Authors: Garson Kanin
I got Clay, who came out front and conferred with us in the darkness beneath the box.
“What happened?” asked Larry. “We thought it got off so well—we were celebrating.”
“She blew one laugh,” said Clay, “the goldfish line—inaudible—and panicked. Started punching everything and raising hell on and off—and well, you can see, a shambles. What can I do?”
“Tell her we’re watching. Tell her to trust the show and play it. Tell her to be Nora. Tell her if She doesn’t, I’ll walk down the aisle and stop the show and offer the audience their money back.”
“Wait a second, Larry,” said Gene. “You sure?”
“God Almighty,” said Larry. “We’ve tried everything else! Maybe rough stuff’ll work. Maybe I
will
stop the show and make a speech to the audience. What the hell? Why not? What have
I
got to lose?”
The Second Act came on and proved to be as unsettling an experience as I can remember. She did not one thing wrong, but not one thing right, either. She went through the motions—said each line, sang each song, but it simply was not there. Fortunately for the evening, the rest of the company did not pick up on this dead-ass note and played, under the circumstances, quite well.
But it was hard to watch, and toward the end of the act, we drifted out to the lobby and stood silently. What was there to say?
Art appeared, wild-eyed and incensed.
“You seen it? You been in there? She’s dumping on a million dollars—
my
million dollars. That son-of-a-bitch, I’ll
kill
her.”
Gene. “Easy, Art. She’s not doing it on purpose.”
“What do I care purpose or not purpose? She’s doing it! I mean, She’s
not
doing it! God damn amateur shit-ass!” He walked over to Larry, who was standing at the door, looking out onto 45
th
Street, which all at once, seemed to be the dreariest street in all the world. He touched Larry’s arm. “Larry?”
Larry, without looking at him. “Yes?”
“Can you help me? Will you?”
“I don’t know,” said Larry. “I don’t know if I can. Fact is, I’m pretty damned discouraged myself.”
“If you can’t, who can?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nobody.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want. Name it.”
Larry turned to him now and fixed him with a long look. “Don’t try to make a hooker out of me, Art. You’ve damaged me enough as it is. You can’t give me anything I want—because what I want is for this show to be a success. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I can so give you that!”
“How?”
“I can put you in charge, and do whatever you want.”
“You won’t do that.”
“You want it in writing?”
“What if it meant replacing Star?”
Art swayed silently and touched the wall for support.
“We open day after tomorrow! You talking postpone?”
“No. I’m talking going with her standby—Patti—if necessary.”
“No,
no!”
cried Art, hysterically. “We can’t. I couldn’t.”
“There you are, then,” said Larry, and began to walk back into the theatre through the long, long lobby. Art ran after him.
“Wait!” he called.
We all assembled, mid-lobby.
“Jesus Christ,” said Art, “I wish I was dead, I swear to God!”
“You didn’t quite understand me, Art. I’d
hate
to see this show without that nemesis of ours—”
“Then what
did
you mean?”
“I meant I have to have the power of last resort. This would be a killer—for her not to open. She could claim sick, sure, but we could claim not. We’ve got to put it to her straight: Play or else. But—and it’s a big but—if She decides to else we’ve got to be prepared. In other words, I won’t be party to a bluff. Any threat I make, any ultimatum I lay down—I’m going to back up. My reputation—such as it is, thanks to you—is at stake.”
“Take a chance, Art,” said Gene. “She’ll never walk.”
“What if She does?” asked Art, despondently. “What happens to the million and a half advance? I can see them now lined up from here to Ninth Avenue—getting their money back.”
“Not if the show gets over,” said Gene.
“But if it
doesn’t!
If it
doesn’t!
With her, at least we got the advance, no matter what!”
“All right, Art,” said Larry. “It’s up to you. Just don’t send me into battle with the odds against me.”
“Anyway, I can’t,” said Art. “Not right now. Tomorrow, maybe? I got the record boys I have to talk to, and Cindy, and the lawyers.”
“No good, Art,” said Larry. “I’m sorry to press, but if I’m going to operate, it has to be now—in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen!”
“We’ve got to hold the company—yes. Work tonight, work in the morning, maybe all day—we’ve got tomorrow’s show and one more, and that’s it before the balloon goes up.”
“Or down,” said Art.
“Well?” asked Gene.
“Go ahead,” said Art, defeated. “Do what you have to do. I’ll start phoning. That’s what
I
have to do.”
His retreating form was an etching of boneless misery.
Larry, conversely, looked like a man who had been given a shot of adrenalin.
He spoke to me. “Tell Clay company onstage right after. Costumes and makeup off. Clear stage. Call Gaiety. A hundred sandwiches, assorted, as soon as possible. Danish. Beer. Gene’ll help you.”
“Sure,” said Gene.
“Tell Clay to make it clear it’s going to be a long session. No one is excused. Also, the call tomorrow will be twelve hours from whenever we finish tonight. And get
me
some coffee
right now.”
He went back to the theatre.
“You go tell Clay,” said Gene. “I’ll do the food. But I’d better split it up, don’t you think? Three or four delis? Who can do a hundred on the spot?”
“Whatever you say, Gene. It may surprise you to know I’ve never had an assignment like this before.”
“Nor I, honey lamb, nor I!”
I went backstage and gave Clay the messages. The show was still on and he could not leave his spot. In between cues, he said, “O.K. Post it on the board. Big sign. Tell Wilbur on the door not to let anyone leave. They sneak out sometimes and claim they didn’t get the call. Xerox it, too—and paste one on every dressing-room door. Tell the dance captain and the Equity deputy. Hurry up!”
I got going at once. Gene came in.
“Did it all on the phone,” he said. “What’s to do here?”
“Paste one of these on each dressing-room door. Here’s the tape.”
“Got it.”
He went off, while I sought out Marti, the new dance captain, and Gracie, the deputy.
The word began to get around.
“What’s happening, beauty?” asked Aki. “Sounds like an all-nighter to me. Who’s comin’ in? Gower Champion?”
“Yes,” I said. “Also Hal Prince and George Balanchine and Elia Kazan and George Abbott and Billy Carter.”
“That oughta do it,” he said.
The minute the curtain fell on the final call, Clay was on the public-address system, announcing the assembly.
Rumors shot though the company, ranging from “postponing” through “closing” to “new director.”
By 10:50, everyone had made it back to the stage—with the expected exception of Star. Perhaps She was waiting for a special invitation, once the purpose of the gathering had been clear. At 10:55, Larry came down the aisle. As soon as the company saw him, recognized him, they burst into applause. Larry jumped up on the stage. The company went wild. The applause turned into cheers and whistling and stomping. An ovation. A riot.
Larry took it without a shred of false modesty. He just stood there, waiting for it to end. When it did, he said, “Thank you, all. As you can see, I’m back. Mr. Clune is not pleased with the way things are going, and I don’t suppose you are either. I know
I’m
not. Well, let’s face it. No one is.” He looks around. “Where’s our Nora?” he asked.
“Dressing room,” said Clay.
“Ask her to join us, won’t you?”
Clay went off. Larry waited. The company whispered among themselves, or conversed quietly. The atmosphere was understandably tense.
Clay returned with Val.
“She wants to see you in her dressing room,” said Val.
“There isn’t time,” said Larry. “Her whole company’s waiting for her.”
“One minute,” said Val.
“One minute?”
“One.”
Larry to the company. “Please excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be with you in one minute.”
He looked at his watch and went off with Val. I tried to resist the impulse to follow them, and failed. I followed them into her room as though I had been invited.
“What’s going on?” asked Star. And before Larry could reply, added, “I mean, what the
fuck’s
going on?”
“Art Clune has asked me to take over and get the show ready to open. It begins with a company meeting. Right now.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.”
“I just played a show, for Christ’s sake!”
“I know. And not very well. I can’t believe your listless performance in Act Two tired you out.”
“Look, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch,” She said, “something’s crazy’s happening. I don’t know what, but I warn you—” She stopped.
“You warn me about
what?”
“You wouldn’t
dare
come on strong if there wasn’t some goddamn plot, some scheme that—What the hell do you want?”
“I want you out on the stage right now, and before you refuse to rehearse, I advise you to read your contract or have someone read it for you.” He looked at his watch, then at Val. “That’s one minute,” he said, and walked out.
“Sorry,” he said to the company. “To begin at the beginning, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that—after all your diligent work for the past twenty-one weeks—you should’ve been subjected to the past two rocky nights. A common thing happened. You let the audience take charge of our show—instead of you taking charge of the audience. What’s more—”
At this point, Star came out onto the Stage, dressed for the street. Beside her was Val; just behind her, Alan Balaban (no relation), her business manager; Bernard Foley, her attorney. Bringing up the rear, Bonnie, her theatre maid; Ronnie, her hairdresser; and Bud Westman, her personal press agent. The entrance of Star and her entourage was so spectacular that the company first laughed, then applauded. This reaction so confused Star that She said nothing. She and her team found chairs at some distance from the rest of us. They seemed to be visitors—or a distant colony.
Larry continued. “What’s more, you all seem to have lost confidence in yourselves and in the show. Well, your reasons for the former are your own business, but I can assure you that there is no cause for the latter. For weeks, this show—having found itself after a torturous and torturous search—played beautifully and gave audiences pleasure. Now, for a variety of reasons—the Big Apple, new theatre, preopening nerves, unresponsive audiences—you’ve been thrown. Have any of you ever been to the second night of a show that got raves? Hands, please. Well, have you noticed how the company plays it like a hit, they know they’re a hit, they’ve been told they’re a hit—they’re convinced! And what about the second night of a show that’s been bombed? Do you notice what’s happened to
that
company? They’re beaten, defeated. Now look here—you people haven’t been rapped, not yet. In fact, you’ve been highly praised. You’ve played this show—
this same show
—with enormous success. And you will again, as soon as you get your collective mind on one thing, and that is: tell the
story—
play your
parts
, not yourselves—mean what you say when you say it.” He moved a step toward Star. “Most of it depends on you, dear. Do you remember—it seems a long time ago—we were all on this stage, sitting around like this, and I told the company what I thought of you, how tremendous you were and how we were counting on you to carry this whole show on those beautiful little shoulders? Do you?”
“Yes,” She said, and began to cry softly.
“You’re rattled,” said Larry. “And fatigued. I won’t keep you long, just long enough to—”
Star pitched forward out of her chair and lay stiff on the floor in a dead faint. Larry was at her side in an instant. Val and Alan moved toward her.
“Get away!” Larry yelled. “Stay away! I’ll do this.”
Clay came running in with a first-aid kit. He handed Larry two ammonia capsules. Larry broke one of them under her nose. She jerked her head away and moaned. She began to get to her feet.
“Not yet,” said Larry. “Lie still.”
“Don’t tell
me
what to do, you show-off jerkoff. Lemme out of here.”
“The girl is sick!” Val shouted to the company. “You all saw her faint.”
Alan. “We’re taking her to Doctors Hospital for the night.”
Bud. “Please don’t anyone say anything to
anyone!
It could have a very bad box-office effect.”
All at once, Larry laughed out loud. “Holy Jesus!” he said. “What needs rehearsal is
your
act—not this show! If there’s one thing in the world I can’t abide, it’s amateur acting.” To Star: “And that faint, Missy, was a mess. One of the phoniest I’ve ever seen!”
She took a step toward him, slapped him a hard crack!—and stalked off, followed by her gang in disarray.
At this point, the food began to arrive, adding to the confusion, and a few minutes later, Art, with an armful of those inevitable
presents!
“Have a bite, people,” said Larry. “We’ll reassemble in a short while.”
Art came over to Larry, handed him a small long box, and said, “Welcome home, Larry.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s going on? Did She leave, or what?”
“You missed a great show,” said Larry. “Fake fainting and everything.”
“What’s their game?”
“Protection. In case She wants to threaten to skip a show or two—She’s protected.”
“Oh, my God!”
“So we don’t have to worry anymore about do we maybe replace her. She may replace herself.”
“Oh, my God!”
“My guess is yes. My guess is She’s going to punish you and stay off tomorrow night.”
“Oh, my God!”
“So the practical thing to do is get Patti ready.”
A mini-conference in Star’s dressing room. Patti, Larry, Clay, and Maurice. Could Patti wear these clothes? Fortunately, yes. Wigs, with a little adjustment. Shoes, no—but she can wear her own shoes.