Authors: Garson Kanin
Auditions began on Monday. There are many separate calls. Open for boy dancers. Also girl dancers. Equity calls for the same. And all four for singers. Also showgirls. Then open and Equity for the remaining smaller parts. How do they do it? We shall see.
Monday. I am sitting here at the director’s desk in the orchestra of The Imperial Theatre. It is 9:40 a.m. I am the first one here—of the company, that is. The wings are already crowded with girls, all of them in rehearsal clothes. The atmosphere is tense and anxious. It is dark here, but I am using the Penlite that Clay gave me as a present.
When I talked to Vartan over the weekend and told him about my new job, I thought he was going to come right through the damn phone. (He hasn’t yelled at me like that since the summer of ’70, when I totaled his Thunderbird in Big Sur.) He said it looked as though all my expensive education and training had been a complete bust, that he had thought I was finally on the track at last and that now I had not only gone off the track, but into the river, and what did I plan to do after the show opened? So I said, Look for another show; and he asked, Will that be easy? And I said, No, maybe impossible, even. And he said, I’m coming to New York. And I said, Don’t you dare. I’m doing what I want to do and that’s good enough for me. So he said, One final question: When this feckless nonsense is over, do you think you can get your Doubleday job back? And I said, Probably not. He said, Look, I’ll have to call you back later, I’m too upset to talk to you now.
He did call back later, and he’d cooled off some, but not much. We talked a long while, and finally, he said, “Well, one constructive thing you might do.”
“What’s that?”
“Write about it. Keep a record of it. It
is
an experience, after all—and an unusual one. So cover it—as though it were a story. It’ll help solidify it in your mind and give you perspective on it as part of your life.”
“All right,” I said. “I will.”
I agreed only because I didn’t want to rile him anymore. And having agreed, I must do it. That is how I am with him. No lies. Moreover he may ask to see it. But I know him so well—in fact, better than I know anyone else in the world—and what he hopes is that putting it all down, I’ll see—in black and white—on the pages before me, what a crock it all is. A feeling for the theatre is, after all, something abstract and unexplainable. Writing it all down might very well be a way to get rid of the ghost. If so, so be it.
They have all arrived. The auditions are about to begin. More later.
Later. I am at home after what a day. Auditions 10 to 1, then 2 to 6. Then a session—overstuffed sandwiches from Gaiety sent in, and a knock-down, drag-out until 11:15. Over thirteen hours. I have now had a bath and an omelet and a vodka and tonic, and if I thought I could sleep, I would go to bed, but I know it is no use, so I’m going to do this for a while.
Those auditions! Jenny Flagg, the choreographer, is in charge. But Larry hovering about. Jenny is a former leading dancer, but does not look it. She is overweight, a trifle blowsy. Nervous, impatient, cross. Moves beautifully. Wears slacks always. Either too much makeup or none at all, depending on her mood. She is a looker, but hard. They began with what the kids refer to as a “cattle call,” and they’re not far off the mark. We are going to engage eight girl dancers—
eight
!—and over a
thousand
showed up. To begin with, they lined them up a hundred at a time, in rows of ten. Jenny went up and down the rows with an assistant, Buddy Rice, saying, “Wait” every now and then, and “Sorry” all the rest of the time. The Waits moved—usually jumped or ran or danced—to one side of the stage, and the Sorrys slunk off to the other to get dressed and leave for what? Only a few musicals a year are done these days. Most of them cost over a million dollars to mount. So the opportunities are few. These kids—gypsies, they are called in the trade—have worked and studied and practiced, and all they got today was a chance to put on their rehearsal clothes and stand there like hunks of meat and be told, “Sorry”—most of them. And I thought of all the money for lessons (where did
that
come from?) and the effort and sweat and physical pain, and finally, getting good enough to enter the profession, then—one look, and a rejection. I couldn’t understand it. I asked Russ Kelly, Larry’s assistant, to explain. He is a small, myopic, laid-back type. Young, about twenty-five; acts old, about seventy-five. Pale, almost bald, a chain smoker. When it’s quiet, you can hear his brain clicking. Still, he gets in with everyone, including me.
“Well,” he said. “First off, they’ve got to type them out, that’s all.”
“But how can they tell? Maybe they’re saying sorry to some of the best dancers in the bunch.”
“That’s not the point!” he said, fretfully. “We start with the assumption that every single one of them can dance up a storm. We
give
them that, for a start. But it’s up to Jenny to decide on the
look
she wants—the size and shape and face and eyes, and so on. In this case, it’s period. Nineteen-eight. Around. So there’s a look. A kind of person she wants.”
“I still say, how can she tell?”
“That’s her
job
,” he snapped. “That’s her
talent.”
“I see,” I said, wondering if I did.
This process took until lunchtime. Then Clay asked me to lunch with him and Larry and Russ.
Larry Gabel is impressive. He is ruggedly attractive, intense, lean, and the opposite of flaky. He is asthmatic and carries a pocket inhalant device that he uses several times a day. Usually at a crisis. Nerves. Sometimes, in the dark auditorium, one hears the sharp whoosh! whoosh! sound it makes. The most intelligent eyes I have ever seen. A disarming smile. A self-deprecating manner that only a confident, self-assured man could have. His hair and his eyes match—gray. He is forty-six. I looked it up. We went to Joe Allen’s. I couldn’t eat.
“Why not?” asked Clay.
“Not hungry,” I said.
“Better have something,” he suggested. “Nice clean chicken sandwich and a glass of milk. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
“She got all emotional,” said Russ (a big mouth). “That’s what it is.”
“No,” I protested weakly.
Larry took my hand.
“We all feel it, love. But there’s no other way. All we can offer is the chance—not the job. We’ve got eight spots, and eight thousand girls want them. Why, God only knows.”
“It seems so cruel,” I said. “The way, the method. I know I’m a complete outsider, but—well, God—if they’d only gotten a chance to dance a minute.”
My companions laughed.
“Thousands of minutes,” said Larry. “There wouldn’t be time, and time costs money these days—more than we can afford. And in any case—if—I mean, even if we could—how—Oh, Christ! Now
I’ve
got no appetite.”
“Eat while it’s hot,” said Clay.
“No, I’m through.”
Coffee was ordered, and Clay insisted that I eat some ice cream, so I did. I am anxious to please Clay. I’m slowly building up something of a thing for him.
“What troubles
me
—” Clay began.
“What burns your ass, you mean,” said Larry.
“No,” said Clay, looking at me. “What troubles me is the fact that our Miss Jenny goes through all these motions, with her mind—such as it is—absolutely closed.”
“You know what they say about choreographers,” said Larry. “All their brains are in their feet!”
Russ laughed, too hard. A kiss-ass for fair.
Clay went on. “What
you
know and what
I
know—in fact, what we
all
know, except those damn nervous sweating hopefuls—is that she’s got her sixteen spots all filled. In her head.”
Larry nodded grimly, his jaw tightening. “A nice little, neat little, closed little shop.”
“Right,” said Russ.
Larry slammed the table so hard with the palm of his hand that the cups and saucers bounced into the air.
“—what
she
thinks!” he shouted.
The whole room was startled.
“Easy, easy,” said Clay.
“Hold it down, Larry, will you?” said Russ, leaning toward him. “There’s Buddy right there. Her right-hand fag.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck
him
, too.”
“No, thank you,” said Russ. “I’ve made other plans.”
Larry got out his inhalator, stuck it in his mouth, and pressed twice. Whoosh! Whoosh! He put it away.
“This show,” he said, quietly, “is going to have one guiding intelligence, and that is going to be
me
.
Is
me. I don’t know much in life—but I know my job. What’s more, I know what my job is. That’s one of the basic troubles in our business—it’s full of people who know their job and damn few who know what their job is.”
“That’s profound, Larry,” said Russ.
Clay and I exchanged a look. Larry went on.
“I respect every one of the creative elements—including her. But they’re inclined to look out for Number One at all times. I’m here to provide the overview, to bring all the pieces together. Casting. Jesus, sometimes I think that’s half the battle. I remember when I worked for Hal—he used to say casting could make the difference. Not the leads only, but the whole stageful. All
she
cares about—that selfish cow—is her little groupie. I’m thinking first off about the overall look—God!—the look, the feel, the atmosphere. How do you get it?”
“You start with Kurlansky,” said Clay.
“I’ll say!” said Larry, and brightened. “God damn. Isn’t his stuff
impeccable
! What an artist.”
“There’s
one
guy cares about the whole show,” said Clay.
“Indeed, indeed,” Larry agreed. “Some of them—most, in fact—get sore at the actors for standing in front of their scenery.”
“There’s another thing about Ivan,” said Clay.
“When you walk into the Shubert in Boston a few weeks from now, what you’re going to see on the stage is what you saw in his models yesterday.”
Larry smiled, shook his head in admiration, and said, “Did you know he went to Chicago and photographed old buildings and details—and dug into the libraries for period stuff—not only pictures, but text, too? Christ, he knows nineteen-eight better than the people who lived in it.”
“I’ve noticed something,” I said. “Mr. Kurlansky talks about atmosphere all the time.”
“You’re lucky you can understand him,” said Russ. “I usually get about one word out of four.”
I could see that Clay was nettled, but he is a man who knows control. He looked at Russ and said, “Ivan Kurlansky doesn’t need
words
to express himself. He does that with his
art
. How would you like it if you understood every word he said, but only one of four of his sets?”
“That’s very funny,” said Russ.
“I didn’t
mean
it to be,” said Clay, still steamed.
I picked up again. “What I was saying was how when I was trying to get him to do his bio for the bulletin—I could hardly get him to talk about himself. All he seemed to be interested in was the show and the story, and he got to telling me about how most of the girls in The Everleigh Club were—as he said—'statues-esque.’”
“God
damn
it!” said Larry, slamming the table again. “That’s just what I God damn mean! That’s the
look
—and if she thinks she’s going to load me with the same bunch of ponies and hoofers she’s had around for years—she’s God damn demented. Sure she likes her own gang around—it makes her job easier. But that’s not
my
concern.”
“Don’t jump the gun, Larry. You’re into a whole plow routine already—”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Tell her,” said Clay. “I’ll be right back.”
He went off as Larry said, “The old joke. The
old
old joke. Farmer needs to borrow a plow from his neighbor three miles away. Starts to walk over, and thinks: He’ll lend it to me, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t he? I lent him my tractor last spring. Yuh, but people are funny. He might claim he’s using it or’s going to. Well, I’ll ask him when
could
he lend it to me. But what if he stalls? He won’t. He might. So. On and on like this—getting himself more and more charged up—until, finally, he gets to his neighbor’s house—knocks on the door—the neighbor opens it, and says: 'Why, Luke! How are you? Good to see you!’ And our guy says: 'Yeah? Well, you can take your plow and stick it up your ass!’”
I laughed. Russ looked bored, or preoccupied. He kept looking over at Buddy’s table—to see if there was any eavesdropping going on. Buddy kept looking over at our table—so there probably was. I can’t seem to get a line on Buddy. Older than Russ—perhaps thirty. Handsome.
Too
handsome. No, not handsome at all. Beautiful. And knows it. Perfectly groomed and combed and clad. I understand that a few years ago he was thought to be one of the best young dancers in New York, with a limitless future. Then he went skiing in Aspen, broke both legs and a hip and ended his career. So now, although he can demonstrate, he cannot dance a full routine. He covers his bitter frustration with an acid, put-down, caustic air. Complicated fellow. Ambitious?
Larry spoke. “That’s what Clay meant about me doing the plow routine. He’s right. I apologize. These are touchy days. We’re
all
edgy—worried about getting off on the wrong foot. It can happen. More coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, let’s bail ourselves out of here, then. Check, Joe!”
I asked, “Shouldn’t I pay for my own?”
“Yes,” said Larry, “you should. But this time you’re not going to. Just don’t make a habit of it. I can’t afford it. I’m keeping nine women now.”
Clay came back.
“Are we off?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll be right on time.”
Back to the theatre, and the agony of more auditions. The boy dancers this time. The drama even more heightened. The rejected boys seem to take it even worse than the girls.
The Waits (boys
and
girls) are assembled at about 4:00. There are thirteen boys and nine girls.
To my surprise, Dora Cohen, our rehearsal pianist, appears, and each one of the Waits does a chorus of a song. Some have brought their music, others give the pianist a title and a key, still others sing
a cappella
.