Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (31 page)

Michael took the stage, first to clean up “Bolero d’Amour” and then to go through “Uptown, Downtown” and some other moments that looked sloppy in performance. His nerves were short, and when people were talking too much for his taste he boomed out, “Look, if I’m going to take the trouble to rehearse you, then I think we should get something done. Let me remind you that you have played one, and only one, performance.” Hal, too, had a moment of exasperation when he was working on the stage and there was a lot of noise backstage. From his rehearsal perch in the front row of the theater, he boomed: “Whoever is talking, shut up! I’m trying to get something done out here and if you don’t shut up I will come up there and just see who’s talking. Now for God’s sake, shut up!” That’s how the whole day went—little notes, little fixes, and little tantrums. The company walked through the new intermission, the stage managers standing by, scripts in hand. It was they, after all, who would have to coordinate any changes with the crew, who were not called in today. The logistics seemed fairly simple. One question was: Exactly where in the stage action to bring the curtain up for the second act? Should the showgirl cross again? Should she be onstage at all? Should Ben and Young Sally still be kissing?

The rest of the day was taken up with cleanups and walk-throughs of the moments that had been changed. Because “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs” had been a train wreck on Saturday, Hal Hastings called the orchestra before the performance so the cast could go through it. Jonathan Tunick made some adjustments, leaning over the orchestra rail and dictating them to the orchestra players for them to mark in their own individual parts. The idea was to clarify the rhythm that had proved to be so difficult on Saturday. (This was the first orchestration finished for the show, and Jonathan was never fully satisfied with it.) I found myself standing on the stage while the orchestra was playing, and was amazed to discover how little the actors can actually hear from the pit below. In another era, before true amplification, when orchestra pits were shallower and extended further out into the auditorium, it was easier for the actors to hear. But in order for the performers to hear the orchestra, speakers had to be placed behind the proscenium aimed onstage. Getting the balance right was tricky. How odd, I thought, even the actors need amplification to hear the orchestra.

 

 

B
oth the Monday and Tuesday performances were less successful than Saturday’s. The Monday audience was very small. Alex Mohr, the house manager, blamed it on the late change in performance schedule; in any event, Monday night is a notoriously weak night in the theater, and the chances of our having had a significant presale or having sold this one as a benefit were remote. The mezzanine had patrons only in the first four rows of the center section, and they were scattered. Some appeared to be the first of the
Follies
groupies, however, since there was a small and vocal group who cheered certain things almost before they happened. Word had evidently gotten out. But their enthusiasm wasn’t enough to make the performance anything but lackluster. Applause was polite. Things that had played well on Saturday continued to play well, but the reactions weren’t as strong. The intermission made the show play in two parts, but that was about all it did. Reigniting the story after the intermission seemed an uphill fight, but since the performance lacked sparkle anyway, it was hard to tell whether that was due to the performance per se or to the show itself.

On Monday, unlike Saturday night, the creative staff was worried. When the performance ended, Hal came backstage and asked Fritz to clear the stage. He wanted an impromptu meeting with Steve, Michael, and Jim, and he wanted it without anyone hanging around. From the looks on all the faces, nobody was happy. Hal’s biggest concern was “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” He felt they were doing the show and everyone a disservice by keeping the song and wanted a new number to replace it. This wasn’t an entirely fresh sentiment, but it was the first time it had been voiced so adamantly. Steve was resigned to writing something new and made a half-joking move to get up immediately to go back to the hotel and begin writing. But he didn’t have an answer as to what the new song should be, and he didn’t want to start until there was agreement about what kind of number was wanted. Within the score, it held a unique position: although definitely a song from the past, “Fox Trot” was sung at the party in the present, performed specifically for the other guests. It never went into the past, Carlotta had no ghost counterpart, and its reason for existence was simply that the actress was determined to perform it once on this stage. Period. There was humor in the notion of a college song sung by an over-the-hill movie star, and one sensed that it might have even been funny as a college song back in the days of the Follies. But it wasn’t working. In the show’s story line, Dimitri Weismann had cut it from the Follies in Philadelphia; now Hal Prince was about to cut it from
Follies
in Boston. This time, the chances were that it would be gone for good. Steve asked what Hal, Jim, and Michael thought a new song should be, and whether it should take place in the present or should it be another pastiche song from the past? No one had a clear idea, although Jim said that maybe it should be about survival, how Carlotta had been through a lot in her life and yet was still around. There was a sense of relief now that “Fox Trot” was going. More thought and discussion would have to go into the decision, but in the meantime everyone agreed to cut out the extended middle section as soon as possible. Michael had some staging thoughts about how the cut could be made easily. Obviously, though, Yvonne would have to be told that the song would be replaced before the cut could be made. And everyone wanted to wait at least one more day before dealing with her or with it. Uncut, at Monday night’s performance, “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” had lasted seven and a quarter minutes.

Tuesday’s rehearsal began, as all rehearsals were to begin from now on, with notes, this time onstage. The cast would sit around the set (there were enough levels and stairs to provide ample perching opportunities) and Hal and Michael would stand in the front row of the auditorium, facing up at the stage. Hal was now clearly in charge; he gave most of the notes. Michael and Steve would interject comments whenever they felt it necessary. Some of Monday’s improvements were taken out, like the new staging of “The Road You Didn’t Take.” It turned out, although no one could have foreseen it, that having John McMartin sit on the proscenium rubble made it look like he was there simply to be near the floor microphones and to hear the orchestra better. There was a lot of gentle good humor about that, and the staging was returned to what it had been before. Mary McCarty raised her hand and asked if “Who’s That Woman?” could be slowed down a little at a certain point where she felt she would get a bigger laugh if she didn’t have to race through so fast. Politely but firmly Steve said that the number was written to go at a certain tempo and it should go at that tempo.

One actor was beginning to be a problem: Ed Steffe, who was playing Dimitri Weismann. Steffe was a very nice, polite man, with a perfectly lovely voice. He always addressed Hal as “Sir.” But his acting was wooden, and Hal wasn’t making any headway in shaping his performance. Notes were received graciously, but little change was evident. Granted, Weismann wasn’t a large role, but it was crucial—not unlike Cap’n Andy in
Show Boat,
who provides the “motor” to the play. It’s his party around which the show is based, and he must give the audience the sense that he was once a force to be reckoned with. Florenz Ziegfeld was the clear inspiration for the character, and history tells us he was not a bashful man—it was, after all, the Weismann Theater in which the Weismann Follies once played. Steffe wasn’t understanding the role of the congenial host, and he seemed particularly uncomfortable with the lecherous side of the character; nor did he have much authority onstage. He still carried the cigar that Hal had given him in rehearsal in the hope that a prop would help him take command of the character, but the performance wasn’t improving, and Hal found himself giving the same notes over and over.

A
rriving for the performance on Tuesday night, I ran into Alexis and Gene, who were in the lobby looking at the new photographs. Alexis was in a good mood, and while we talked she explained how detrimental she thought it was for actors to try to shape a show to their own needs, especially to get a bigger reaction, as Mary McCarty had suggested earlier in the afternoon. Of course she was relishing her new first line (“What this city needs is one more parking lot”) because she was using it to establish that “this lady is going to say funny things.” But there seemed to be a clear dividing line in her mind between an actor finding the right way to say lines—and get proper laughs—and one who wants things around her to be changed so she can get bigger laughs. It didn’t sound as if she was complaining about the competition; she just seemed like a very aware performer. And she was starting to get a good reaction from the audiences. She had a real sense of humor. With relish she related that when she and Gene had gotten into the cab together to come from the hotel, the driver wasn’t sure where the Colonial Theatre was. After they described it, he said, “Oh, yeah. That’s where that Yvonne De Carlo show is playing.” And she let out her nearly guttural laugh.

The performance on Tuesday was a slight improvement over Monday’s. Now it was Michael’s turn to get depressed. “It’s a disaster,” he muttered. Hal wasn’t much happier and ordered the onstage band unit to be lowered by two or three feet, as his eye was still distracted by seeing the piano so prominent. Fritz asked whether this had been okayed by Boris, and Hal replied, “I have just decided it, and Mr. Aronson need not be consulted.” (Note: that was the last we ever heard about lowering the platform, which remained as designed and as built.) The lighting came in for some criticism. It was complicated and not yet finished, but Tharon knew it was going to take several performances of adjusting and fiddling to get the cues right. She had made it clear from the outset, once she saw the technical schedule, that it was going to be very tight for her. She would simply continue to fix, change, and set cues right through the previews.

 

 

T
he Wednesday note session was as pleasant as possible. Tonight all the Boston critics would be in attendance, so the creative staff did their best to appear cheerful. Michael gave Ethel Barrymore Colt a new line before the song “Who’s That Woman?”: “I can’t tap-dance; I never could.” Ethel smiled oddly and said, “I know someone is trying to tell me something.” A decision was made to repeat a section of “Too Many Mornings” when the curtain rises on the second act, to help get back into the story. Michael asked Hal to give a pep talk on energy, and Hal promptly fell to the ground in mock exhaustion. It was a nice moment of levity. Hal then called for a final run-through, without costumes or orchestra, just to make certain all the small changes that had been made over the past few days were smooth and clean. He said that this was one of his traditions, and that it always helped put a company in the right frame of mind for the opening performance. He explained that he didn’t want to stop, but that if he needed to, he would blow on a new small shrill police whistle that someone had given him, and he held it up for the company to see.

The run-through went off without a hitch, although with performances that were not at peak level. Hal didn’t use his whistle once. When it was over, he gathered the company onstage. He had no notes; he just wanted to wish them well. This wasn’t a time for gushing; everyone knew that tonight mattered. He was straightforward and businesslike. He told them to go out there and enjoy the performance.

Backstage now looked like a real opening night. Telegrams were posted on the company callboard, many from friends of the company, but also from cast members of
Company
and
Fiddler on the Roof in
New York. Of course, theatrical tradition dictates that you never actually wish actors well, so instead you wish them the opposite, “Break a leg!” being the most traditional comment. Steve Sondheim, who had accidentally kicked a piece of the set one night at Feller’s and had broken his toe, wrote simply: “Good luck. Break a toe.”

The portion of the New York contingent necessary to a Boston opening was up in force. First and foremost: press agent Mary Bryant, who was scurrying around making certain everyone was being taken care of. While all the critics needed to have prime locations, it was known that some preferred certain seats, and it was in everyone’s best interests to see that those requests were fulfilled. There was also a little gentle skulduggery at work. When
Company
played in Boston,
Variety
had sent a reviewer who, according to rumor, had once worked for Hal but had been fired. He certainly had it in for the show, and concluded his nasty out-of-town review with this: “As it stands now, [
Company
] is for ladies’ matinees, homos, and misogynists.” A different critic was being sent by
Variety
to review
Follies,
but Mary nonetheless seated him way off to one side and behind a pillar. It turned out that he liked the show and wrote quite a favorable review despite his seat location. You never can tell.