t say it. Who knows what it might have led to?
As he put on his jacket, he asked, “Where do you stand on the steak question?”
“Affirmative.”
“Then how about Spindletop, down the street? I’ve been there, and I can recommend it.”
“But can you afford it? We’re not a smash
yet,
you know.”
“Let’s go. I can always hock my mother in a pinch.”
We ordered a double sirloin, and nothing first to spoil it, so it took a while. We drank. I had a Stolichnaya Bloody Mary, he drank Wild Turkey bourbon and water.
The drink loosened us up.
“Midge,” he said, and looked at me in a way that could have been interpreted as soulful.
“Yes?” (Was I batting my eyelids?)
“What’s your other name?”
“What other name?” I asked, thrown.
“Your Christian name—if you’re Christian. Or your Jewish name—if you’re Jewish. Your
last
name. The one that comes after your
first
name.”
“Maghakian.”
“Again?”
“Maghakian.”
“Armenian?”
“Irish and.”
“From here?”
“California. Saint Helena.”
“I know. In the Napa Valley.”
“How come you know that? You may be the first.”
“I know California. I’m a seduced, succumbed Easterner. But I like the north better than where
I
have to live—so I bang around up there a lot.”
He saw me finish my drink, and asked, “One more?”
“No,” I said.
“Two
more.”
“Waiter!” he called. The waiter came at once. “Two more.”
“Another round?” asked the waiter.
“No. Two more for the lady, and two more for me.”
The waiter took our empties, and as he walked away, mumbled something. I thought I heard it, but could not be certain.
“Did you hear what he said?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Chris.
“What?”
“He said, 'Some lady!’”
“That’s what I
thought
he said.”
“Shall we leave?” he asked.
“Damn right. As soon as we finish our steaks.”
He was drumming on the table with a sesame bread stick and seemed far away—somewhere inside himself.
The waiter appeared and put down two drinks before each of us. He was clearly disapproving.
“Thank you,” said Chris.
“Thank you,” I said.
The waiter left, silently.
“How do you like the show?” asked Chris.
I laughed and took a swig of my drink.
“Now, why the hell’s that a comical question?” he added, miffed.
“Sorry—but it made me think of a story Hy told the other day—at the orchestration meeting. About George Gershwin’s father. He said that at the end of an opening night—I think he said it was
Girl Crazy
—George Jean Nathan, the critic, came up the aisle, and at the back of the house he ran into Gershwin’s father. So he asked, “Well, Mr. Gershwin, how’d you like the show?’ And Mr. Gershwin said, 'Me? I
got
to like it!’”
“And that’s what you feel—that you 'got to’?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m part of it—not much of a—but still, part. So I can have feelings and opinions and ideas of this and that or a detail here and there, but overall, I feel I have to be
with
it—
for
it—Am I talking too much?”
“Yes.”
“Look. I’ve finished my second.”
“Look. So have I.” The waiter removed our emptied glasses.
“And when I finish my third,” I said, “I’m going to tell you something more…Is celery good for you?”
“Very well…Yes.”
“Are you married?” I asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“Oh.”
“I’m—you might say—between bouts. I’ve had two rousers. And I’ve come to the conclusion that all women—including you—are crazy. And that all men—including me—are pricks.”
“I’m inclined to go along with the second part of that,” I said.
“Figures…Oh! Food.”
The steak had arrived and took over the focus of our interest. It was superb. The best I’d ever tasted. Baked potato, beautiful—with sour cream and fresh chives. A salad of red-ripe beefsteak tomatoes, with a spectacular dressing. We gloried in the food. Every now and then, I said, “Thanks,” or “Thank you,” or “Oh, I do thank you.”
The waiter picked up Chris’s empty glass and reached for mine. I grabbed it and said indignantly, “Just a moment, please. I haven’t finished it!”
“Yes, you have,” said the waiter, and took it out of my hand.
I
had
finished it.
“What do you have on draft?” Chris asked.
“Michelob, Beck’s,” replied the waiter.
“Two Beck’s.”
As the waiter left, I asked, “Were they beauties?”
“Were who?”
“All those two wives of yours.”
“They were. They weren’t very different—one from the other. In fact, there are times I think they were the same one. Except that the first one liked me—I mean, she really liked me—and my stuff. And we laughed a lot and played and traveled and spent too much money—and I tell you—she really liked me. But she didn’t love me. Never. So she hung out with me until she fell in love—four and a half years. Turned out love turned up in the form of a caddy at The Beverly Hills Country Club. I hope that doesn’t sound snobbish. Some of my best friends are caddies.” The beer was served. He tasted it. “Perfect,” he said. I took a sip of mine, as he continued. “The second one
loved
me—I mean, she really loved me—too much, almost. It was sometimes smothering—she loved me to pieces—but she didn’t like me. The way I dressed or talked or ate—and worst of all—she hated my writing. 'Tacky’—I think that was usually her word for it. Or 'grindgy’—whatever the hell
that
means. So after a while, I got sick of it and flew around the world, and that wasn’t much, and when I got back, I found that a friend of mine had moved into the house—fine cameraman—and I didn’t think it was big enough for the three of us, so I moved in with a girl who neither loves me nor likes me, and we live happily ever after…Go ahead.”
“Go ahead where?”
“You said you’d tell me 'something more’ when you finished your third, and you finished your third some time ago, and you haven’t told me something more yet.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s this. With the possible exception of you—I know the script of our show better than anyone. Do you know how many times I’ve typed it from beginning to end?”
“No idea.”
“Seventeen.”
“I believe you.”
“And every time I do—I’m a little less happy. At first, I thought—well, no wonder. It stands to reason. You can’t keep loving it—but then I began to see that, no, it was something else. Sure, every change was sensible, and sometimes I could see the reason for it—like when the whole scene between the Everleigh sisters and Nora turned into a number—O.K., fine—a showstopper, probably—but the overall everything keeps getting damaged. In my humble.”
“Don’t be so goddamn humble,” he said, fiercely. “You’ve hit it bull’s-eye. Do you know anything about plastic surgery, I mean, have you ever had any done?”
“No. Do I need it?”
“I’ve seen a lot of it around the business. Eyes, noses, chins, legs, ears, breasts—all improved. But a curious thing happens—they fix the nose and spoil the face. That’s what’s happening to my book. We’re straightening its teeth and building up its bosom—but it’s losing its charm because it’s been robbed of its reality…”
“Right.”
“Another beer?”
“No, thank you.”
“And the hell of it is there’s nothing I can do about it. Not one damned thing. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m in this for the bucks.”
“Even so. Why not try?”
“Because, lady, the writer of the book of a musical is the low man on the totem pole. He’s the one who sparks it all—but once it’s under way, he has to move over for everyone. Gangway!—for the songwriters, the director, the choreographer, the stars, the designers. All at once,
they’re
all more important. It’s the way of this particular world—and I’m too old to be a revolutionary or try to change it all. No. Change that. Not too old. Just too tired. And not even
that
. Just too don’t-give-a-damn. Does it matter, really?”
“Sure it does.”
“Why does it?”
“Because it’s your action, that’s why,” I said. “And if it isn’t, what is? What we
do
. That’s our existence, isn’t it? That’s what it seems like to
me.”
He leaned over and kissed my cheek again. Son-of-a-bitch. I could have slugged him.
We finished our steaks, considered dessert, decided against, and ordered coffee.
“I’m fed for a cheek,” I said.
“What?”
“Week, not cheek. Fed for a
week
. Excuse me.” I got up—not as steadily as I would have liked, but steadily enough.
“Where’re you going?” he asked.
“To the Men’s Room,” I replied. “Where do you think? And don’t keep kissing my week! Got that?
Cheek!”
And off I went. By the time I returned, he’d had paid the check. On the table, a fresh pot of coffee, two clean cups, and two frosted drinks in small wineglasses. I sat down and asked, “What have we here?”
“Stingers.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“And what did I say?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
We picked up our glasses.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Up yours,” I said.
“You still sore?”
“I don’t like my cheek kissed. I’m allergic,” I said. I took a sip of the stinger. “Say, this is
great!”