Authors: Garson Kanin
A bombshell today. Hy Balaban has left Rachel.
“I don’t believe it,” said Art when he heard the news. “She’s worth over thirty million bucks, f’Chrissake. I checked her out. A man doesn’t leave thirty mil.
She
left
him
, maybe—that I can buy—but not him her. I don’t believe it. Hy’s a practical, sensible operator. He’d know how to square any beef. Did they say why?”
Larry to Gene: “I understand from Fred that Mrs. Balaban—the soon-to-be
ex
-Mrs. Balaban—had gotten to be more and more involved with their work. In the beginning, Fred says, she was never around. Later, they used to do the numbers for her first—before anyone else—and she’d invariably say, 'Greatest song I ever heard. By far your best.’ After a while, she began to get critical—especially if she didn’t think the song had a chance to be a Number One. Then on
this
show, she started making suggestions—usually for the lyrics, and that led to musical ideas. At first, Hy joked about it, then he got uptight. It led to little spats and a lot of bickering. Then, when Star started doing 'Big Town’ by herself, without Sammy—Rachel raised the roof and said it was lousy and ought to come out of the show, and when finally Hy told her to mind her business, she packed up and took the Rolls and went back to New York.”
“Well,” said Gene, “that does sound like
she
walked out on
him.”
“No,” said Larry, “Fred tells me there were a few more screamers on the phone, and finally one morning, she called him seven times and he told her not to come back—definitely—that if she did, he’d belt her. The he heard him call The Pierre and make a reservation, and Steinway to move his piano over there, and that, he said, was like cutting the umbilical cord.”
“You wanna hear something that’ll make you say
'No!!’?”
asks Sammy.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Patti.”
“What about her?”
“She’s moved in with Hy.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“Who says?”
“Frankie.”
“Who’s Frankie?”
“The bellhop who moved her in. I didn’t even ask him. He told me. And
I’m
telling
you.
I don't know why. Enjoyable, I guess. I like it when pros stick with pros and stay off the civilians. Civilians make me nervous. 'Don’t you get sick of doing the same thing night after night?’ I say to them, 'Not any sicker than
you
get screwing night after night.’ And how about that, 'Does makeup hurt your skin?’ Or, 'Is it hard to remember all those lines?’ Or, 'I didn’t like it much—except you, of course—you were fantastic. They gave you a real good part, didn’t they?’ And how about when they complain and say, 'I don’t know. It was
pretty
good. But it dragged a little in the middle of the Second Act. It definitely dragged.’ Some woman once made the mistake of saying that to George S. Kaufman. He said to her, 'I know, lady, that you woke up this morning with a bang, and took an enchanting walk to the bathroom and had a thrilling pee, then a scintillating breakfast, and an exciting hour getting dressed. And then a morning filled with the pulsating, rhythmic beat of life, with ordering the groceries, and shopping, and a hilarious lunch, and a breathtaking trip to the dentist, and a bouncing cocktail party and enthralling dinner, and then the First Act not too bad until—
hell!
I provided a second act that dragged a little in the middle and
ruined
your whole God-damned day!’ No, listen, Hy’s better off. She was a drag, if you ask me. Although I must admit, she had a rare talent—she could say the wrong thing at the wrong time more often than anybody I’ve ever met.”
“She thought she had a right to say
anything—
her bankroll being what it was. They’re often like that, rich people.”
“I don’t like rich people,” said Sammy. “They’ve got too much money.”
Creamed chipped beef at The Automat with Jenny.
“The surprise to me is not that they split, but that they stuck as long as they did. What a match! An artist should never be for sale. He has to sell his work, sure—but he must never sell himself.” I said absolutely nothing.
I nodded in agreement, but of course, I couldn’t help thinking, Look who’s talking.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jenny said, “I know. Me. Different. He's established. Anyway—a lot of us know what's right and do what's wrong. Convenience, expediency. In my case, a crisis. But I like to think that I haven't made it on ass, I've made it on talent. Also, mine is as temporary as a cold sore—and just about as much fun. His was permanent—at least, that was the commitment. And I’ll tell you—the years they were married, his stuff was off. I know it well—I can sing it all—I was a fan of Hy Balaban’s before I even met him. In Texas, dancing school, most of the routines were built around Hy Balaban or Richard Rodgers show tunes. I admire the little screwball. But lately, the stuff’s been facile and not only derivative, but repetitive—copying himself—a sure sign that a composer’s getting tired. That goddamn social life he’s been leading—his picture in
WWD
all the time—who cares? Did you know she’d employed a press agent for the two of them? But in his life—the real life—nothing mattered except what he did on the score paper. So maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing all around. Maybe he’s got his balls back. Maybe we’ll start to hear some Hy Balaban tunes again.”
Finally, Hy himself. He came into The Lamplight after the show tonight. Patti was with him. I was there with Clay. They stopped at our table.
H
Y
: How’s everything here?
M
E
: You call this a rare hamburger?
(
H
Y
leans over, splits my hamburger with a fork)
H
Y
: Absolutely not! A disgrace! Here!
(
He picks up my plate and takes it right through the swinging doors into the kitchen
)
P
ATTI
: What a nut!
(
H
Y
returns)
H
Y
: Won’t be a moment, madam.
C
LAY
: Join us?
H
Y
: God, I thought you’d never ask. Slide over.
(He and
P
ATTI
join us in the booth)
C
LAY
: Marvelous show tonight. I know one can’t judge it all by the clock—but we ran six minutes shorter tonight with the same show as last night.
P
ATTI
: And bigger laughs and longer hands.
H
Y
: It’s moving, that’s all—moving.
(The waiter comes over.
H
Y
and
P
ATTI
order drinks and food)
C
LAY
: You’re looking very well, Hy.
H
Y
: Why not? I just lost a hundred and ten pounds.
P
ATTI
: And that’s without the jewelry.
H
Y
: With, it’s
two-
ten. Crazy, isn’t it? A guy sits down somewhere and writes Act One, Scene One—and can’t have any idea what that’s going to cause in the way of happiness or misery or life and death or marriage and divorce—suicide, sometimes. Nine years ago, we let a dancer out of a show of mine, the most beautiful Asian girl I’ve ever seen—from Thailand, I think, or Indonesia, someplace like that. We couldn’t help it. She was ruining the line of girls—you couldn’t look at anything but her. So stunning. So we had to let her out. She said goodbye to everybody—hugs, kisses—went home to The Rehearsal Club on Fifty-third Street, got into a tubful of warm water, and opened her veins with a razor blade. Anything can happen. Girls get knocked up—well, not so much now as they used to. Once in a while—the real thing—two people who wouldn’t have met otherwise—if not for the show—they meet, they fall in love, they get married, and who knows what?
C
LAY
: All that’s quite true. Scary and wonderful. But for me, what’s even more interesting is how every company becomes a family. In time, there’s a kind of father and mother, drunken uncle, backward children, precocious ones, goody-goodies, juvenile delinquents, wayward girls. Family fights, family feuds. I guess that’s why closings are so sad—the death of a whole family.
H
Y
: I take it you kids have heard my big news.
M
E
: Part of it.
H
Y
: The whole story is that it was a mistake from the start. It took this show to prove it. She was my third time around, Rachel. So I guess you could say that in the marriage game, I have struck out.
M
E
: Isn’t there a saying, “Third time, lucky”?
H
Y
: There was. Cut it.
(More drinks are served. Who ordered them?)
P
ATTI
:
(To
H
Y
)
Iggy, keep an eye on me. I’ve got a matinee tomorrow. One more after this, and that’s it.
H
Y
: Funny. Rachel never drank at all. Not even wine. She said alcohol made wrinkles.
P
ATTI
: I don’t believe it. I’d look like a prune by now.
(Food arrives. We begin to eat. Everyone is hungry)
H
Y
: I’d like some frank talk. Everybody game?
P
ATTI
: Wait a second. Frank talk about
what?
H
Y
: About the show, what else?
P
ATTI
: Oh, the show! Fine.
H
Y
: Question: What’s still wrong with it? Never mind what’s right. We all know what’s right. What’s wrong? Midge, you.
M
E
: Why me?
H
Y
: You’re the newest to the business—maybe nearest to the audience point of view.
M
E
: I love it.
H
Y
: But not every minute—you
couldn’t.
For years, I wondered how
Oklahoma
could have been such a hit with that “Poor Jud” number in it. Maybe nobody had the nerve to speak up and say it was no good. Bad spots in every show—
My Fair Lady, A Chorus Line—
whatever. We’re so good, I wish we could be perfect.
M
E
: I don’t think the audience hears all the words—I mean, they hear, but they don’t
understand
all the words.
H
Y
:
(Annoyed)
So what? You understand everything you hear in
life,
f’Chrissake?
C
LAY
: Come on, Hy—you asked her and she told you, so why get mad?
H
Y
: I asked for constructive.
P
ATTI
: There’s a definition I heard once someplace: “A nervous person is a person who makes other persons nervous.”
H
Y
: So?
P
ATTI
: By that definition, mister—
you
are a nervous person.
H
Y
: You know why people can’t hear, can’t understand? Because they don’t listen. This goddamn mechanical world. Hell, when I started in the theatre, nobody ever
heard
of a mike. And we were in these same theatres. And everybody heard everything. Then comes radio and movies and TV—and everything blares, and if you want it louder even, you turn up the sound. So people used to having it belted at them with amplification get lazy in the ears. Next thing you know, they’ve got to have it in every legitimate house—even small ones.
(To me)
So don’t blame us. It’s
your
fault.
M
E
: Mine?
H
Y
: The public’s. Jesus! Look at The Met. Biggest house in New York. Over three thousand seats. Has anybody ever seen a mike there? Of course not.
(To me, again)
That understanding you talk about, I mean that
not
understanding—it’s the goddamn speakers. This chintzy cheapskate wouldn’t go for the best quality—so we get distortion.
C
LAY
: Tell you what I’ll do, Hy. I’ll order a whole new set of speakers. I promise you. They’ll be in next week.
H
Y
: He won’t go for it.
C
LAY
: He won’t
know.
H
Y
: Why not?
C
LAY
: I won’t tell him. There won’t be any trouble, and if there is, we’ll double-talk our way out of it.
H
Y
: I love you.
C
LAY
: Now ask
me
what I think the show still needs.
H
Y
: Go. What do
you
think our little show needs?
C
LAY
:
Up
tunes.
(Quickly)
And don’t give me a list of what we
do
have. I know. I hear the score every night. Night after night. And I love it—but it needs the spice and seasoning of at least two more jump-tunes, thigh-slappers, hand-clappers. You asked me, so I’m telling you—we’re ballading them to death.
H
Y
: By the way, I asked you because you asked me to ask you.
C
LAY
: Otherwise, you might not have.
H
Y
: Suppose you’re right. There’s no
room
—everybody’s hollering for cuts as it is.
C
LAY
: I know. You’d have to drop two ballads.
H
Y
: Which two? Which
one,
even?