Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (27 page)

Yvonne ad-libbed a line before “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” After “I had a number once all my own . . . a college number,” she tossed off: “See, it’s funny already,” as she realized how preposterous it was for her even to mention college. Everyone laughed. It was a keeper; it stayed in the script. There was fussing about whether she should crash the cymbal of the onstage band to get everyone’s attention at the top of the song, or whether it would be better for the onstage percussionist to do it. Everyone agreed: let the pro handle the drum.

Tharon was playing around with lights during “Could I Leave You?” Suddenly a blue wash came from stage left, and then a white pin-spot backlight found John McMartin standing to one side. The two follow spots focused tighter and tighter on Alexis while she sat on the downstage corner of the second platform, delivering the song. She carried on, with an occasional look around, decidedly out of character, curious about what was going on.

Alexis finished the song, stood up, and continued with the dialogue as the others began to enter for the transition into “Loveland” and the Follies sequence. This had never been done before with the actual scenery and drops, so Fritz came out onstage and said, “Hold everything, please.” He warned everyone to keep an eye on what was about to happen, explaining that the Follies drops would fly in, one at a time, and cautioned the company not to get hit by them as they flew in, and to mark through the transition carefully. No one, in fact, except the stage crew and designers had even seen the drops in the theater, as they had been the first pieces of scenery loaded in. Flying pieces are always hung before the floor is laid down, and this was especially necessary for
Follies
because the set was so complicated—who would want to carry a large, rolled-up drop out onto a stage made up of so many levels? Also, because the Follies drops were so bright, they were hung as high as possible in order for them not to be seen during the rest of the show. The gray pieces of hanging flotsam were purposely designed to hang low enough to block out any hint of color above.

Fritz called for the scene to start again, and the actors picked up where they left off. The four principals continued, confronting each other and their younger selves, and the piano began playing “Loveland.” Everyone onstage looked up, and one by one, from far upstage to downstage, the drops came in. First was a fan, then the oversized doilies, then, farthest downstage, a rich, silky, velvet-looking curtain, sky-blue and white, different in color and texture from all the others, which tabbed up as it flew in. As the dancers entered, they looked up to make certain the staging they had learned put them out of the way of what was coming at them from above. The company came sneaking out of the wings to gasp and applaud. Hal and Michael both nodded in approval. Fritz was proud of having pulled off the complicated transition. Steve Sondheim, standing in the auditorium, turned and said, “Not bad, Boris.” Boris smiled. The drops filled about two-thirds of the width of the stage; there was no masking on the sides, allowing the side units to be seen lurking in the shadows. It worked brilliantly. Michael went over to Fritz to discuss the speed at which the drops should fly in. He felt they had all come in too slowly, and wanted to make certain they could be timed precisely, to fly in one after the other in perfect sequence, as if they were methodically taking over the entire place. He also wanted to synchronize the appearance of the two semicircular stair units from under the platform, although he didn’t want their appearance to be noticed.

This was a difficult and important transition, so it was repeated several times. After five passes, it finally all came together: drumroll, fanfare, staircases, drops in, one at a time, coming to a stop right as the vamp began, tape synchronized with the onstage singing, chorus of pastel Dresden figures in position, and the showgirls ready to make their entrances. “No matter what audiences may feel about
Follies,
these Follies drops coming in is already one of the rare, glorious moments in the theater”—that’s what I wrote in my notebook.

The hope was to finish the tech rehearsal in the afternoon and do a full dress rehearsal in the evening, with orchestra. But time ran out after “Love Will See Us Through” and “You’re Gonna Love Tomorrow.” As a result, the first portion of the evening rehearsal was used to get through the Follies sequence, into the chaos, out of it, and to the very end of the show. The tab curtain closed before “Buddy’s Blues,” then opened only slightly for “Losing My Mind” to reveal Sally standing in her slinky gown in a small opening only slightly larger than she was. The chorus was dressed in its reds for both “Uptown, Downtown” and “Live, Laugh, Love,” but it was quickly discovered that the red translucent canes used in “Live, Laugh, Love” were rubbing off on the white vests. The rehearsal was stopped instantly, the canes disposed of, and the few vests that had already been stained were taken off and sent down to Barbara Matera’s underworld.

One fascinating element of tech rehearsals for an outsider is that you get to see the actors both as the characters they portray in the show and as themselves. Whenever the rehearsal is stopped, usually to address some technical issue, the actors simply hang around while the problem gets solved. Sometimes they just stand there, caught up in their own world. Sometimes they wander over to other actors and crack jokes. Sometimes they find a convenient place to perch. They may steal a moment to look at something on the stage that they don’t get to see when the show is run. To someone smitten with the whole process of putting theater together, seeing the actors in these unguarded, spontaneous moments is both revealing and fun.

The more the actors became familiar with the backstage traffic patterns and how to get to where they were needed, the more they tended to sneak out into the auditorium through the pass door to watch other parts of the show. Actually, individual actors seeing the show they are in is something that happens only during these rehearsals. As soon as paying customers fill the seats, the actors have to stay backstage, either in their dressing rooms or in whatever areas become social gathering places during performances. Many will never again have any reason to go out into the house unless they’re part of understudy rehearsals. They will arrive through the stage door, go to their dressing rooms, do the performance, go back to their dressing rooms, and go home. Technical rehearsals and dress rehearsals, when the whole theater belongs to the production, are really the last times the cast can watch each other work, look at the scenery and lighting from out front, and get a sense of what the audience will see. It’s a very familial feeling. (Mary Jane Houdina took a week’s vacation from the show during its New York run and decided to come by and watch a performance from out front. She was so impressed she urged her fellow company members to do likewise.) Of course, there are some hazards involved. First, the costume department gets frantic at the idea of actors sitting around in their costumes. Second, the actors have to be in position when they’re needed onstage, and sometimes that is hard to judge. Just when they assume a scene is sure to be stopped, things will be going swimmingly, and then you see them racing down the side aisles to make an entrance they almost forgot about.

 

 

F
inally, the first dress rehearsal began at 10:15. Back to the top, but now for the first time, instead of the piano the orchestra was in the pit. That was yet another exciting step, one more indication of completion. Since the orchestra was miked, the sound was out of balance from the start. Some sequences were still not yet orchestrated, so the piano simply filled in. Many of the usual mistakes were made, and by the usual suspects. In “Beautiful Girls,” Michael Bartlett outdid himself with some entirely new words ending in “-able—”nothing reflectable half so injectable . . .” One exit for Phyllis and Ben was now obscured by Suzanne in her butterfly costume, which proved much larger than anyone had expected. Hal, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, bounded up onstage to fix the moment. He moved Alexis and John around, then took off his glasses, put them on top of his head, looked out into the darkened auditorium and said, ”Michael, I don’t know what to do here.” Michael joined him onstage, and came up with two good solutions right away.

In a line that has to do with asking for Ben’s autograph, Hattie snaps out the name of her grandson—Jerome. “It’s a perfectly good-sounding name,” Hal said, “so please don’t play it like you hate it. Besides, we sell a lot of tickets to people named Jerome!” The placement of the onstage band’s piano had again become a problem, and attempts were made to get it positioned correctly. There were sight-line problems in “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs” that were adjusted easily. Then came Fifi’s entrance for the Montage. She had previously been in an acute nervous state over it, and tonight was no different. The rosaries were now her constant companion. Not only was she a bundle of nerves, but word got around that she had had her agent call Hal to say that she would quit if she didn’t get billing equal to Yvonne’s, that she had demanded changes be made to her hat—that she was generally unhappy with everything. She came out onstage looking terrified. The Whitmans and Hattie were onstage, having finished “Rain on the Roof” and “Broadway Baby.” The orchestra played Fifi’s vamp, and she sputtered, not sure of her words. She finally did get into the song, but in the second verse became flustered. “Oh, please forgive me, I don’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.” Hal Hastings stopped the orchestra. Here we were, ground to a halt at exactly the same spot as the night before. There was a moment of utter silence that felt endless. Every element of the show was poised—orchestra, company, scenery, lighting, costumes—and no one was sure what was going to happen next or exactly what to do. “Oh, forgive me,” she muttered. Then a familiar voice came booming out from the auditorium: “Nobody needs to be forgiven. I know what to do. It’s twelve midnight, let’s all go home and get some rest.” Walking down to the front of the stage, Hal repeated, “Just go home, get some rest. And, Fifi, come back tomorrow a changed girl.” Fritz called for everyone to knock off, and in a moment the work lights came on and the company wandered off to change.

Hal Hastings thanked the orchestra, gave them their call for the next day, then crawled over the railing and walked up to where Hal, Michael, Steve, and Jim were in a huddle. Once all actors had cleared the stage, Hal Prince turned to his group and said, “That was my best George Abbott imitation.” “I know,” said Hal Hastings, “I recognized it. But let’s not forget that it’s going to be tender for a while with Fifi. I think she’ll pull through. She was terrified, and these rehearsals
are
for actors to get over their fears.” Sometimes it was good for everyone to hear from the musical director, since he is the one who will be in constant contact with the company when the show is in performance.

There was a concern about one of the side units on stage left. Dorothy made an entrance sitting on this unit while it moved downstage, and she didn’t feel she had a secure enough perch within the rubble. So Hal Prince decided to take a ride on it himself. After being winched downstage, he said, “Let’s fix this piece of rubble so a human being can sit on it, please.”

 

 

F
riday afternoon saw the completion of the dress rehearsal, beginning where things had left off Thursday night. Because “Ah, Paris!” was where things broke down, that is where the rehearsal was to pick up. Ethel Shutta, standing in the costume she hated, but to which she was fast becoming resigned, was in place in the wings. She had no patience for Fifi’s antics. She turned to me and said, “If that French bitch screws up once more, I’m going to go out there and sing ‘Broadway Baby’ in French!” This time Fifi got herself onstage where she belonged, sang her song, and seemed a little calmer and somewhat contrite.