Authors: Garson Kanin
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Monday, September 10
PRODUCTION STAFF:
Clay Botsford: Production Supervisor
Stuart Bender: Stage Manager
Phil Rosenberg: Musical Director
Henry Wadsworth: Company Manager
Buddy Rice is assisting Miss Flagg
Patti Rolph will be the Dance Captain
Until further notice, Jenny Flagg plans to rehearse on an 11:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M. schedule.
LINGO
: Please, if you can avoid it, don’t use the word “cross,” nor the words “enter” or “exit.” Thinking in these terms eventually leads to artificiality. In life, we move, walk, sit, stand, and so on, but we seldom cross. L.G.
PUNCTUALITY
: Due to our full schedule, it is absolutely essential that all members of the company be absolutely punctual for all calls, rehearsals, run-throughs, fittings, etc.
PREPARATION
: Mr. Gabel would greatly appreciate immediate attention to line and lyric learning. This is in our mutual interest, since much more can be gained from the rehearsals if time is not used for the private and mechanical job of committing words to memory. It is our plan to make no changes in text or lyrics after Friday night, September 14. Please let’s have any queries or notions before that time.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: HENRY WADSWORTH
(Company Manager)
I write under protest and at the persuasive insistence of Miss Maghakian.
I come from Christmas Cove, Maine, where I was born on December 5, 1895. When I survived that winter, it was clear that I was indestructible. I owe my longevity to the harsh climate of my birth which fortified me against all slings and arrows—including two World Wars and 119 theatrical productions.
I began as a part-time usher at The Lyceum in Providence, Rhode Island, while attending Brown University. My father was a physician and wished me to follow in his forceps, but when I developed a syndrome of fainting with some regularity during my pre-med training, I abandoned it as unsuitable. My father was dismayed but resigned. After service in WWI, I became Assistant Manager of The Lyceum (2 years), Manager (4 years), and afterward got my first show: SCRAMBLED WIVES. I have worked in every state of the union with the exception of North Carolina (odd!). I have known the best and the worst. I have been associated with Minnie Maddern Fiske, Winthrop Ames, Winchell Smith, John Golden, Lee Shubert, Florenz Ziegfeld, Max Gordon, and many others. I was on two shows with Nora Bayes (ever hear of her?), SNAPSHOTS OF 1921 and a revival of LITTLE MISS FIX-IT.
War is, by and large, more peaceful than the theatre.
What I observe mainly after all these years is how everything that happens has happened before, in one form or another. There are few surprises.
I have seen this show before (in a way) and I have seen all of you before, and if I live long enough, I will most assuredly see you all again.
SPECIALTIES
: We would very much like to know about any special talents in the company. If you can play a musical instrument, speak a foreign language, whistle, ride a unicycle, stand on your head, or imitate four Hawaiians, please convey this intelligence as soon as possible to Clay Botsford. This is a Show Business show, and we can probably use everything if we know about it in time.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
George M. Cohan to Spencer Tracy:
“Whatever you do, kid, always serve it with a little dressing.”
There are now 32 rehearsal days until our opening night in Boston.
Production meeting. Present: Larry, Art Clune, Hy, Fred, Phil, Chris, Russ, Buddy, Ivan and his young wife-assistant Nadia, Clay, Jenny, Val, Nick, Stu, Alicia, Aki, and Millie. Absent: Paul Cooley and Cindy Sapiro. Larry is talking.
“I know that some of you—maybe even
many
of you—feel these sessions are a waste of your time. Obviously, I don’t agree. But we’re going to have a lot of them, so I advise you all to get used to them and what’s more, to use them.
“As you all know, I am a democrat—both small and big D—except when I do a show. Then I become a Dictator—both small and big D. By that I mean only this: I’m going to make the final decisions on each and every one of the thousand questions a day that come up.
“I’m trying to be—as you can see—a
benevolent
dictator. No, listen. No kidding. Let me see if I can make it plain. I want—no, I
need
—everything every one of you has to contribute. I want everyone’s ideas and, yes, even criticisms. What I’m saying is that after we’ve all had our say, one person has to make the decision and that’s that. I’m talking, needless to say, about artistic and creative matters. Anything to do with business, budget, money, bookings, advertising, PR, and the like is not my concern—nor should it be yours. I’m sure in such esoteric areas, we’re all willing to defer to Our Leader, Art Clune.”
Art applauds loudly—he is the only one—and shouts, “Hear! Hear!”
Larry again. “Would anyone here seriously propose that the artistic and creative decisions with respect to our show should be made by committee? By majority rule?”
A
LICIA
: It’s been done.
L
ARRY
: Where? When?
A
LICIA
: When I worked with Joan Littlewood—in the East End.
L
ARRY
: You don’t say.
A
LICIA
: The whole company had a say.
L
ARRY
: Well, all I can say is—if you don’t like this country, why don’t you go back where you came from?
(Laughter)
A
LICIA
: Thanks awfully, but no.
L
ARRY
: Now, look, everybody. I ask you to keep one principle in mind and that is that we’re all on the same side, right? The important thing to remember is that we’re all doing one show. We don’t have the dreamy advantage of being a permanent company—like the National in England, or the Comédie Française or the Royal in Stockholm. We’re a pick-up band. A scrub team. But if we all blend and co-operate and help one another—we can top even those established establishments. Because, department by department, our individual talents are probably greater.
A
RT
: For what it’s costing me, they better be!
(Light laughter)
L
ARRY
: Believe me, I respect each of you enormously—and it wouldn’t occur to me to interfere with your individual methodologies—but let me confess something. The first thing I do every morning these days—right before breakfast, I mean—is—I tell myself the story.
A
RT
: I’d like to see that. Do you ever sell tickets?
L
ARRY
: Settle down, Art. I’m talking seriously.
Art: (
Beating his breast
) Mea culpa, my boy. Mea culpa.
L
ARRY
: I tell the story. Sometimes I dictate it to a cassette—that’s the
small
dictator I was telling you about—
(Laughter)
A
RT
: Can I ask a question? May I?
L
ARRY
: Certainly.
A
RT
: How come if I make a joke I get put down—and you make a joke and it’s O.K.?
L
ARRY
: Because my jokes are better.
A
RT
: You’ve got a point there.
L
ARRY
: I tell myself the story. If I record it, I play it back and listen while I’m having breakfast. The point is: I was taught always to keep the
whole
story in mind. Not to get involved with one scene, say, or a single character—or a number—no matter how good it may be. It’s the whole—the entity—that has to have unity and style.
I
VAN
: Very good said.
L
ARRY
: You know how when a painter’s working on a canvas, he may have his face only this far from the canvas at times—like this—but every so often, he steps back a few steps and takes in the whole canvas. And that’s what we’ve got to do… Now today I’m going to tell our story and every time we have a full production meeting, I’m going to ask one of you to do so. I expect that here and there our versions may vary—but in the main I hope we’re all going to find the same wavelength, as it were…Now. What complicates things a little is that there are really
two
stories—the true story and the one we’re telling.
A
RT
: Hold it.
L
ARRY
: What?
A
RT
: Can we take a break here?
Larry: No.
A
RT
: (
To the group
) Take ten, folks. Coffee. Or maybe you need to do this—or that—or both. (
We all recognize the tight moment. Just as
L
ARRY
is proclaiming his authority,
A
RT
takes charge. Everyone takes off. Except me.
L
ARRY
sits down.
A
RT
moves over and sits near him
) What
is
this, baby?
L
ARRY
: What is
what
? Baby.
A
RT
: This two-story shit? What’re you trying to open up here?
L
ARRY
: Take too long to explain.
A
RT
: I’ve got time. Go ahead.
L
ARRY
: Later.
A
RT
: Now.
L
ARRY
: I’ve got a whole staff on my hands, for Christ’s sake, Art.
A
RT
: You’ve got
me
on your hands.
L
ARRY
: I sure in hell have.
A
RT
: Go ahead.
L
ARRY
: The point is, Art, that the script we’ve got is
bland
. I know all about the reasons we can’t fix it—make it truer, more explicit. But I’ve got a theory that if everyone knows the
real
story—even
this
book’ll come out stronger. Like Hemingway once said, “Don’t ever worry about making a cut—if the stuff was any good it’ll still be there.” And that’s
my
theory, too.
A
RT
: Some theory.
L
ARRY
: Can’t hurt, can it?
A
RT
: Sure it can.
Larry: How?
A
RT
: Starts up all that bullshit gossip and upsets my old lady and she doesn’t give a damn, Neysa—but the kids and who knows? Someday
their
kids.
L
ARRY
: But Holy God—Art—there’s a published book—
A
RT
: Sold four thousand fucking copies. And
three
thousand of 'em—
I
own.
L
ARRY
: I see. So my job is not to
tell
the story. Just to suppress it.
A
RT
: Not exactly.
L
ARRY
: I tell you what, Art…
(Long pause)
A
RT
: What?
(Longer pause)
L
ARRY
: Let me out.
A
RT
: What the hell are you talking about? Do you know?
L
ARRY
: Look, Mr. Clune. If we do it now—a nice, clean break—it’ll be easier on everyone. I’ll hang in until you replace me—
A
RT
: You’ve got a contract, mister.
L
ARRY
: Oh, sure—
A
RT
: The one thing I don’t take—never—is threats. You quit and you don’t collect a dime, you know that?
L
ARRY
: Yes—but I get to keep my balls, baby—and they’re worth more than a dime.
(AC
turns into another character before our eyes. I have never quite believed the Jekyll-Hyde story. I do now. The monster Art becomes the angel Art.
)
A
RT
: Hey, baby. (
He moves to
L
ARRY
and embraces him
) What
is
all this, huh? What’s going on? This is nuts here, y’know it? We must be sufferin’ from rehearsal willies or something. It’s a point we’re talkin’. So what? A little point. A little nothin’. Jesus—if you’re gonna quit, it better be for some reason, right? Like you decide you hate the whole show or something. Or if The Queen of Light gives you a hard time—or sick, God forbid—or something. But not on account of some small nothing, right?
L
ARRY
: Small to you, Art. Big to me.
A
RT
: So fine. Call it forty-love. Your point.
L
ARRY
: (
Losing his temper and breaking away
) Good sweet Jesus Christ, Art. This isn’t one of your stupid goddamn tennis games—this is the theatre—this is my
life
!
A
RT
: Hey! Hey! Hold the scream. A figure of speech. A joke. What’re you racing your motor?
L
ARRY
: Oh, God.
(
He sits down. His head in his hands.
A
RT
goes over and touches him
)
A
RT
: Sorry, Larry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Swear to God. Come on. Let’s be professional.
(
L
ARRY
’s
head comes up. He looks at
AC
and can barely suppress a smile
)
L
ARRY
: Sure.
A
RT
: Call 'em in. Tell 'em any goddamn thing you want—I’ll handle Neysa—and as far as the grandchildren—shit—they’re not even
born
yet.
L
ARRY
: (
To me
) Call the bunch.
(
I went into the passage, found Clay and told him. A few minutes later
:)
I mentioned candor a while ago. So let me be the first to use it. Mr. Clune and I had a disagreement—we’ve discussed it, resolved it. You’ll know in a minute what it was. But my point is that that’s the way to run a company. Instead of cliques and intrigues and scuttlebutt and double dealing. Let’s all have everything out in the open at all times. Everybody with me? Hands.
(
All
)
Fine…Now I’ll tell you. I mentioned two stories. You all know that the basis of our project is a book called
Nightingale for Sale
by Gene Bowman and—
A
RT
: Can I say a word here, Larry, please?
L
ARRY
: Certainly. As soon as I finish.
A
RT
: But it fits, right in here.
L
ARRY
: Go ahead.
A
RT
: This book Larry just said, this Bowman. We commissioned him, see, six years ago—me and my wife—to do this book. Paid him a big advance—gave him all the files on Nora—Neysa’s great-aunt and Jack. Letters, diaries—notebooks—scrapbooks—pictures. Practically the whole book. Hell,
I
could have written it with all that…So what does Bowman do? He goes back to Chicago—he hangs all around—he listens to all kinds of stuff—puts it all into the book. When we saw it we damn near fell out. It put my wife to bed for a week with migraines. This son of a bitch—this Bowman—he double-crossed us. Put in a lot of stuff we didn’t want in there and wouldn’t take it out. We tried to stop the whole thing—but there’re crazy laws in this country and we couldn’t. So he went ahead. Thank God the book was a bust. Sold six copies. A lot
I
bought up. Then I bought all the rights from him—he stung me, but what the hell? There’s a saying: “When you are the anvil, bear—when you are the hammer—
strike
!” So I was the anvil—but anyhow, I got everything: movie, stage, TV, even further print or paperback. This guy is money-mad. The only bad point was credits. So that’s why you see the bastard’s name on our credits. There was no way out. That’s all.
L
ARRY
: Thank you, Mr. Clune. That was most illuminating…What I was saying was that there are two stories—one, the life story; two, the stage story…The life story is, of course, full of contradictions and mysteries. Like all life stories. The stage version is neater. Everything comes out even. But I have an idea—what I was trying to explain to Art, to Mr. Clune—that all of you ought to know the
real
story. Or stories. Apocryphal as they may be. And I want to make sure that later the
players
know it, too. Because I believe that if they do and you do—something of the truth will communicate itself to the audience. And when you come right down to it—that’s the most important element in theatre—the audience. More important than the writing or direction or music or dancing or whatever. The audience. What goes on in the audience’s head. What we can make happen there…The story as Gene Bowman tells it—
A
RT
: Lotsa lies in that book.
L
ARRY
: All right, Art. At the proper time, you can tell us all what they were.