Authors: Garson Kanin
C
LAY
: From here on in, you’re on your own.
H
Y
: Thanks. You put a hole in the boat and jump out.
C
LAY
: No, no. But—not my job, Hy.
(
H
Y
laughs)
H
Y
: The hell of it is you’re right—a hundred and one percent right. I’ve known it all along—but I couldn’t come up with what you say. Listen, now maybe I can. You know how long it is since I’ve felt free—or good? Or up?
(He gets up and goes to the piano)
What happened next is astonishing. Hy began to play songs of the turn of the century. I recognized some of them: “Call Me Up Some Rainy Afternoon,” “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” “Everybody’s Doin’ It Now.”
“Berlin!” he called out, “all Berlin. Think of it!”
He followed this with a tune I had never heard—played it through twice, and said, “Me!”
He then went into a medley of still more period songs: “Too Much Mustard,” “Get Out and Get Under,” “Dardanella,” but soon was interspersing these with inventions of his own. He played for an hour and a half. Patti brought him a drink now and then, kissed him, and ended up sitting on the piano bench beside him. They looked like a very happy couple indeed.
Finally, Hy left the piano, stopped by our table, and said to Clay, “I’ll have something for you. I’m going to the hotel now—score paper and Fred. Here, take care of things.” He dropped a $100 bill on the table, took Patti’s arm, and left.
“You have just seen,” said Clay, “a little history made. What a man!”
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Tuesday, January 22
HALF-HOUR
: Members of the company are reminded that they are required to be in the theatre at half-hour. In a company of this size, it is not possible to make exceptions or allowances. Of necessity, the half-hour rule will be strictly enforced.
Don’t
sign in and then leave the theatre!
TICKETS
: The management is making available, with its compliments, two pairs of seats for the first preview performance to each member of the company. Opening-night tickets are in your names at the Box Office now.
REHEARSAL
: “Jump for Joy” (new number) will be rehearsed in the Chorus Room at 4:00 P.M. today. You will be dismissed promptly at 5:00 P.M.
RUNNING TIME
: Act II was three minutes shorter at Monday’s preview.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: AKI FUKADO
(Sound)
I was born in Los Angeles. So was my father. So was my mother. But in 1942, at the age of 14, I found myself, along with many others—interned. A camp near Scottsdale, Arizona. Had I been older, I would have been drafted along with my two brothers. Looking back, it all seems mad. Anyway, at the camp, very little to do so fooled around with radio and wire recording and so on. Finally, we got permission to set up a camp radio station. FM 104.6. By the time we were released, I was one hell of a sound man. MIT. Went to work for Buzz Reeves in New York and was in on the ground floor when amplification hit the legitimate theatre. The thing I can’t figure out is—is this a success story or what?
QUOTATIONS FOR TODAY
:
“If it weren’t for the married men we couldn’t have carried on at all and if it weren’t for the cheating married women we would have earned another million.”
Minna Everleigh
“I talk with each applicant myself. She must have worked somewhere else before coming here. We do not like amateurs. Inexperienced girls and young widows are too prone to accept offers of marriage and leave. We always have a waiting list.”
Minna Everleigh
There are now 9 days until our New York opening.
New York. The first preview last night. A bomb. Everyone is in a state of shock. Everything that could go wrong went wrong.
Larry came, as
himself!
All parties outwardly pleasant and cordial.
After the catastrophe, a long meeting onstage with the entire staff, except Larry.
Each one had a different story: Wrong audience. Wrong theatre. Wrong sound equipment. Wrong lighting.
Gene and I could hardly wait to get up to Larry’s place to hear what
he
thought. He was calm and unruffled.
“Nothing serious,” he said. “She just got off to a bad start—stumbled and never regained her balance. It happens to prizefighters sometimes. Damn! I wish I could talk to Star.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Gene, coolly.
Larry smiled. “Because God won’t let me.”
“I think you should talk to her and to anyone else you think. And it won’t surprise me one damn bit if that’s what all of them want at this moment.”
“Why?”
“They’re terrified. Stunned. I know
I
am. Who knows
what
to do?”
“I’ll talk to Clay. I think I can convey a lot through him.”
“You already have, Larry. But it’s different now. We’re in a crisis—all of us. Sure, you can tell Clay and Clay can tell her—but I doubt She’ll be able to listen. She’s thrown. That audience
hated
her tonight—not right from the start, mind you. From the start, they just disliked her intensely. By the end of the evening, they hated her. Why?”
“Two reasons,” said Larry. “To begin with, they were a benefit—traditionally unresponsive. She’s accustomed to everything in Scene One going like wildfire, and when it didn’t, She made the inexperienced player’s classic error—She started pressing. Then the harder She pressed, the less they responded. That kind of effort has the effect of patronizing them—treating them like children or unintelligent adults.”
“I noticed that,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out what She was doing—trying to do.”
“It’s contagious,” said Larry. “So pretty soon, She had the whole company overdoing and working too hard, and everything started falling out of the window—all the charm and humor and warmth. It became a vulgar effortful slam-bang enervating evening. Someone once described the theatre as a place you go in depressed, and come out exhausted. Well, that was last night.”
“Will Clay know all this?” asked Gene.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Idea,” said Gene. “Let’s go back to my place. They must be calling every three minutes. Come on. We can get some food and deal with it there. They probably think I'm on my way back to Chicago, and who could blame me?”
Why were we all so merry in the taxi on the way to the Algonquin? Did we sense that because of the unforeseen crisis, Larry would have to be put back in charge? Did we believe in his analysis? Was it—at last—justice? Whatever, we were in a rollicking mood.
Gene was right. In his box at the Algonquin desk—a dozen or more messages. Call Mr. Clune. Mr. Balaban called. Clay. Clay. Call Mr. Clune. Hy. Call Mr. Clune, urgent. And so on.
Gene ignored them all and phoned Star. He got Val. “Now look, Val,” he said, “we don’t have time for a lot of feckless nonsense. Just put her on and don’t give me a hard time. We’re
all
in trouble. She more than the rest of us. After all, She’s got to stand up there in front of the world and take it—the rest of us are safe in the dark. We can walk out or go home even—but not her. She’s up there, so put her on before I hang up.” A long wait. “Hello, Pussy. I’m sorry you had such a rough night, but all is not lost if you’ll listen to me and—Look, dear, crying is not going to help. Cry next week after you’ve opened. Right now, I’ll tell you what to do—get into a cab and come over here. I’d like to say 'alone,’ but I know that’s impossible, so bring him, but tell him to keep quiet—the minute
he
starts, our meeting is over…All right. Algonquin. Twelve-oh-seven, eight. Bring food. We’ll be here awhile, and I know there’s nothing here
you’ll
eat. Hurry up.”
Larry was amazed.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.
“I
won’t,” said Gene. “I’ve been around more people up against the wall than you have—they share a single characteristic: helplessness. If you’re going down for the third time, you don’t give a damn
who
drags you out of the water. I’ve had guys who’d threatened to kill me appeal for help when the heat became intense. Shouldn’t we get Clay, too?”
“You bet,” said Larry.
Clay sent for.
We ate. Club sandwiches and red wine.
“Let’s stay off the hard stuff for a couple of hours,” Gene had suggested. “Later—if there
is
a later—we’ll go to the Brasserie and drink properly, with real food.”
“Have you got a script?” Larry asked.
“No,” said Gene, “but I have seventeen.”
“I’ve got mine,” I said, and gave it to Larry, who studied it until Clay arrived.
“That audience!” he said, as he came in.
“They were matched by the company,” said Larry. “Let’s not waste time arguing about did the audience poison the players or the players the audience. We can’t rehearse the audience—but we
can
do something about the company.”
“Right,” said Clay. “I think I lost eleven pounds tonight.”
Star arrived. Val carried her little picnic basket. They were both flummoxed by Larry’s presence.
“What’re
you
doing here?” asked Val.
Gene to Star: “Didn’t I tell you to tell him to hold his tongue?”
“What
is
this shit?” Val yelled. “I can’t ask a simple question?”
“No, you can’t,” yelled Gene, outshouting him. “Now sit down and shut up and feed your baby.”
Star gave Val a look. He sat down and shut up. It was awful, seeing a grown man humiliated and humbled, but I could whip up no compassion for him. I could remember only too well this sweating, grunting animal jumping on me and tearing my clothes.
Star did not look well. She never seems very delectable with her makeup off—but tonight her face was blotched and the area around her eyes red and puffed.
“Is it all right if
I
ask?” asked Star.
“Ask what?”
“What’s
he
doing here? Larry Gabel?”
A silence, broken by Clay.
“I’ll tell you. Under the circumstances, no reason you shouldn’t know. Larry Gabel has been directing you, directing the show, for the past two and a half weeks.”
Star couldn’t get her mouth closed. Val couldn’t get his open. It was clear he wanted to speak, but he did not dare.
“What happened tonight?” asked Star. “Or what didn’t happen? Do you think you know? What a night! A
nightmare.”
“Sit down, love,” said Gene. “Relax. Give her some food, Val.”
Val spent the next ten minutes serving Star her food out of the picnic basket. Plastic boxes and bottles and containers of various shapes and sizes. Odd-colored liquids and curious mélanges of chopped vegetables and nuts and fruits and mushrooms and bits of matzo. Star ate and drank and listened.
“It happens,” said Larry. “Very often on a move from one theatre to another or from one city to another. Some curious change in a whole variety of imponderables. The sound, the lights, the shape of the theatre.”
“No, no,” She said. “This time it was the audience. They hated it. They hated me.”
“Wrong,” said Larry. “It didn’t go as well as it’s gone, but that’s because you didn’t play it as well.”
“I certainly did.”
“Missy, listen,” said Larry. “This is no time for defiance. I don’t
have
to do this. You may have
thought
you played it as always—but you’re not in a position to know. I am. I saw it from the front. Now, let’s start with a fact. This performance didn’t go. Got that? This performance didn’t go. And that’s all it means—nothing more, nothing less. It doesn’t mean that the show died or got sick. It doesn’t mean that your superb talent deserted you overnight. It just means that this performance didn’t go. And that’s all.”
“O.K., but why?
Why?”
“Patience, baby, patience. Now, look, I’m not God and I'm not infallible, and may be wrong, but I
think
I know, and if you’ll bear with me and listen and take in and digest it—maybe we’ll make some progress. René Clair once said he had a theory and could prove it: The theory is that no one listens to anyone. I hope we can change that here tonight.”
“I’m listening,” She said.
“Fine. Now, look. There’s an
enormous
difference between a Vegas performance and a performance of this show.”
“I know that. So what else is new?”
Larry rose. “You’re hardly in a position to be hostile, dear. And if you continue—you can take your trade elsewhere. You’re like someone drowning, and beating off someone trying to save them.”
“Drowning,” She yelled. “Me?”
“Damn right! You
flopped
tonight—so the first thing to do is face the fact and see if you can keep from flopping again tomorrow night.”
“What if I don’t go on tomorrow night?”
“That’s up to you—but what’ll
that
prove?”
“Go ahead. What?”
“You sometimes make a basic mistake. You think the audience loves you for yourself—when the fact is that they only love you for your talent.”
“Did you hear that?” asked Gene.
“Sure,” She said. “I’m not deaf.”
“Did you understand it?”
“Of course. What’s to understand?”
“One more question. Do you believe it?”
She looked confused and troubled, then said, “I don’t know. All I know is I work my ass off every night.”
Larry. “No one doubts that, honey. Believe me. But effort isn’t what pays off. What was wrong tonight was that there was too much you and not enough Nora. In fact, as long as we’re playing the truth game, let’s say it out: it was
all
you—so the scenes made no sense and there was no story to follow, no character to get involved with, no emotion, no suspense—just one number after another, each one noisier and more demanding.”
“So what should I do?”
“Be Nora!” Larry yelled. “Sing like Nora, think like her, don’t think of yourself or of scoring or making a hit—the hell with all that. Trust the show and the story—you had it going great toward the end there in Washington.”
She began to cry again, but spoke through her tears. “I did that tonight—be Nora—and it was going for nothing. Jesus! I could feel the flop sweat oozing out all over me, so—”
“So you threw the show into the ashcan and gave ’em the ol’ soft shoe.”
“I what?”
“You fell back on what you thought was sure-fire—hell, it always has been. All your vocal tricks and personality traits and gimmicks and schtick—they didn’t work because they didn’t fit! Sweetie, listen, I feel for you—I understand you, I admire you—all this in spite of the fact that you’ve treated me disgracefully. But that doesn’t matter now. I don’t matter. You don’t matter. The only thing that matters is the show. You can do it! You can do it brilliantly—but only by playing the part, not by trying to sell your dear little adorable self. The most dangerous disease an actress can contract is 'Please-love-me-itis.’ It kills more actresses than alcohol. Play your part, and if the part’s any good, you’ll be any good. If the part’s great—like this one is—
you’ll
be great. The show is there; all you’ve got to do is
play
it. You didn’t play it tonight, that’s all that happened.”
She had finished her food. Val came over to her to get the basket. As he did so, he said softly, “He’s right. One hundred percent.”
She smiled sweetly at him and said, “Fuck off!”
“Don't tell me fuck off just because I tell you he’s right.”
“What do
you
know about it, you pisshead? You came back and told me how
great
everything was.”
“Because I wanted to cheer you up. I knew it was E-G-G!”
“Go home, Val.”
“I’ll go home,” he said, “when I’m goddamn good and ready!”
“You want to know something, Val? You’re goddamn good and ready right
now!
Now fuck off before I lose my temper!”
They exchanged a high-voltage look that lasted for a full minute. Val started out.
“And take the basket!” She screamed.
Moving like an automaton, Val returned, picked up the basket, and left.
“So,” She said. “Less me and more Nora. And then what?”
“That should do it,” said Larry.
“I can’t believe it,” She said. “I’ll do it—I’ll try—but I can’t believe that’s the whole thing.”
“It isn’t.”
“What about everybody else? Christ, that creepy Calvin. What happened to
him?
He was so campy, he made me feel like a man or a dyke. He was—you know what he was?—
cute!”
“He wasn’t at his best, I’ll agree to that,” said Gene.
“Star, dear, listen,” said Larry. “A show is a game of Follow-the-Leader.
You
set the tone,
you
set the style—when you’re on the ball and have your character and your precision—the rest of the company follows and falls into place. But when it gets to be a contest as to who’s going to make the biggest score—who’s going to steal the show—it usually turns out there’s nothing to steal.”
“What can I tell you?” She said. “I’ll try. Is there going to be a rehearsal, Clay?”
“I would advise against it,” said Larry. “A day of rest would do you all more good.”
“Fine,” said Star.
“And if you like,” said Larry to Star, “I’ll come over to your place and we can talk some more, maybe a few specifics, not many, but mostly about Nora Bayes and her life—parts of it that aren’t in the show, but ought to be in you. Gene, could you join us?”
“Sure, Larry,” said Gene.
Why did his swift agreement make me so happy? It meant that I would lose him for the whole day—one of the last of our days. Yet I was excited and delighted at the planned session because I had faith that it would be good for the show, and all at once I realize how involved I am with its life and with its troubles.