Authors: Garson Kanin
Q: More than once?
A: Many times.
Q: How many times?
A: I can’t say. I didn’t count.
Q: Did you find him professionally cooperative?
A: Anything but.
Q: Would you call him
un
cooperative?
A: Yes, I would. And even worse.
Q: What do you mean by that?
A: I mean actually disruptive and hostile. He caused arguments and needless long discussions that used up endless time. And money.
Q: Would you characterize Mr. Gabel as an alcoholic?
A: Oh, no. Absolutely not. I happen to know something about the subject and I would say he is more of a problem drinker—definitely
not
an alcoholic.
Q: To your knowledge, did his excessive consumption of alcohol ever interfere with his work?
A: Well, that’s a hard question because who knows what he might have done if no, but—well, now that I think of it, yes—I would have to say yes. Yes, it did interfere.
(May God forgive you, Jenny, since He knows that
I
won’t.)
From Buddy’s affidavit:
Q: How would you rate the morale of this company?
A: Lousy.
Q: How many companies have you been with?
A: Fourteen.
Q: On a list of all fourteen, where would you rate the morale of this one?
A: Fourteenth. The height of the pits.
Q: What would you say is the principle cause of its poor morale?
A: I didn’t say poor, I said lousy.
Q: All right. Lousy. And the cause?
A: Same as always. Soft at the top.
Q: What does that mean?
A: Well, like take in our department—choreography—we’ve got Jenny on top—so a tight ship—no horsing around—discipline—schedules—rest periods—everything works—so the morale is good—the
dancers’
morale, I mean.
Q: But the company’s—lousy, I think you said.
A: Right.
Q: And for this you blame—
A: Larry Gabel. Who else?
Hy Balaban’s defection to management surprised me. Larry has handled his score with loving care from the beginning. They seemed to me to be friends, fellow artists. I ran into Hy at breakfast in the coffee shop just before we were taking his affidavit. He sat down with me. We talked for a while, and he got the idea, somehow, that I took exception to his position.
“You want to know why?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my business. My business is just to take it all down as accurately as I can.”
“But you’ve got an opinion, haven’t you? A point of view?”
“Certainly.”
“What is it?”
“That’s none of
your
business, Hy.”
He laughed. “You know why I like you? One reason why? It’s you’re young. I love young, I always have. I’m around the kids, it’s like a transfusion. I hate rock, but I love rock concerts. That make sense?”
“No.”
“It’s the kids, see? Their vitality and power and excitement. But a lot of the time, I have trouble with young people. They don’t know how to face reality, how to compromise, how to put things first. Take you, for instance. Right now. You think I can’t feel your disapproval?” I said nothing. He smiled and went on. “I
knew
it! Now that we have to choose up sides, you can’t figure how I go with The Barracuda, right? After all, we all know he’s no good. You especially. You saw how he set me up—blackmailed me—you were even
there,
for God’s sake. So how come I'm with him? Is that the question? All right, here’s the answer. There comes a time on every show when it’s
cruel
time. Somebody out. Some arrangement made. A word has to be broken. A deal reneged on. It’s all part of the game. Win some, lose some. Me? This is my business, no—my life. I have to go on in it. Money is power. You can get a show on without anything—without talent, even—but you can’t get a show on without money. So money isn’t always in the best hands, the right hands—but what can
I
do about it? I don’t run the world. These days—you know how tough it is to raise money for a musical? A million bucks minimum—then
The New York Times
has a toothache, and you’re wiped out in one night. So every year—fewer and fewer producers who want to take a chance. Right now, I figure five—next year, maybe four—so can I afford to lose a customer? This guy—if this one’s a hit, and I think it
will
be—he’ll go ahead with another one and another one—so he asks me a favor—what can I do?”
“Check, please,” I said.
“Here—I’ll take it,” said Hy.
I let him.
Part of Hy’s affidavit:
Q: Do you feel the show in its present state is in need of restaging?
A: Plenty.
Q: Is it being done?
A: Not to my knowledge.
Q: Why not?
A: He refused to.
Q: Who is “he”?
A: Larry Gabel.
Q: How many years have you been associated with the professional theatre, Mr. Balaban?
A: Forty years and twenty-two shows.
Q: If you were the producer of
this
show, would you retain Mr. Gabel or replace him?
A: Replace. I like the guy personally, but he’s tired out and sick. So I would say
cruel
time.
Now Russ:
Q: How long have you been Mr. Gabel’s assistant?
A: Five and a half years. On his last four shows.
Q: Now you said earlier that you began to be concerned about his condition and his work on
this
show.
A: Yes.
Q: Can you say exactly when you began to be troubled about the way in which he was functioning?
A: Yes. It was when he ordered the whole company to observe the color scheme.
Q: Would you explain that, please?
A: Yes. He made an announcement and put it in the bulletin that he wanted everybody to wear a certain color on certain days. Like Monday, Red; Tuesday, Blue; Wednesday, Orange—and so on.
Q: And what was the company’s response to this order?
A: They thought it was crazy.
Q: They thought it was crazy?
A: Yes.
Q: Do you think he’s crazy?
A: I wouldn’t say “crazy.” Peculiar, maybe. Or eccentric.
Q: What else did you notice?
A: A lot of daydreaming. I guess you could call it lack of concentration.
Q: What else?
A: Well, he’s always been uptight about other people’s ideas. A lot of us who worked with him had a kind of joke going—a routine. If you had an idea—the way to put it over was to talk to him and talk and talk and lead him to the point where
he
said the idea—or at least thought he did. But on
this
show, it was different. He started sending for me—every night, practically, and some mornings, to ask me if I had any ideas for this number or that number or a scene or a piece of staging or whatever—he seemed to have lost his drive and was like floundering a lot.
Q: And did you help him?
A: Well, of course. That’s my job. I’m his assistant. I’m supposed to.
Q: But would you say you contributed more to this show than to any of the others?
A: Yes.
Q: Much more?
A: Much more.
Clay’s turn. Poor Clay.
Q: Is
Shine On, Harvest Moon
ready to open?
A: No.
Q: Is it an efficiently directed show?
A: No.
Q: Could it use some help?
A: Yes.
Q: Have you noticed diminution of effectiveness on the part of Mr. Gabel in the past six weeks?
A: Yes.
Q: Has he cooperated fully with you?
A: No.
Q: Does he appear to be, at present, ill?
A: Yes.
Q: Does he appear to possess, at present, his full faculties?
A: No.
Q: Thank you.
After transcribing all of the depositions and affidavits, I was asked to make six copies—three for Nardino, two for Art, one for the New York file, and the original filed here. Six copies. I made seven, and after the show last night, walked Larry to The Watergate.
“May I come up?” I asked.
He looked startled.
“Up?” he repeated.
“Yes. I want to spend a little time with you.”
“You’re a great girl, Midge. Don’t get me wrong. But I’m a sick man.”
In my confused state, I did not realize that my request was couched in tones and words absolutely consisted with standard-pass procedure.
“Oh my
God!”
I said.
“What?”
“Business,” I said. “Not—not
you
know. Important.
Oh,
my God!”
We laughed—he with relief, I with embarrassment.
Upstairs, he made me a drink, got himself a glass of milk and took a Demerol.
“You’re not taking too many of those, are you?”
“No. At night, it’s all right to. You build up a tolerance. At this point, they’re more like tranquilizers than painkillers. Nothing kills this damned pain or even wounds it. But there, too—tolerance—you get used to it.”
“But you are getting better, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Not a question in the world about it.”
“Great. You look
so
much better—and the swelling
is
going down.”
“Business, you said.”
“Yes.”
“We better get on with it before I fall asleep before your very eyes—and come to think of it, they
are
very eyes. Very
very,
in fact—and when I get better, Midge—what do you think? Do you think we might try?”
What could I say?
I said, “Let’s wait and see.”
“It won’t be long,” he said.
“Larry—I don’t think anything I’ve got to tell you is going to come as a surprise—about how they’re out to get you.”
“You mean
'he.’”
“No,
'they.’”
“Oh?”
“He’s organized himself quite a cabal. Who knows why they would, but there it is.”
“I’m not going to quit,” he said. “No matter
what!”
I handed him a legal envelope containing a set of the transcripts.
“I'm not going to quit,” he said.
He got out the papers and began to read. I went to the sideboard and made myself another drink.
For over an hour, he read and I drank. He did not say a word in all this time, nor did he make a sound. His face was impassive; the same expression he has when reading a new scene. I was nicely mulled by the time he came to the end.
“I'm going to quit,” he said.
“What?”
“I am going to quit this show and everything about it, and all at once I feel better than I have in ten months.”
“Please don’t.”
“What’s it to
you?”
“The show,” I heard myself say. “What’ll happen to the
show?
It’s beautiful, and if you’re not around, anything might happen—they’ll
ruin
it!”
“Midge,” he said, tenderly.
“Yes?”
“Fuck
the show! Yes. Fuck the show and everybody connected with it. I want my blood back.”
“But you once said if you quit—” I stopped.
“If I quit—what? The money? The royalties? The residuals? Sure. Money. Lots of it. But worrying about it—hanging on—Look what it’s done to me. It’s a good show, sure, maybe great—but it’s not worth my
life,
and that’s what it’s on the verge of taking. If I had some support,
some—
if I—Jesus. Hy! Those two little pipsqueaks—who cares? Liars—little hookers. But Clay.
Clay!”
“Do you think he?…”
“I don’t think anything—I don’t want to think any more—I just want to get out of here. And away from all of them! See if you can get me Art Clune on the phone.”
“Wait till morning, why don’t you? Sleep on it.”
“Get
him.
Now!”
I saw there was no use in pursuing the matter.
I got on the phone and asked for Mr. Clune’s apartment.
“Should I monitor it?” I suggested. “Maybe for the record. You may need it.”
“Yes.”
L
ARRY
: Mr. Clune?
A
RT
: It’s pretty late, Larry. Can this wait till morning?
L
ARRY
: I won’t be here in the morning. I’m leaving the show.
A
RT
: Fine. Tell your agent get in touch, and we’ll work out the settlement.
LARRY: No settlement. No nothing. I’m quitting. Because I loathe you.
(A long pause)
A
RT
: Wait a second.
L
ARRY
: What for? For you to turn on your trusty little tape recorder? You don’t have to—I’m recording—I’ll send you a dub.
A
RT
: You realize—
L
ARRY
: Oh, put a cork in it, for Christ’s sweet sake! “You realize—” What I realize is that I’m free of you, you unconscionable
prick!
A
RT
: Watch your language!
L
ARRY
: I
am
watching it, you despicable horror. You moneygrubbing know-nothing. You no-talent fraud.
A
RT
: You know who’s a no-talent?
You!
And I’ve got a stack of depositions and affidavits to prove it!
(I shudder at what may come next)
L
ARRY
: I don’t believe you. You’re a congenital liar, in addition to everything else.
A
RT
: You want me to bring them over?
L
ARRY
: I would not advise you to get within twenty feet of me tonight, you slimy cocksucker. I might kill you.
A
RT
: Ha! You
said
it! You said it! A death threat! I’ve got it on tape! That’s a felony—a death threat.
L
ARRY
: Rewind and play it back, you asshole! I didn’t say I was going to kill you—I said I
might
kill you—you don’t see the difference?
A
RT
: No, I don’t.
L
ARRY
: Well, my lawyer’s standing right here—should I put him on to explain it?
A
RT
: You’re out! That’s all I care—your credit and the royalties—everything. You’re
out!
I’ll send you a release form for you to sign.