Authors: Garson Kanin
Art, to me: “Smart-ass and dumb-ass in one—did you ever see such a thing?” To Clay: “If you had any brains, you’d know the credit is worth more than the money. It could be the biggest thing in your life. A show like this—directed by—How can you not want
that?”
“Of course I
want
it—but it would be a fraud. I haven’t directed this show and I’m not prepared to pretend that I have.”
“A dumb shot, Clay. Who knows in the end who did what on a show? The critics, the people—what it says on the program—that’s what they know—and nothing else.”
“That may be—But see, the trouble is—
I
know.”
“You’re puttin’ me in a tough position, Clay. It’s got to say
something
—it can’t be a show with
no
director’s name; it don’t look good.”
“Are you asking for a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Say 'Larry Gabel.’”
“Are you
nuts
or what?”
“Basically, the show we’re now doing is his. His casting, his concept, staging, everything.”
“He hasn’t been near it for weeks! What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“No matter. It’s his show.”
“He’s off it. He’s got no connection. He gets paid zip.”
“Suit yourself,” said Clay. “Anything else?”
“Not right now. So what’s our deal?”
“One percent for New York, one-half for roads, no credit.”
“Fee?”
“No fee. Let’s consider my up-to-now salary my fee. And I’d like to stay with the show—for a while, anyway—if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Thanks.”
Clay left, and I had to listen to an indignant rehash of the whole meeting, told to me as if I had not been there. Then came a lecture on stupidity, followed by a long polemic on ingratitude, with a coda on the subject of this is a crazy world.
“A whackout like this Clay—what can I tell you? I don’t understand him at all. Not at all.”
“Of course he doesn’t understand him at all,” said Gene. “Clay could have been talking in Urdu so far as
he’s
concerned. He doesn’t understand the vocabulary of integrity or the syntax of honesty—it’s another language. May I dictate something?”
“Certainly.”
“I promise not to go too fast.”
“Ha ha.”
“My dear Mr. Clune It has come to my attention that there is some confusion as to the directorial credit on
Shine On, Harvest Moon
Para In view of the fact that no director has made substantial contributions since my departure perhaps you would consider restoring
my
credit Para Two conditions colon One dash that our present arrangement of no financial obligation on your part toward me be continued In other words comma our present understanding stands period Two dash that I come down and see a performance to determine if what is on the stage represents my concept period Best wishes Sincerely yours Space for signature then Larry Gabel in caps.”
“What makes you think Larry’d go for that?”
“He’d be foolish not to.”
“If he’s credited, wouldn’t his union make the management pay?”
“Probably. And he could kick it back. The aim is to save his credit.”
“I’ll be glad when this is over,” I said.
“I’ll be glad when we go to bed,” said Gene.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Tuesday, January 15
There will be a brief rehearsal Thursday at 3:00 P.M. Then the cast is invited by Mr. Belmonte to dinner at Louisa’s Restaurant. Our plan is to travel there in a group directly from rehearsal. We will provide the transportation to Georgetown. If for any reason anyone is unable to come, please tell Midge sometime during the course of the day.
I know I said earlier that we would probably not rehearse on Friday, but an important piece of restructuring has developed, which requires me to call a rehearsal at 3:00 P.M.
Mr. Balaban has canceled his Friday brush-up rehearsal of the Rector’s scene.
Clay Botsford
TROUBLE SLEEPING?
: Make yourself a cup of orange-flower tea. Drink it. Good night!
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“I firmly believe that an actor’s mental attitude is instantly conveyed to an audience. I further believe that an audience unconsciously appraises his character. It soon discovers if he is all actor or part man and its appraisal of his performance is more determined by its unconscious exploration of his unconscious than by any particular thing that he does. Invariably, the actors whom the public has loved have been people who in themselves possessed great lovable qualities. They were not people who, in their roles, assumed a lovable nature.”
Arthur Hopkins
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: GRACIE MILLS
(Minna Everleigh)
(To the tune of “Ohio” from WONDERFUL TOWN by Bernstein, Comden and Green. My first Broadway show. 1953. Understudied Rosalind Russell.)
“Why oh why oh why-oh
Why do they want my autobio
Why are they prying?
Should I be lying?
My life’s been a mess from the start!
Born in Alabama
Went on the stage
Big for my age
Tried not to cave in
But finally gave in
Traded it in for a part
I had to!
Thank God I still have my twat!”
There are now 16 days remaining before the New York opening.
The SSDC (Society of Stage Directors and Choreographers) does indeed insist on Larry’s having a contract and being paid, because he is now the accredited director of the show.
So this is how it works in The Temple of The Barracuda: Every week, Larry will be paid his royalty—a considerable amount, on these grosses. He will return it to Art. Art will give the money to Clay—who will give it to Larry!
About this last transaction, there was some argument—but Clay can be extremely firm at times, and this was one of those times. He said that unless Larry accepted the royalties—he (Clay) would give up the entire scheme.
“I don’t care,” said Clay, “what you do with it once you’ve got it. Throw it away, give it to The Actors Fund, anything you like—but you’re going to take it because it belongs to you and no one else.”
Gene, ever the practical one, worried about the tax aspects of these shenanigans. He phoned a tax expert in Chicago—who got it all straight, so that any questions asked of anyone by the IRS can be handled legitimately.
“The single arm of government,” said Gene, “with which I advise one and all not to horse around.”
We leave for New York on Sunday. The company flies. A few will go by bus. Gene wants to drive and take all day and enjoy the country. I am looking forward to it—the trip, I mean, not New York. That scares me now. Everyone is confident (overconfident?) but as Clay says, “Anything can happen—and usually does.”
But however I look at it—the whole adventure—the end is in sight.
It will take me a long time to digest it, understand it (if ever), use it.
It has been more than an experience—it has been a lifetime.
When I wrote up there “the end is in sight,” I kept going because I did not want to face what it means: the end of the show—at least, as far as I’m concerned—and more important—far, far more important—the end of Gene Bowman in my life.
I expect nothing of Gene and I am sure that that is exactly what I am going to get. Unlike most of the men in my life—he has no line whatsoever. He makes no promises, nor does he dangle intimations of a sweet future. He is not given to fulsome compliments, nor exaggerated statements. He is—what’s the word?
Real.
That’s the word. He is a real man. There are not many.
More. He is a gentleman, which means, at least to me, that he is thoughtful and considerate and sensitive. He is not in the least demanding. There have been times, of course, when lovemaking would have been something less than convenient. Most of my former partners have sulked through these times, conveying somehow that I, rather than Nature, was at fault. Gene accepts it with grace, and if anything, is even more attentive and tender and loving than usual.
I am impressed with his sense of what matters. Work comes first, yes—but he cares about food and drink and exercise and rest. He is interested in the condition of the air and earth and water. The basics. The fundamentals. He loves to make love.
He is a passionate feminist and is offended by the all-male crew and production organization.
“Sweet Jesus!” he said the other day with passion. “It turns out that the wardrobe mistress on the show is a man!”
“Yes.”
“And not one woman in the crew! Don’t tell me women couldn’t run the electrical board or do Clay’s job or Stu’s or handle the follow-spots. And don’t tell me that in every way, women are not more suited to the work done by property men. What’s the matter with you girls? Why do you take it? Why don’t you make more noise—insist on being integrated into the world’s work? What was it that my illiterate grandfather used to say? 'The squeaky wheel gets the grease.’ I’m afraid it’s true.”
“Who wants grease?” I said.
He went on, ignoring my feeble attempt at a joke. That’s him. He laughs hard at good jokes, ignores bum ones.
“There are more women in our country than there are men. Why doesn’t matter for the moment—but consider this: Out of nine justices on the Supreme Court bench, we have nine men. The Court, mind you, is the most powerful and important element in our structure. Frankfurter once said: 'The Constitution of the United States of America doesn’t mean what
you
think it means, and it doesn’t mean what
I
think it means, it means what The Supreme Court
says
it means.’ So that’s what we live by. All of us. You women included. But you’re not represented on the Court, and you should be. Thousands of cases come up—I used to cover the Court—that involve women in a special way, that involve matters of male-female relationship. A female point of view would be valuable. Where is it? Am I to believe that out of more than a hundred million women, there’s not
one
qualified for such a post? Ridiculous!”
“But what can we do? I mean, what can
I
do?”
“Raise hell! Be a squeaky wheel. What did they do up in Boston—at the Tea Party? Hell, if what I’ve just told you doesn’t spell 'taxation without representation,’ then I don’t understand the English language.”
Gene Gene Gene. I have been trying to fathom what it is that makes him such a superlative partner in sexual expression. I think about it a good deal, perhaps more than I should. Still, I know I am going to lose Gene and I want to have learned something from the experience. Who knows? Maybe it will be possible for me to convey some of it to someone else someday—in some way.
Partner. I suppose that’s the answer, the key.
He got to talking about the problems of the show the other night while we were getting ready for bed. He undressed slowly and deliberately, one article of clothing at a time. Often he stood, transfixed, holding a shoe or trailing his tie before continuing to pace about. He would disappear into the bathroom, but keep talking even while brushing his teeth. A large part of his peroration was delivered in the buff. It may have been this event that made me relate what he was saying to the larger and, to me, more important subject of sexual life, sexual balance, sexual stimulation, sexual gratification, sexual imagination, and sexual health.
“The trouble is,” he said, “that it’s not a successfully organized partnership. What we have here is a struggle for power—one of the most wasteful of all human activities. It removes energy from the work at hand. Take Hy—consider what percentage of his time he spends composing and what percentage selling, scheming, promoting, pressing. And most of the rest, too. Good creative work is more likely to result from cooperation than from competition, don’t you agree?”
“I do now.”
“The secret of a partnership—
any
partnership—lies in equality, in perfect balance. A junior partner is no partner at all. I mean a business, a baseball team, a marriage, a friendship. Don’t ever try close friendship with someone who’s above you in station or status—it won’t work. I suspect the Hy-Fred partnership leaves something to be desired. Hy is too strong for him, the dominant one. That’s why most of the changes and adjustments in the songs are in the lyrics and not in the music.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“You’ve seen marriages, haven’t you, where either the husband or the wife was clearly in charge?”
“Sure.”
“Well, they’re no good, those marriages, because—”
He went on talking, but I stopped listening because it was all too depressing. Everything he was saying seemed to be relating directly to me and my position with him. I fought to hold back tears. Didn’t he realize what he was doing to me? Or wait—was he deliberately getting me back onto this track of thinking to soften the blow that surely lay ahead?
“Don’t be so fucking neurotic!” I said.
“What?” asked Gene.
And I realized that what I had meant to say silently to myself, I had said aloud. I was properly embarrassed.
“Please,” I said. “I was talking to myself, not to you. It just came out.”
“Why do you think you’re neurotic—or as you so eloquently put it—so
'fucking
neurotic’?”
“Well…” I hesitated.
“Come on,” he urged. “Tell a pal.”
“I don’t know if—” I stopped again.
“Mark Twain once said, 'When in doubt, tell the truth.’ It’s a good rule. I’ve used it for years.”
I took a deep breath and told him I had begun to suspect that he was saying what he was saying for my benefit, to point out that he and I were not a suitable partnership.
He laughed. “Go stand in the corner,” he said. “Face to the wall. There’s
nothing
in what you say.
Less
than nothing. Say! Come to think of it—you
are
neurotic, or should I say
'fucking
neurotic’? I don’t mind—just so it isn’t the other way about!”
“You may have to have your mouth washed out with Ivory Soap,” I said.
“No,” he said, studying me. “You’re not neurotic. Far from it.”
“Shall I tell you the truth?” I asked. “I don’t even know what neurotic means. I say it, I hear it, but I really don’t know.”
He laughed. “Well, Mr. Freud, who invented the word, ought to know, and he once explained it this way: If an explorer and his wife are asleep in their tent in the middle of Central Africa, and she wakes him and says, 'Dear? I think there’s a snake under the bed,’ this woman is not necessarily neurotic. But if the same woman wakes the same man in the bedroom of their twenty-eighth-floor Park Avenue apartment, and says, 'Dear? I think there’s a snake under the bed’—this woman is
definitely neurotic!”
“Thank you,” I said. “And now would you mind looking under the bed?”
He did so, and went on. “If Larry could have achieved real cooperation—say the kind Ivan and Alicia enjoy, by the way, and look at
those
results!—it would have been so much easier and better. You know what makes Solti so great with our orchestra? He gets the musicians to play
together
—he gets each one of them to serve the whole piece. Me, I love the word 'together’—it has such profundity. Some words—”
I was off again. I did not mean to be or want to be, but all at once—there was the revelation for me. There was the explanation of why the bed we shared was not so much a bed as a paradise. Gene knew how to turn the greatest of all human adventures into a true partnership. Balance. Exchange. Just. Equal. Harmony. Mated. Fated. It had never occurred to me that it could be anything like this. I had always thought of it in terms of conquest and submission. Even the language surrounding it suggests that. “I’m going to fuck you!” Someone doing something
to
someone else is different from two people doing something
together.
The others had taught me—how?—to say or whisper or shout at the appropriate moment, “Fuck me! Oh, fuck me!” And I had obliged.
“Are you listening?” I heard him say.
“Of course.”
“Repeat the last sentence.”
“Wait a second,” I said, then recited: “‘The trouble is that it’s not a successfully organized partnership.’ Right?”
This time he
did
laugh. And while he was laughing, I examined his nakedness and my eyes found his private parts and marveled at the wonder that would soon be when they were transformed by love. Hold it. By love? Or by lovemaking? I love him, but are we in love? Do we share the state of love? Does he love me? I doubt it. He has never said so. I must keep all this clear in my mind. Why have we never talked about it? We have talked so much and so long about so many things—why have we never discussed love? I suppose because it is not discussible. Words would melt it, whatever it is.
He selected a pair of those flimsy white pajamas of his that drive me wild, put the top on, came to my side of the bed, leaned over, kissed me, kissed my ears, my neck, my nipples, my lips again, said, “Hello, partner,” removed his top, arranged the lights, got into bed beside me, held me, and waited until I conveyed that I needed him, that I was ready to receive him. My warm—no, hot—moistures waited patiently for Nature to begin its song.