Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (15 page)

Once the run-through was over, Hal, sensing Michael’s increasing annoyance, took him off to a room alone. They were sequestered for a long time. Afterward, they went back to work, cleaning up sections they wanted to keep working on—“Bolero d’Amour” and the Montage—and sent the rest of the company home early. The next step was to decide upon how the Follies sequence—Loveland—would end, for Steve to finish the score with enough time to choreograph and stage the new numbers, and see how everything fit on the actual set.

No one had any idea what was in store once we got to the scene shop, but because we were starting on a weekend, at least the first two days could be at normal working hours. There was both excitement and trepidation. It was quite unusual for a show to rehearse on the actual set, so that would be an adventure. Nor was it normal to rehearse from four P.M. until midnight. And it certainly wasn’t normal to take a motley group of people to a corner of the South Bronx several blocks away from Yankee Stadium to rehearse on a multileveled structure still being constructed in the middle of a workshop. But there was a lot about
Follies
that wasn’t exactly normal, if there is such a thing as normal in the theater.

ON THE SET AT FELLER’S SCENIC STUDIO,
JANUARY 30–FEBRUARY 5

 

 

 

 

F
eller’s Scenic Studio occupies a nondescript, two-story brick factory building in the Bronx, a couple of blocks off the Grand Concourse and a few blocks from Yankee Stadium. Nothing about its exterior is inviting or interesting, let alone theatrical. The doors are of unfriendly steel, the windows, framed in standard-issue factory metal. Whatever its original use, it hardly looked like a place that was about to house the eclectic family of
Follies
, few of whom, one would have to guess, had ever been anywhere quite like it.

Everyone converged at 10:45 A.M. Most of the company came in a very full chartered bus, having departed, in a wonderful reversal of usual matinee theatrical practice,
from
a Broadway theater, the Alvin, home to
Company.
There was lots of gossip about what everyone had done on the day off—Fifi regaled everyone with accounts of all the fascinating and expensive things she’d bought; Mathilde Pincus mentioned that she had copied out a new song for Buddy in record time and that Steve had called to thank her. As the bus drove up avenues, over bridges, and under highways, it was clear that getting to wherever we were going wasn’t an easy feat. No one ventured to guess what kind of public transportation might be an alternative. As the bus arrived, so did the limousines carrying the honchos. Everyone had the same response: “Where the hell are we?” As Alexis emerged from her car she looked around and commented, to no one in particular, “Well, this is certainly a curious place to be.”

Inside, the building seemed to consist of one large, vast space punctuated by columns, with workbenches all around the perimeter. Areas were dedicated to different aspects of making scenery and large props—carpentry, metalwork, plastic and fiberglass fabrication, painting, even an enormous vacuum form in which 4’ x 8’ sheets of plastic can become fake brick or stone walls, bookshelves filled with books, and even armor. Every nook and cranny seemed to hold some magical machine designed to do something specific. Situated at various places around the studio—laid out on the floor, standing up against columns, leaning across sawhorses—were bits of scenery for two other musicals scheduled to open on Broadway in the spring:
Lolita, My Love,
and
70, Girls, 70.
The sets for
Lolita, My Love
were decidedly weird, with walls cut on the diagonal every couple of feet revealing different wallpapers. The small solid standing units for
70, Girls, 70
were much more conventional, with rooms, a bar, seating areas, all of which seemed full scale yet remarkably small. Never far from each project was its appropriate shop drawing, drafted and painted by the designer or an assistant on cardboard, with notes about dimensions, colors, and other details. Often a quarter-inch or half-inch scale set model would be used as reference as well—the one for
70, Girls, 70
was in one of the offices, along with the model for another musical,
Ari,
based on
Exodus,
which had left the shop shortly before we arrived. Odd props and old pieces of scenery were leaning up against back walls, out of the way. There was a stairway leading up to a second floor that had enough empty rooms to serve as impromptu rehearsal spaces, actors’ hangout, and a stage managers’ office.

Feller’s was known as the best studio for three-dimensional, constructed scenery. The main competition, Nolan’s, was known for its painting, so they tended to get the shows that relied on drops and scrims.
Follies
was clearly a show that had to be built, so Feller’s was the logical choice. There was also a long-standing relation between Hal and the Feller family, since Pete had been investing in Hal’s shows for years, including
Follies.
It must have been because of this connection that the company was allowed to rehearse on the set, which had to be an inconvenience to the shop. For the Feller family it was challenge enough to find and hold on to good craftsmen for a job that was cyclical by nature; to have their space invaded by a bunch of actors who would be using the very set they were trying to finish couldn’t have been their idea of fun. But they were as accommodating as they could be; an integral part of the Broadway community, they always came through. During the pre-Broadway run of
The Rothschilds,
I remember Pete Feller himself struggling to fix a renegade wall panel on a central piece of that set—on the stage of the Fisher Theater in Detroit, and during a performance!

Dominating the entire central area of the studio stood the basic multitiered set for
Follies.
All the levels—the basic raked stage and the three platforms resting on top—were in place. All the side units stood roughly in their offstage positions, and were constructed as high as the ceiling of the studio would allow; most didn’t have their uppermost platforms in place. Nothing was finished or painted, but it was an amazing sight. No matter how many drawings or models you might have seen, there is nothing like the excitement when you first see a set. It’s also always a little shocking, because it’s never exactly as you imagined it. And seeing this particularly vast set fill a place that seemed large to begin with made it seem gargantuan. The set was very big, very tall, very unfinished, and without a single level playing area. I walked around to the rear, and stood dead center. The basic raked floor came up to my chin. In the theater, I figured, no one will realize it’s five and a half feet off the floor, but here, where the set is isolated, it felt as if the actors would be performing in the trees. With the exception of two escape stairs at the very rear of the set going off on each side and a couple of isolated locations, everything on the stage would be in full view of the audience. There would be no place to hide. Nothing quite seemed to relate to anything else. For a depiction of something in a decrepit state, it looked awfully complicated. An upright piano had been placed up on the platform, where it would remain as part of the onstage band, to be used for all the rehearsals on the set. Upstairs, an old spinet from
Cabaret.
would serve to accompany rehearsals in the largest of the rooms.

Even though it was Saturday, the distinctive sound of power tools being turned on, ripping their way through their designated task, and then being turned off could be heard everywhere. Workmen were wandering all over the set, banging and sawing; clearly, every bit of time was being used. Meanwhile, in one quiet corner of the studio, observing everything, stood Lisa and Boris Aronson.

Hal and Michael had arrived earlier than everyone else. They knew what to expect. Standing directly in front of the set, in the spot that would be the orchestra pit in the theater, they gathered the company together. “Okay, when the workmen are finished, we’ll give you five minutes to look around, walk all over the set. You can use the time for all the bitching you want. Bitch, complain, and get mad. But after five minutes, I don’t want to hear another word, because we have to realize this is our set and we’ll have to make it work for us.”

The actors wandered around, cautiously. They walked up stairs that somehow seemed twice as tall as they had ever imagined. They peered around steel pipes welded together in odd configurations. The older actors expressed concern for others rather than admit their own fears; Ethel Shutta remarked that it was too bad Fifi would have to “climb around all those stairs with her bad eyesight and bad ankles.” Entrances and exits were marked, and stairs and units were not where anyone thought they would be. Alexis climbed up one of the two permanent downstage towers and peered down over the main stage area onto what looked like a vast cavern of empty space, a slightly seasick expression on her face. Comments: “My God, it’s huge.” “Oh, Lord.” Ethel announced: “I don’t know about the set, but the noise here is killing me.” Steve Boockvor, the actor playing Yvonne’s escort, Randy, looked around and said, “I think they’ve got a fuck of a lot of work left to do.”

Indeed they did. That is why, starting on Monday, the shop would have the normal working hours of the day, and we would work from four P.M. until midnight. Hal and Michael were anxious to use more and more of the mechanics, so they would exert gentle pressure on the Fellers to finish up. The side units were a particular concern since many entrances and exits were timed in conjunction with their movements; until they were up and running, the transitions could only be approximated. But every day, a little more of the set would be finished and painted. Of course, once the set was finished, mechanized, painted, and tested, it would have to be taken entirely apart, fit into trucks, driven to Boston, and reassembled on the stage of the Colonial Theatre. That would all happen in two weeks’ time. One added bonus: the stage of the Colonial Theatre is smaller than the one at the Winter Garden, so backstage would be cramped and the downstage towers virtually obscured by the proscenium arch.

“Okay, the five minutes is up as far as Hal Prince is concerned,” came the authoritative voice. “Let’s work our way through the show, starting at the top, and let’s stop, please, whenever there is a problem. We’ll adjust all the entrances and exits as quickly as possible. But, please, let’s not waste time.” Michael added that all dances would only be marked, warning everyone that the raked stage would definitely take some getting used to. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Hal then asked for quiet from the workers in the shop and in that moment told the cast there would be “no talking or we’ll leave you in the Bronx!”

The work-through went amazingly well. Starting with the Prologue, the staging transformed itself from the flat floor of the rehearsal studio to the levels of the set with remarkable beauty. The ghosts seemed interestingly placed, giving the impression of being in their own world, not quite part of the scenery, not quite part of the action, inhabiting the farthest corners and highest platforms. The actors’ entrances and exits were tricky to execute, and time had to be taken to figure out exactly where they were meant to be. The side units affected every entrance, since they filled the entire space on each side of the stage. Entrances were either through, over, or under one of them, and sometimes more than one. It had been a lot easier in the rehearsal studio simply to walk across tape on the floor or over a plywood platform. Breaks were called when Pete Feller and his crew needed to finish something that was deemed of vital importance to allow the staging to progress—like cutting a groove in the floor so the unit containing the staircase for the “Ziegfeld” entrances of “Beautiful Girls” could be pulled manually into its proper downstage position.

The Montage proved to be the first stumbling block. The entire weight of it fell on the shoulders of four older actors out on a raked stage—alone. It was scary. Dortha Duckworth had trouble adjusting to where she was supposed to be and remembering her lines, and Charlie Welch was quietly supportive. Fifi D’Orsay was terrified. Ethel Shutta didn’t like all those weird angles, but once she planted her feet on the stage and belted out “Broadway Baby,” it was clear she was well on her way to delivering a showstopper. The three-way ending was beginning to work. Steve Sondheim, too curious to stay away, seemed happy throughout, but especially overjoyed at “Broadway Baby.” Jim Goldman sat next to him, beaming.

The idea of rehearsing on the actual set was Michael’s, and it was clearly a good one. He knew how difficult it was going to be for the older actors to adjust to the various levels, but he also knew how treacherous it was to dance on any raked stage, let alone on one with multiple levels. (Several members of the company remarked years later that they never really recovered from injuries suffered dancing in
Follies.
Actors’ Equity even created a rule determining how much of a rake their members would be required to dance on.) The more familiar everyone in the cast was with the set, he reckoned, the easier time they would all have in Boston. Michael had loved the different levels in the initial sketch, and he wanted to use them as much as possible, even though he knew they would be a challenge. He thought they gave “the feeling of Ziegfeld stairs without having the stairs there.” Hal was fine with Michael’s input, as was Boris, who liked the way Hal worked, talking mood and feel and what he wanted to accomplish, and then letting Boris come up with a concept and a design. “If you can do a show with no scenery, then scenery is a waste of time and energy,” Boris had said, and since every inch of this set was clearly being used, he was a happy man. “If his set isn’t used, Boris is unhappy,” Lisa said. I noticed that the farthest unit upstage right included a solid piece of brick wall, and that none of the others did. I said that I liked how it set off the structural nature of all the others. Lisa smiled. She said Boris had insisted on one solid unit, and although Hal had initially balked, he had come around.