Authors: Garson Kanin
Chris is no longer with us. He did not leave, exactly. He vanished, disappeared, melted into thin air. He said goodbye to no one that I know of, but simply went away.
He is not greatly missed, because most of us are beginning to realize that he was not really here even when he was present. He was performing a curious function and maintained a sort of working relationship with Art, but it was one which is apparently alien to theatre practice. In Hollywood, it is common for producers and directors and sometimes even stars, to refer to “my writer.” That never happens in the legitimate theatre. But Chris was, indeed, Art Clune’s writer. The only one he was trying to please was Art. A mistake. The only person a writer is supposed to please is himself. That’s what I’ve seen Gene doing every day and every night of his time here.
In any event, Chris is gone and there’s no point in feeling sorry for him. I doubt that Chris himself is. To him it was simply a job for which he was paid. Now he’ll go on to the next job. But I begin to see what was wrong with almost everything he wrote. It was mechanical, constructed, derivative, formula. It seemed to have no passion. He was not speaking in his own voice, or the voices of the characters. He was not writing in the time or the place of the story—thus he was in the wrong key. Anyway, he is gone.
At lunch one day, I mention this whole matter to Gene, wondering why Chris’s departure has caused so little stir.
Gene said, “We had a lovely man on the paper some years ago. His name was Lloyd Lewis. A historian, and a sports writer and a drama critic. It was he, by the way, who got me working for Stevenson, his great friend. And he was talking about acting one day, and said, 'You can always tell the size and the importance of an actor or an actress by the size of the hole they leave when they leave the stage.’ Well, thinking about it, it’s perfectly true, but it affects not only the stage or actors or actresses—it happens all around us, in business, in life, in politics. Don’t worry about Chris. He’s a perfectly amiable fellow, but unambitious and willing to settle for less in his work, as he does in his life. He’ll be all right. Let him live his life. He’s probably wild about it.”
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Tuesday, November 20
LINE REHEARSAL
: In the lobby at 5:30 for all new lines in Scene 3, Act I, revised book scenes. Check the Call Board, please.
BIG TOWN
: Patti and Sammy 4:30 Ballroom Ben Franklin Hotel.
PRODUCTION MEETINGS
: There will be a Musical Staging meeting on Wednesday, November 21, at the Forrest Theatre. Time to be announced.
There will be a meeting on Sound at 10:00 A.M., Wednesday, November 21, at The Forrest Theatre.
NAME CHANGE
: The character of “Dan Richards” played by Joey Faye will now be called “Mickey Ryan.”
TIME
: Our running time is now two hours and forty-two minutes. One way we can cut down is by rehearsing all the scene changes. Watch Call Board for this technical rehearsal.
NORA
:
One critic said of Nora that—“with her undisciplined sense of the ridiculous and her mobility of features, she makes herself a handsome woman—more than she has a right to be.”
POSITIONS
: Again, a reminder to avoid bunching up, and
always
leave as much space as possible between yourself and the other character or characters with whom you are playing the scene.
Moreover, please begin to be aware of large empty spaces on the stage. Use as much of the playing area as you can.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: HY BALABAN
(Composer)
It’s hard to believe, but I was born in Paris. At the American Hospital. July 5, 1912. Who cares? My father (Nathan) was first flutist (please do not ever let me hear you say flautist!) with the old Philharmonic under Walter Damrosch. My mother (Sarah) taught piano at N.Y.U.
She was in Paris, studying with Nadia Boulanger, when I made my premature appearance. I have never forgiven my mother, because it means I can never be President of the United States.
I do not remember any time when I could not play the piano. I was my mother’s guinea pig and all teaching methods were tried out on me.
No college. Straight from Washington Irving High School to The Eastman School of Music in Rochester, N.Y. After two years there, a painful realization that I would never rival Horowitz.
Summer job at the White Roe Lake House in Livingston Manor, N.Y. Three afternoon concerts each week and play with dance band. I began to see that I liked the band better.
Next summer at Laurel-in-the-Pines. Meet Moss Hart, who is social director. We write a show together, a musical version of THE SHOW-OFF by George Kelly. Great. After that, we write a complete musical every week for performance on Saturday night. I swear to God.
We did: THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON; TEVYE THE MILKMAN (later FIDDLER ON THE ROOF); THE INSPECTOR GENERAL; RIP VAN WINKLE; THE ITALIAN STRAW HAT; LILIOM (later CAROUSEL); and two originals: THE MOUNTAINS and THE TRIANGLE FIRE.
I made great contacts during those summers and used them all.
You all know my other shows so why take up space. 22 Broadway musicals. No wonder I’m tired!
Met and married my wonderful Rachel in 1968.
Met and married (professionally) Fred Monroe in 1971. I hope I never lose either one of them.
Hobbies: songwriting.
Clubs: Friars, Players, Lambs. City Athletic.
Anything else you want to know—just ask me.
REMINDER
: Our midweek matinee here is on
THURSDAY.
There are now 6 days remaining until our Philadelphia opening.
There are now 31 days remaining until our New York opening.
I recognize this as a crucial time for the show. And/or Gene. And/or me. This being the case, it is important to create the right atmosphere and ambience for work.
I had Mr. Armen, the assistant manager, move Gene from his room into Suite 14A, a two-bedroom arrangement. I had them take the bed out of the small bedroom and put in a desk. That is now the workroom. I did it on my own, without asking anyone, because I am convinced it will be best for the show. The man is working harder than anyone I have ever known. It is difficult to get him out, and the minute he is, he thinks of something and wants to go back. 14A has a fine, small kitchen. Yesterday, I got Gene to go out with me by saying I had to get some stuff and would not be able to carry it back.
“Won’t they deliver?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“All right.”
We went to the Vendôme and got everything in one place. Fruits, vegetables, staples, bread, eggs, and so on. China, utensils, a juicer, a blender—the works. The bill came to $343.78. I charged it to the company. Why not?
We lugged it all back to the hotel in a taxi. Halfway home, he looked at the stuff and said, “What
is
all this?”
“All yours,” I said.
“Good God.”
But it worked out well. While he is writing and I am waiting, I cook up stuff and have it ready for whenever. I keep the table set at all times.
Also, I have been dealing with his laundry and cleaning and pressing and shoes.
He has not so much noticed
any
of this activity up to now, but last night, when he had finished dictating, I brought in the
Irablak
(honey chicken in grape leaves) and set it out with pita bread and a bottle of chilled Montrachet.
He moved to the table, began eating absently, became aware of the food, ate slower and slower, tasting it, savoring it. Finally, he looked up at me and grinned. I mean grinned—not smiled. Then he returned to his food. When he finished, he got up, came around to me, and kissed the back of my neck. I thought I might faint. He returned to his chair, took a second helping, looked at me, grinned again, and I realized I was falling in love with him—hopelessly, helplessly.
It makes no sense. He is a man of another world, another time. On what possible plateau could we meet? None. Yet I know that what I feel for him is something I have never known before. I want him. My body and its glands and juices have been telling me that for days. Well, it has often done so in connection with men. It seems to be that kind of body. But as for Gene—I want him inside me and beyond. I want to care for him and have him care for me. I want to know him and help him and grow with him and live forever with him. I want. I want. And no one needs to tell me I am in trouble. I know I am.
Last night, the first sleepless night in years. Thanks to the yoga course, the silly insomnia that plagued me for months had left me—for good, I thought. But last night, none of the exercises worked. I considered a Seconal, but remembering the morning grogginess it brings on—decided against it.
I spent the
nuit blanche
reviewing my damned dumb love life and the mistakes it has been full of.
I have loved (I think), but have I ever been
in
love? No. Why not? Never a man capable of it. And no—I do not believe I have ever loved. I have desired, admired, coveted, had crushes on—but never before have I felt what I feel now for this exquisite man.
I remembered Rich. But that was not love. In either direction. Did he ever say the words? No. Did I? That was Sex, Introduction to. Thrilling. Exciting. Fun. But I was sixteen, for God’s sake. What the hell did
I
know?
And Jean-Pierre. What was that? An affair, I suppose. Romantic in a specious way. And when it ended, the truth is—and it is a truth I have never before faced—I was relieved. I shudder when I think of what the consequences of marriage to him might have been.
Maxie was a brief craziness. An actor in a big hit. It all seemed terribly up-there and with-it and New Yorky at the time. But love? Oh, my God.
How I ever got involved with Fletcher is hard to explain, even to myself. He was wealthy and generous and funny. He represented a New York I had read about and heard about but never experienced. He kept the dilettante side of himself wonderfully hidden beneath the pretense of being an art student. Fletcher was seats in the fourth-row center; The Metropolitan Opera; La Grenouille; black-tie previews at the Museum of Modern Art; trips to Washington (The National Gallery, The Kennedy Center, The Freer Collection, The Madison Hotel); to Boston (The Ritz-Carlton, The Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Lexington, Concord, Walden); weekends in Southampton in the summer and Vermont for skiing in winter. Beyond all this, he paid the rent and all expenses. (God Almighty! Was I what was called “a kept woman”? How could I have been? I wasn’t even a woman.)
I think of these men and what I shared with them, and then I think of Gene. Our physical contact has consisted of my touching his arm twice, and his kissing me—once, on the hand; once, playfully, on the back of my neck. Still, I feel closer to him than I do to any of the others. I cannot imagine a life with any of them. I cannot imagine a life
without
Gene. Father figure, I wonder at 4:20 a.m.? Of course not. I
have
a father. Also a brother-father.
What am I to do? Shall I tell him? Declare myself? What if he laughs? I might kill him.
Could I seduce him? I suppose so. All men are vulnerable in that area. And in his case—a younger girl, an older man. If not attraction, then flattery. I could make it happen, I know. Then what? What do I become in his eyes? A tramp, sort of. No. I want him to love me the way I love him. How can I make him do that? Oh, well.
In any case, there is no urgency about the matter. Nothing either sacred or profane is going to happen for some time. The slightest personal involvement would prove to be an irritating unwanted distraction at this time. He has no energy to spare. His present task is consuming. I shall have to wait it out. Meanwhile, what? Love him, you fool. Love him so much and so hard it will be in the air around him. When he senses it, he will respond. Or not.
“When’s Thanksgiving?”
“Thursday.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. I’m giving the dinner,” he says.
“Matinee day, remember.”
“You said Thursday.”
“Yes.”
“Matinee day is
Wednesday. Jesus
you’re dumb!”
“This week it’s Thursday because of Thanksgiving.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. So what do you think? Dinner before—like twelve o’clock? Or between shows? Or what?”
“Between shows.”
“Right. So arrange everything. Here, I think. In that big private dining room where I had the lunch for the record guys.”
“How many?”
“How should
I
know? Count. Me, my wife if she can get her ass out of Maine Chance West for a couple of days. Anyway, I think I have to ask her. Saul, he’s coming for sure, he told me. Now. Hy, Rachel, Fred, Larry, Gene, Jenny, Ivan, Nadia, Alicia, and so forth and so on—and each with a partner I suppose. Oysters, turkey, pumpkin pie, you know, the usual crap. Bar. Good wine but not too much. Cider. What the hell. You know. Oh, yeah. You, too. You’re invited.”
“Thank you.”
As I worked on the preparations, I was overcome by a growing sense of dread. In view of the existing ructions and the continuing devious intrigues, how could this group possibly sit down, all together at the festive holiday board? It was sure to be a frost, and an uncomfortable one at that.
Wrong again. It was a great party, with one or two reservations.
The food and wine and service were impeccable.
The holiday matinee had gone extremely well, so spirits were high.
During drinks, Hy played Gershwin; Clay played Cole Porter; I played my whole Frank Loesser repertoire.
Mrs. Clune got oiled fast. I sat across the table from her and she studied me. After a time she said, “How’d
you
get this job anyway? He usually hires lookers.”
Gene, sitting beside her, glared. I thought he was going to sock her.
“Clay
hired me,” I said, and laughed. It took some effort.
“That’s the Thanksgiving spirit, Mother,” said Art. “Insulting the guests.”
“I meant to insult
you,”
she said.
Gene tried to steer away from unpleasantness.
“Neysa,” he said. “The only other one I ever heard of was Neysa McMein—the artist.”
“You’re
so
right,” said Mrs. Clune. “Her and me, we’re the only two. That’s where my wacky mother got it. She liked the sound. Turns out it’s no name at all. The original got it made up by a numerologist for luck.”
“Did it work?” asked Gene.
“For her, not for me.”
Saul rose. “Ladies and gentlemen—”
“Where?” shouted Art.
“I
don’t see any!”
Saul ignored the heckling. “As an insider-outsider of this fine and gifted family, I feel impelled to remind you all that you truly do have cause for Thanksgiving in this year of our Lord. In the end, what matters more than playing some part in the creation of beauty? This is a common experience each of you shares and I envy you. I am not naïve, and am aware of frictions and frustrations, of pain and suffering—but I remind you that the process of gestation and birth is ever thus. What transcends all is not the method, but the result. What moves me most is the conviction that my illustrious ancestor would be charmed and pleased by the portrait of her that you present. And so—the toast is to the shining memory of that entrancing spirit, who brought us all together here today—and who lives again because of you. I give you—ladies and gentleman—
Nora!”
Everyone rose, clinked glasses, and drank.
Saul was pale and trembling. No doubt that speech had been an effort.
We all sat, then noticed that Neysa was still on her feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” She had the attention of the table at once. “Bullshit!” A small, embarrassed laugh.
“Sit down, Mother,” said Art.
“Siddown yourself,” she replied. “I’m paying for half of this—maybe more, so knock it off! I don’t like to disagree with my son—because he’s the apple of my eye and a smart son-of-a-bitch, what’s more—but about what he said he knows from nothing. Nora would spit all over you if she saw this turkey—not the one on the table here—the one on the stage over there.” She pointed to Gene. “You want to believe this peephole artist—go ahead. But he hasn’t got the real story, and neither have you. I’ve got the real story and I’m not telling it. And in closing I can only hope that you all go on your ass. That would make it a real Thanksgiving for me.”
A short silence.
Gene rose. “Forgive me,” he said. “I suspect writers who talk, and as a rule, I do not. But Mrs. Clune’s trenchant remarks call for a reply. Henry Ford once said, 'History is bunk!’ and brought upon himself ridicule and abuse. But as the years have gone by—I’ve begun to wonder if there isn’t some small grain of truth in that pronouncement. Mrs. Clune never knew Nora; I never knew her—but I spent almost two years looking for her. I don’t claim to have found all of her—but what I did find—I fell in love with. Nora is the love of my life—and telling her story has been its most meaningful experience. She might have been a bit embarrassed by the re-enactment of her courage and aspiration and struggle and triumph—but I doubt she’d have spit. She would leave that to her descendant, who spits very well indeed. I prefer to join an earlier expression.” He raised his glass.
“Nora!”
We all got up again—all but the woozy Neysa—and echoed the toast. “Nora!” “Nora!” “Nora!”
As we sat, we heard music. Hy had gone to the piano and was playing the verse to “Shine On, Harvest Moon.” As he reached for the chorus, we all began to sing—softly at first—then louder and louder, as if we wanted to make sure Nora could hear us. The song ended.
Art got up. “And now ladies and gentlemen, I am going to make the most beautiful after-dinner speech you ever heard. Ready?”
He called across the room to the hovering headwaiter,
“Check, please!!”
Laughter. Applause. The party was over.