Authors: Garson Kanin
L
ARRY
: Good. Make it out, sign it, initial it, notarize it, and then roll it up and stuff it up your tool—you kike!
A
RT
: Kike?!
You
call
me
kike? You’re a Jew yourself!
L
ARRY
: That’s right! I’m a Jew—but
you’re
a kike!
A
RT
: Pay your own
fare
back, too—if that’s how you are.
(
L
ARRY
laughs heartily)
L
ARRY
: My fare? My fare, you pisspot, is a gift from God. Do you know what it means to get away from you and your disgusting machinations and your devious inanities? You’re subhuman. There’s not a sensible, reasonable, respectable human being who would do business with you from choice. You’re a—you’re a fucking
barracuda!
A
RT
: You’re goddamn right I am! I’m a barracuda and I’m
proud
of it. It’s got me to where I could fire you when you got to—Wait!
(He is in a panic)
I didn’t say that—what I meant was—
L
ARRY
: Oh, stop sniveling, you smelly little fart. You didn’t fire me—you didn’t dare—I quit! Clear? I resign! I sever my relationship. And as for my money—keep it and choke on it. As for my work—my sweat and my sleepless nights and the piece of my heart that’s in this show—that’s mine and always will be. And for the pain and illness you caused me, I hope it’s returned tenfold, and something tells me it will be. Goodbye, Mr. Clune. Oh, by the way, remind Russ—my former assistant—that we used the color scheme idea on every one of the last three shows we did together, and he didn’t think I was crazy—sorry—peculiar or eccentric.
A
RT
: Who said?…Wait a second—how’d you know he?…Listen a—
L
ARRY
: No!
You
listen. You’re not the only one’s got spies. How about you and Jenny? You think she balls you for joy or for her job? And that wasn’t nice what you did to Hy, even though it
did
get us the songs in the show. And trying to set Alicia and Ivan against each other—hell, they were laughing at you the whole time. Goodbye, Mr. Clune.
(He hangs up)
Larry stood for a long time, looking at the phone—then he moved slowly and resolutely to the bar. He was a changed man. The characteristic tension had gone out of his face. His posture had undergone a transformation and he stood more erect than before. He began to pour himself a drink.
“Should you do that?” I asked.
“Shut up,” he answered.
“I mean with the Demerol and all?”
“Who takes Demerol?” he asked. “Thanks for everything, Midge. But go away now. I’ve got to call my wife—if I can find her.”
I arrived at the theatre at a quarter to ten for the ten-o’clock call, and was astonished to find a uniformed Pinkerton man at the stage door. Stu Bender was standing beside him, apparently checking everyone in.
“What’s going on?” I asked Art, who was standing in the wing nearest the door.
“I don’t want any dust-up with him.”
He had no sooner uttered the sentence than a disturbance was heard at the stage door.
“Excuse me,” said Art, and scurried across the stage to the other side.
I went to the stage door. Larry. His head was still bandaged, only one eye in use.
“Well, then,” he was saying, “would you tell Mr.
Clune
I’d like to see him?”
“I can’t, Larry,” said Stu. “He gave strict—”
“Don’t 'Larry’ me, you punk—that’s over.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gabel, but you should, if you want to discuss anything, please call him at the hotel.”
“I’ve got nothing to discuss with
him
—but I do have a few words for the company.”
“Jesus, Larry! What can
I
do?”
He burst into tears. I began to surmise what kind of day it was going to be.
After a few more minutes of fruitless discussion, Larry left.
Onstage, Art was addressing the company.
“—and has decided that for the good of the show, he wants to withdraw and put his full attention and energy on regaining his health. Of course, his decision came very suddenly, but fortunately, Russ—who’s been Mr. Gabel’s main helper all these years—has agreed to take over in the interim. I know I don’t have to ask all of you to give him your full cooperation and assistance. We’re in very good shape, and I think we all have reason to be confident about the eventual outcome. I guess that’s about all. Thank you.”
The company stood or sat, confused and stony.
Now from the auditorium, the sound of one person applauding. Art turned, and the company peered off as out of the darkness came Larry, still applauding. He stopped applauding and marched up the rehearsal steps. He stood beside Art, who seemed nailed to the stage.
“Stu!” Art yelled.
Larry looked at the assembled company, but before he could speak, they began to applaud. Those who were sitting, rose. There was some whistling and rattling of chairs, and cheers. An ovation.
It was
my
turn to blub.
Larry said to Art, “I thought you knew about
front
entrances to theatres!”
Art moved off, ostensibly in search of Stu. What would he do when he found him? Fire him? Probably.
“Thanks,” said Larry. “I needed that. [
Laughter.
] I heard what Our Leader told you. I’m not going to say he lied—that would be too strong. Let me say he handled the truth a bit carelessly. I’m leaving you, yes—not entirely because I
want
to, but because I
have
to. In the circumstances, there is simply no choice. You are a splendid company—one of the best I’ve ever known. What with all the changes and additions and cuts—more than normal—it hasn’t been easy. The fact is, we sort of did damn near
two
shows. [
Applause.
] But thanks to God and you and Gene Bowman and—well, you know who else—the second show is better than the first one. Wouldn’t it be hell if it were the other way around? [
Laughter.
] I agree with Mr. Clune about one thing—you
are
in good shape and you
are
going to have a success; the degree is the only thing in question. Hit, big hit, smash? Who knows? A lot depends on discipline and precision and playing in, playing
together.
Together.
In our world, believe me, nothing matters more than the show that was given
last night.
As for me—few regrets. I’ve enjoyed it all. To me—the doing is what counts. Success—fame or fortune—sure, those are the cherries on top. Try to find the joy in the doing. Every audience is a virgin. I’ll be there opening night, so watch your step. In the meantime, goodbye and Godspeed. I may not love each and every one of you individually—there are fuckups and nasties in your number—but as a company, I adore you!” [
Another ovation.
]
Fifteen minutes of crowding about—hugs and kisses and handshaking. Finally, Larry started for the rehearsal steps, preparing to leave. Russ intercepted him.
“I really think, Larry—you might have said one word about
me.”
“Oh? What word did you have in mind?”
“Why take it out on
me,
what happened? I mean—Jesus—so humiliating—to be totally ignored.”
“Actually, Russ, I did have an idea that would have included you, but at the last minute, I changed my mind.”
“Oh?”
“I was going to read them your affidavit!”
Larry looked at him until he melted away, then Larry disappeared up the aisle of the dark theatre.
My name, shouted. I responded. Art wanted me in the production office.
“Crafty bastard!” he said. “He
did
have a plant in the company. Probably
still
does. Find out who, y’hear?”
“How can I?”
“I don't care
how,
God damn it! Do it!”
“Why don’t you get the Pinkertons to do it? What do
I
know? I’m no detective.”
“No, but you’re well connected—don’t kid me—belle of the ball—Miss Popularity—find out.”
“All right, I’ll try.”
“I’ll give you a bonus if you do—What would you like? A coat? What kind? You know who I think it could be? That little Stu son-of-a-bitch. You know what somebody told me just now? That he was crying there by the door. I thought he was straight! And what about Larry himself? AC-DC? You think? Keep an eye on that little Stu son-of-a-bitch. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll have the Pinkertons put a tail on him—see if he contacts.”
“What’s the difference? It’s all over, isn’t it? As far as Larry’s concerned?”
“Y’never know,” he said darkly. “Not with these talent bastards.”
At the very first rehearsal, Russ erred. One could see he was determined to take charge, to show authority, but he did it so clumsily that it came out as testy petulance. Leadership is a gift, I suppose. Russ does not possess it in any measure. Bombast, yes. It was clear he was on the defensive from the start. He felt all eyes upon him. The company, onstage and in both wings. Out in the auditorium. Paul, Phil, everyone.
The first half hour was not too bad. His eye for precision (trained by Larry) is good. He caught some sloppiness and dealt with it firmly.
But when he announced: “All right, now! Hold it! On your toes, everyone. Here’s a change—a big change—so pay attention. This crossover in front of the street drop—going into Delmonico’s—is
out!
Right? We go right from Hotel Room into Delmonico’s—no crossover—it’s always been a bad tooth there. I’m glad to get it out. Let’s go.”
“Wait a second!” Clay.
“Yes?”
“Can’t be done, Russ.”
“Why not?”
“We need at least forty-five seconds for this change.”
“Don’t you think I know that, for Christ’s sake? I put the damn thing on to
begin
with.”
“What do you want, then? A forty-five second stage wait?”
“I’ll tell you what I want, Clay. I want you to do what I’m telling you to do!”
A long look exchanged.
“Certainly,” said Clay, who knows how to play the game.
“We’re going to do an open change. Music stet. Got it?”
“They’ll see fifteen stagehands, O.K.?”
“O.K. And if you’re worried about the deviation from style—don’t. We’re going to be doing a
lot
of open changes. It’s a show-business story, isn’t it? A backstage saga?”
“I don’t know
what
it is,” said Clay.
“Let’s go!” said the new director.
More open changes have indeed been going in at every performance. The general reaction is affirmative. Russ is getting a lot of backslapping, especially from Star and Val. A new threesome. Together every night after the show.
The rest of the changes Russ is making are more subtle—in some cases, almost unnoticeable—but all have to do with framing Star. Her lights are becoming brighter; her ballad tempos more soulful; her jump tunes louder and faster. Not a single cut affects her. The restaging places her relentlessly center and slightly upstage. It is becoming “An Evening With…” Still, I must admit the show seems to be going well.
Star has redone some of her costumes—mainly in the direction of showing more cleavage, and, when possible, more leg.
Art has been in California for a week. Hy and his wife have gone to Hobe Sound. Fred is around, shaking his head quite a lot.
Star has taken to ad-libbing. It gets results, but I doubt that “You better believe it!” and “See you later, ’gator,” and “Out to lunch,” were part of the common speech of 1908.
I phone Gene and tell him what is going on. Odd about him. When he is here or around the show, he is interested, even magnetically drawn to the excitement of it all. When he is away, any mention of it seems an irritating intrusion. It may be that I am calling him at the wrong times, but I have tried several. Is there a right time?
“Well, what about Clay?” he asks, fretfully. “Isn’t it his job to see that they hold the line?”
“Yes, but right now he doesn’t have the clout.”
“I see. Though I don’t know what I can do about it from here, do you?”
“When do you think you might come back?”
“I don’t know. I’m on a big one just now, and it’s complicated. Anyway, no point in me without Art and Hy. Never mind a few ad-libs. She’s feeling her oats, I suppose. They’ll get her back to the text in time, and if they don’t,
I will.”
“Next week, do you think?”
“Possibly. Let me ask you something,” he says seriously.
“Sure.”
“What do
you
think? Not of the detail—but of the show as a whole.”
“I’m not sure. At first, I thought maybe it
was
getting even better than it was—it was shorter, and faster—and some of the technical deadwood was out. But I don’t know—it’s losing charm—it’s sort of too
insistent.”
“I’ll be there next week,” he said. “Without fail.”
On Friday, Russ fired Clay and replaced him with Buddy. When the blowup came, Art could not be found, so it was left to poor Henry Wadsworth to enforce the discharge.
Clay is still in town waiting for Art’s return. He has a run-of-the-play contract and claims he cannot be discharged. Russ had accused him of deliberately sabotaging his ideas, making them seem wrong or impractical or impossible. Clay denies it, but secretly, I believe there is something in what Russ says.
Buddy ran the show on Friday—not too well, but it was his break-in, so everyone understood.
Saturday matinee was much better, but then Saturday night was not good at all. A number of missed light cues and two damaging sound fluffs.
Russ and Buddy had a screaming row in the alley after the show.
Sunday, a blessed day off. I spent practically the whole day—from noon on—with Clay. He is surprisingly calm. We had lunch at McDonnell’s on the river. Seafood. Great. We went to The National and I took him to the Freer to see the Japanese stuff. He had never been. He hired a Hertz and we drove out to Mount Vernon.
We came back, had dinner at the Fleur de Lis in Georgetown, then walked back to The Watergate. All this time, we talked of nothing but the show. Our activity was no more than a backdrop, and an incongruous one, at that.
During the Crab Maryland, he said, “You hear a piece of music and one wrong note spoils it, in the way that the greatest soufflé in the world is ruined by the presence of one little cockroach in it. That’s us right now. That’s our show. A beautiful soufflé full of cockroaches.”
“Please!” I said. “I was looking forward to dessert.”
“Sorry,” he said.
Looking at the Cézannes, I had asked, “You don’t think Star is aware that the show is falling apart?”
“Star’s not aware of anything in or on God’s green earth with the exception of Star. She’s doing fine—hell, She’s now got the whole damned evening to herself. But that’s not a show. That wasn’t
Guys and Dolls
or
Kiss Me, Kate
or
My Fair Lady
or
Annie
or
A Chorus Line—
and those are the standards we’re going to be judged by.”
“Do you think it can be fixed?”
“I don’t know, Midge. I honestly don’t know. As it stands right now, it would mean unscrambling eggs.”
In the basement of the Freer, as we were studying the Hokusai wonders, he had explained:
“The reason a director is so desperately important, is that by and large, everyone looks out for Number One on a show. Hy mother-hens his score, Ivan guards his sets, Alicia her costumes, and if they play the orchestration as written, Ralph Burns thinks it’s a great show. And that’s all right, that’s as it should be. But the
director
—he’s got no special axe to grind—he’s got to see it all and blend the elements. Do you think Russ can do that?”
“No, I don’t,” I said.
The drive to Mount Vernon was beautiful, I suppose. I have heard that it is, but I hardly saw it.
Clay said, “There was a moment there when we had it.”
“Yes.”
“And everyone knew it, felt it. Then it started to disintegrate.”
“Clay?”
“What?”
“Do you think there’s any way to get Larry back?”
“Not a chance.”
“Why not?”
“Forget it. I know Art Clune. He’s mean and vindictive and greedy. Getting rid of Larry was a great victory for him,
he
thinks. A lump of money saved, a challenging authority gone.”
“But the
show,”
I said.
“All he sees are the statements. We’re selling out.”
At Mount Vernon, Clay listed every single thing that had been done since Larry’s departure.
“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked. “Not one of them seems to matter, but when you add them up—you’ve got a spoiled show.”
“Gene’s coming back.”
“What about it?”
“He’ll see it. He’ll see what’s happened,” I said.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. He’s smart.”
“He’s more than smart—he’s brilliant, but that’s not what counts now. What counts now is power—plain and simple.”