Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (23 page)

Someone in the box office buzzed me into the lobby of the theater itself. Although now only in worklight, the gilded mirrors, rococo fretwork and lighting fixtures, as well as the grand staircase, were plainly visible. This was what the Roxy must have been like before Gloria Swanson stood in its rubble. It was said to have been inspired by the hall of mirrors at Versailles. No wonder Hal Prince liked this theater—it was a glorious place to be.

It was exciting, yet unsettling, to walk into the darkened auditorium and see the set on the stage. We had been told that the Colonial would have a narrower proscenium opening than the Winter Garden, but I hadn’t anticipated how high it would feel. What had looked wide and low in the studio, here looked cut off at the sides. The proscenium was almost square; it was as if you were looking at a wide-screen movie through a square opening. The hanging pieces, now off the floor and placed where they belonged, looked properly ragtag and ominous, and they did give a definition to the top. The two downstage towers were hardly visible from the center of the auditorium, and the side units simply disappeared when in their extreme positions.

Tharon Musser, until now someone who appeared at rehearsals for meetings and run-throughs only, was stationed in the middle of the auditorium, seated with Spencer Mosse, her assistant, at a makeshift table—a sheet of plywood laid over several seats. She was clearly at “mission control.” Her impromptu desk was lit by an old-fashioned gooseneck desk lamp with a rounded metal hood. There was a microphone with wires leading up, out, over, and back, giving her communication with everyone involved with the lights—hanging, cabling, focusing, gelling, and connecting each instrument to the dimmer boards. They included the stage managers backstage, electricians on the fly floor high above the stage, and the members of the lighting crew stationed backstage, at the front of the balconies, in the follow-spot perches, and on the sides of the proscenium. Her papers were spread out, including large blueprint plans indicating where each and every spotlight would hang, where it would be focused, and what color the gel should be. The auditorium was in darkness; the stage was lit only by whatever single lighting instrument was being focused. It was a one-at-a-time procedure, and Tharon was in total charge—the theater was hers. Carpenters were wandering around the stage, trying to do their work while keeping out of the way of the lighting crew and occasionally begging for more light, but her needs came first. Because of the structural and constructionist feel of the
Follies
design, she and Boris had decided that there would be no masking for any of the lighting instruments. Trusses were constructed to hold lights, both vertical, behind the proscenium on the sides, and horizontal, above the stage.

Despite the best intentions of the most talented of artists, there is no such thing as everything working on the first try when a new musical is being put together. Adjustments and alterations are the norm; all anyone can hope for is efficient use of time. The larger the show, the higher the number of things that can go wrong. Over the next few days, time would often prove more valuable than money, since come hell or high water there had to be a performance on Saturday.

 

 

T
he orchestra assembled for the first time on Tuesday afternoon in the rooftop ballroom of the Bradford Hotel. This was a preliminary rehearsal, without singers, and it provided an opportunity to play through everything first before presenting it to the company. The music staff was there in force: Hal Hastings, facing the orchestra at a makeshift podium; Jonathan Tunick, John Berkman, and Mathilde sitting at a table behind him with piles of full orchestral scores and instrumental parts. And, of course, Steve Sondheim. For him, it was the most thrilling moment, to hear the score as Jonathan had orchestrated it. Arranged fanlike over the floor of the ballroom were music stands and chairs for the twenty-eight players who made up the
Follies
orchestra: five reed players who, among them, played flutes, piccolo, clarinets, bass clarinet, alto saxophone, tenor sax, soprano sax, baritone sax, oboe, English horn, and bassoon; one French horn; three trumpets; three trombones; two percussionists (Paul Gemignani was one; the other doubled as the drummer for the stage band); one harp; one piano (which would double with celeste as well); six violins; two violas; two cellos; and one bass. The only player in the orchestra to have been part of the rehearsal team was Paul Gemignani, and now he sat among the local players. Each city hires its own orchestra, coordinated by a contractor who is familiar with the local talent. To first-rate musicians, it’s a gig. Usually there’s a general lack of interest in the music they’ve been hired to play, although there is a certain amount of fun to be had with a new show. Since Boston boasts several conservatories of music, a good orchestra can usually be assembled without too much trouble. The contractor’s task is to find players who are knowledgeable about the musical style of the show, who are able to read quickly and accurately, and who are willing to show up eight times a week and sit in a pit. Rarely do players feel they have a vested interest in a show, but they’re skilled and fast—one trumpet player even managed to keep up with the rehearsal while maintaining the light on his Tiparillo cigar.

Until the orchestrations are actually heard, there’s a sense of uncertainty. Steve knew what he had written, and he’d had numerous conversations with Jonathan, but only Jonathan knew what they would sound like—and
he
had heard them only in his head. Mathilde and her copyists were musicians enough to have a sense of how each part would sound, but they, too, had never heard it all together, nor could they guarantee that no mistakes had been made. John Berkman, the dance arranger, had turned over his scores to Jonathan to orchestrate, and he, too, was curious to hear them. Although it’s normal for something to come out sounding rather different from what was intended, in these experienced hands the orchestrations fulfilled everyone’s fantasies. They were great. And there were minimal changes to be made—a few mistakes in the parts, an occasional wrong chord, a rare second thought. Hal Prince had a clever tradition of informing the principal actors about when the orchestra reading was taking place, saying that although they shouldn’t feel under any obligation, they were welcome to come by, should they get to Boston in time, and hear what it sounded like. Who wouldn’t take him up on that invitation? Both Alexis and Gene did, and when I brought one of Alexis’s bags over to the Statler in the middle of the afternoon, I ran into them both, returning from the rehearsal. They were thrilled, and invited me to have a drink with them at one of the restaurants in the hotel. Gene then pulled out a small tape recorder that he had smuggled into the rehearsal and played me a very rough play-through of “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs.” They were like two little kids, giddy with excitement. They also confessed that as soon as they’d arrived in Boston, they’d done pretty much exactly as I had: checked out the marquee, ventured into the darkened auditorium, and asked the box office staff how ticket sales were going.

Michael called the dancers and Alexis and John onstage from six to seven P.M. to go over “Uptown, Downtown” and “Live, Laugh, Love” on the set, since both numbers had been staged only in the rehearsal room. The technical staff still had dibs on the stage, so the evening rehearsal was relegated to the large Bradford ballroom; but Michael insisted on squeezing in one hour of stage time during the tech crew’s dinner break. Michael’s patience was being tested. Not having gotten these two numbers until days earlier left him short-tempered, and occasionally he snapped at Alexis, whose own nerves were beginning to show. It was the first time she was on the set in the theater, and now she was doing her dance number on the various raked levels of the stage. The joy of the afternoon was now forgotten. She messed up a lot of movements and lyrics. When the dancers walked out onto the set they looked around the theater with a sense of awe. John McMartin wandered about, muttering how honored he was to be part of a production on a set as extraordinary as this.

I went over to the Bradford to help move Paul Gemignani’s drum set from the rooftop ballroom down to the grand ballroom. There was some confusion about which ballroom we would be rehearsing in; Ethel Barrymore Colt snapped that I “was a terribly inefficient young man” when I told her the wrong one by mistake. Excitement, anxiety, and nerves were manifesting themselves in equal portions. Everyone was getting cranky. This was the last night we wouldn’t be rehearsing in the theater and the only time we would be in the ballroom, so there hadn’t been time to tape out the floor plan; the stage managers had to improvise with folding chairs. But there was an important job that had to be done: the chaos scene following “Live, Laugh, Love” wasn’t finished. As a result, the musical accompaniment wasn’t set either, and for that to be ready in time for Saturday it needed to be finished by John Berkman, approved by Steve, orchestrated by Jonathan, and copied by Mathilde and her people.

The dancers were sent home at eleven, as they had been working since six P.M. without a break. The rest of the company continued till midnight. Once the chaos scene was reasonably complete, Hal proceeded to stage the very last scene, which was still being tinkered with. He changed the staging for the young counterparts; they had always been part of the scene, but Hal’s new idea was to have them stay behind in the theater, making the final image the ghost figures watching their present-day counterparts leave. It looked very good. The ghost figures remaining in the Weismann Theater was a nice visual metaphor for the end; as the present-day characters try to go back to their lives, maybe they can leave their ghosts permanently behind in the theater that is about to become history.

 

 

J
im Goldman and Steve Sondheim snuck off to see
Prettybelle;
they weren’t about to let a moment go by without taking in the competition. On their return they were joined at the bar of the Statler by Michael, Bob Avian, Larry Cohen, Paul Gemignani, and, later, after rehearsal, Hal. The conversation was interesting. Everyone was quietly relieved by their report: unsalvageable. Hal confessed that whenever he’s working on a show, he loves anything he sees, but he hadn’t seen
Prettybelle
and wasn’t sure he was going to. The box office at
Company
was still sluggish, so Hal was counting on winning a lot of Tonys, including Best Musical, and wasn’t interested in potential competition. The Tony Awards ceremony would take place in the middle of the
Follies
preview period. He didn’t need anything more to fuel his anxieties. Right now, there was work to be done on
Follies:
Hal, Jim, and Steve adjourned to John Berkman’s room at the Statler to go over the music for the chaos scene. The meeting lasted until four in the morning, a riotous and laughter-filled gathering that resulted in the completion of the final piece of the musical puzzle.

Since everyone had sensed Alexis’s nerves and observed her screw-ups in the work-through of “Uptown, Downtown,” it was suggested that the number be cut from the first preview on Saturday. Michael, smarting from the lack of time he had been given, was not about to let that happen. He knew somehow he would be blamed if the number wasn’t performed, and he simply said no, the number would be in.

Wednesday morning the full company was back at the Bradford, this time in the rooftop ballroom, for the official read-through of the orchestrations. This is sometimes called a “sitzprobe,” German for “sitting rehearsal,” as the actors aren’t onstage, although hardly anyone ever actually sits. The point of the rehearsal is to see how the voices and the orchestra work together. The onstage band was also in the room, off to one side, together. It was made up of piano, bass, trumpet, and drums—players who had traveled with the company from New York.

The sitzprobe is one of the most exciting moments in the assembling of any musical. There is always a sense of discovery. For five weeks the cast had been hearing rehearsal pianists pound out the songs and dance arrangements. Suddenly to have twenty-eight players backing you up is thrilling, especially if the orchestrations are good. All eyes were on Hal Hastings, who was leading the rehearsal. He had been the one keeping tabs on everyone’s progress, and he had the best sense of how everything was going to sound together. He was also the one who would have to deal with the nerves, the opinions, and the worries.

The cast gathered on the small stage at one end of the ballroom, a couple of steps higher than the floor. Hal Hastings was at his makeshift podium, perched on a stool in front of the players, his back to the stage. He would call each singer down to the orchestra when his or her turn came to sing. He conducted from the full scores, although during performances he would have a smaller and simplified piano/conductor score that would include orchestral and line cues, all the lyrics, and a piano-friendly reduction of the orchestrations. After a few performances he didn’t need either. Most cast members brought small cassette tape recorders, which they surreptitiously lined up along the front of the ballroom stage. Michael and Bob Avian were off to the side, and the stage managers were making sure everyone was in the room and standing by, ready to come forward at the right moment. Hal Prince wandered around, showing everyone an article by Loudon Wainwright in the current issue of
Life
about the “nostalgia boom” that he felt spoke to exactly what he was trying to get across with the show. Perhaps Hal’s attitude toward nostalgia was changing as the opening was approaching.