Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (29 page)

PREVIEWS THROUGH TO OPENING,
FEBRUARY 20—24

 

 

 

 

P
laybills had been delivered to the theater. For the Saturday night performance they would have to be stuffed with a purple insert from the organization that had chosen the date for a benefit. It began with a letter from Omar T. Pace, president of the Massachusetts Division of the American Cancer Society:

“The Follies.” Well, I don’t think so. In fact, Hal Prince had long been concerned about people thinking they would be coming to a Follies. That was one of the reasons he liked that crack in the austere face on the poster so much. He never wanted the show to be referred to as “The Follies” or “Hal Prince’s Follies,” but here it was, and at the first public performance, no less.

I doubt whether the 325 sponsors listed in the insert, including Senator and Mrs. Edward M. Kennedy, had a clue that as the first paying audience to see
Follies
they were about to become theatrical guinea pigs. Certainly if the head of the organization promised they were all in for a very pleasant evening at “The Follies,” he didn’t have a clue. What would this crowd make of what they were about to see? If they were expecting Ziegfeld, they were in for a disappointment. (While the Cancer Society’s party made up nearly the entire audience, there were a few normal patrons who got the insert as well.)

I had a gossipy dinner at the Union Oyster House with, among others, Hal Hastings. I took a ribbing about the women in the company who seemed to have taken a shine to me—in particular, the camp movie star (Yvonne) and the oldest member of the company (Ethel). There were jokes at Hal’s expense about his acting moments in the show. Originally, the entire orchestra was to rise from the pit for the song “Loveland,” Radio City Music Hall—style. For that to occur, an entire floor would have had to be built and mechanized, with enough space to accommodate twenty-eight musicians and their instruments. The cost was prohibitive; it was decided instead to have a winched podium for Hal that he would control himself. He hated it and didn’t think it was worth the effort. Furthermore, because of that one moment he was required to wear white tie and tails for the entire show. All he wanted was to do his job. He was also concerned that certain performances had already begun to deteriorate, even before they had been presented to an audience.

After returning to the hotel for a tie—it seemed appropriate—I walked into the theater, entering through the lobby. Once inside the auditorium, I was struck by the new look. It was now completely cleared of all evidence of technical rehearsals. Tharon Musser’s desk was gone, as were all the wires leading to and from it. No coats were draped nonchalantly over seats, and all the briefcases, bags, and other paraphernalia had vanished. There was nothing but a sea of empty red seats, ready to be filled. And a new team was in charge: the front-of-house staff, which included, most visibly, the ushers. They were stuffing the Playbills and stacking them at the top of the aisles and chatting among themselves. I felt it was a good idea to cozy up to them, explain who I was, make some polite conversation. Establishing that you’re meant to be there, that you’re part of the show, allows you to roam freely around the auditorium during performances. And if you’re on good terms with the ushers, you can get them to tell you what they think. They tend to have interesting, if blunt, opinions. And they have very good ears—they can tell you what the audience is really saying. (Interesting note: In order to help clarify that the Follies sequence was now entitled Loveland, the Playbill differentiated the segment clearly—and listed the opening song “Loveland” and then the rest of the sequences as “The Folly of Youth,” “Buddy’s Folly,” and so forth, listing each character song in its proper place; for example, “Losing My Mind” was in Sally’s Folly. This was made even more elaborate in the New York Playbill.)

Backstage, the mood was a little weird. Because it was the first performance in front of an audience, it felt like an official opening night. There were flowers and telegrams to be distributed, but there would be no party afterward. It was a working night, though obviously a special one. There was a sense of nervous excitement. Were they ready? A few spousal visitors had joined the ranks, and they were sitting quietly and supportively in the dressing rooms. Craig Stevens, Alexis Smith’s husband, had just flown in from Los Angeles, and Dorothy Collins’s husband, Ron Holgate, had driven up from New Jersey. Others would be arriving shortly.

The creative team wandered about, talking to each other, then went out front to size up the crowd. Those of us who weren’t provided with “locations” would have to find an empty seat or stand in the rear. Beginning at “half-hour,” the auditorium doors were open and the audience was allowed in. There was the new sound of actual people, muttering, chatting. After they sat down, some looked at their programs, some went on talking with friends about anything and everything. It was a good bet they weren’t talking about the show. I looked them over. These warm bodies, together in this one arena on this one night, were now the most important element in the collaboration. Who were they? What were they thinking? Before tonight, anyone who had watched any part of a rehearsal—a member of the press, a friend of the show, a staff person, or a family member—knew what they were watching. They were part of the greater
Follies
family. But now there were hundreds of people about to take in something few of them knew anything about. How many Sondheim devotees were there? How many Boston I’ve-got-to-see-the-very-first-performance enthusiasts who had bought their tickets the moment the first ad appeared? How many people just out on a Saturday night date who had felt that a show called
Follies
might be a good prospect? The company and the staff were about to learn how their show was going to play for an audience. What if those moments we knew were golden laid big eggs? What if the audience didn’t get the connection between the past and the present? Would they favor one time frame over another? Which members of the cast would they go for, and whom would they remember from old movies and shows? What if the Follies sequence doesn’t feel like the result of a dramatic nervous breakdown? What if . . . ?

Members of the creative staff stationed themselves in what would become typical perches: Hal and Ruthie in adjoining seats in the orchestra, Ruthie armed with a yellow pad; Bob and Michael together in another part of the house. Steve wandered the rear of the auditorium, bottle of bourbon in hand. Jim had arrived early and taken his seat among the audience with his wife, Marie, a reserved and private woman, not particularly friendly, who kept her distance from everyone. Others—Jonathan Tunick, Tharon Musser, Boris and Lisa Aronson—were in assigned seats.

At 7:40 the house lights dimmed, the drumroll began, and the curtain rose on a wrong light cue. From a technical standpoint, it set the tone for the performance. Sloppy. The tape of the ghost announcers came in too early during the Prologue and the cast couldn’t catch up. The orchestra played badly; there were lots of clams. “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs” was a mess—lyrics were dropped in the beginning, and the rhythm was so badly off at the end that Hal Hastings had to hum the beat directly to John and Gene. The audience was confused some of the time, but they seemed to stay with the story. They listened, they applauded, and they laughed. But certain parts seemed to mystify them. They clearly didn’t get the point of “Can That Boy Fox Trot!”—and as a result it seemed interminable. Fifi wobbled but got through “Ah, Paris!”; Ethel delivered and they loved her; but putting the three numbers together in the Montage seemed shaky. Alexis got the most solid laughs of the night, including one on her seductive line to the young waiter: “. . . and I have thirty thousand dollars’ worth of Georgian silver in my dining room.” There were some definite positive signs: the numbers with clean “button” endings landed well, and “Who’s That Woman?” stopped the show, cold. Mary McCarty’s confidence had been building over the past couple of weeks, and she had begun to relish the number. In the process, she had made it her own, without anyone being aware. The fact that Stella was a secondary character and that the chorus behind her was made up of the stars of the show, made it all the more special. But since “Who’s That Woman?” had taken up so many hours of rehearsal, and had been the cause of so much anxiety, everyone had been grateful for just getting through it. The audience instantly got what the song was trying to do and say, and understood the brilliance of the staging. They loved seeing a plus-size middle-aged woman in a suburban party dress out there hoofing. And to have the stars back her up, dressed in their assortment (from glamorous to frumpy) of party dresses, made the number irresistible. The audience ate it up. They also got the brilliance of Michael’s “mirror” staging, with a couple of oohs and ahhs when the ghost figures appeared upstage, lined up with their backs to us for the tap chorus in reflection.

For “Losing My Mind,” Dorothy Collins appeared in a new dress, a body-hugging, floor-length gown with a slight train, covered with small silver bugle beads, which shimmered as the light played off it. This dress was originally intended for Alexis and then given to Sheila Smith. It didn’t work for either, but worn by Dorothy, with a train perhaps longer than necessary for her height (both Alexis and Sheila were inches taller), it was perfect. The Jean Harlow wig was gone, and Dorothy’s blond hair was coifed simply and beautifully. She looked and sounded radiant. The audience loved her, and she scored. The staging—simple, clear, and precise—had not changed from that first performance at Feller’s.

The performance lasted over two hours, without an intermission. The audience stayed with it all the way through, the applause was more than polite, and there were several loud shouts of “Bravo!” during the curtain call. It went as well as anyone had a right to expect, and the audience’s reaction was totally honest, pointing up what was good and what wasn’t. The overall impression was favorable, but there were certainly problems. At various times during the course of the evening members of the audience were seen walking up the aisle, only to return several minutes later, having taken their own self-determined bathroom break. And one man was seen walking out after an hour and a half, muttering, “How
long
is this thing going to go on?”—never to be seen again. One disgruntled patron was overheard at the very end saying, “You just have to sit there for so long hearing about four people who don’t like each other.” Steve, staying within the safe anonymity of the rear of the auditorium, was depressed by everything that didn’t work and felt that twenty-five minutes should be cut before the Boston critics saw the show, four days hence. Jonathan Tunick said he was often among the first to know when a show was too long, and he knew this show was too long.

Hal and Michael bounded backstage as soon as the curtain came down to speak to the company before they dispersed to their dressing rooms. Hal was extremely bubbly and happy. He said he was thrilled with the show, and was thrilled that some patrons had walked out: it’s a sure sign that a show is controversial, he said, and that’s the kind of show he likes to produce. He had identified several spots where he wanted to prune and cut, and he couldn’t wait to get to work tomorrow. Michael was also very buoyant, and far happier than he had seemed in a long time. He thanked everyone. There was a general feeling of relief that they had actually gotten through the first performance, that it didn’t seem as if the show was a disaster, even if the technical side had been sloppy. It was a moment for hugs and kisses all around.