Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (33 page)

The “blonde from TV,” Pat Collins, called the show “beautifully staged, a dazzling and fine musical. Spectacular!” It was good enough to be used in the newspaper ads in the coming weeks.

Some of the other reviews had interesting takes on the show. The
Christian Science Monitor’s
Roderick Nordell said, “If
No, No, Nanette
was nostalgia imported from the innocent past,
Follies
is nostalgia reconstituted with the sophisticated wit of the present.” His reservation was for the book and the leading characters: “Too much time is spent on these characters without telling us enough about them. . . . The deficiency . . . is that the central characters in James Goldman’s script are not fresh or interesting enough for the innovations around them. They are like two couples left over from Mr. Prince’s
Company,
dissatisfied with their marriages, failing to find themselves through ‘playing around.’ ”

Boston After Dark‘
s review, by Larry Stark, was titled “Fantastic Follies,” and although he had some concerns about the show’s length and the quality of the songs (“there is a sort of nostalgic sadness—the same sort of sadness that is evoked when grandparents or an old maiden aunt does a stiff-limbed polka at a wedding”), he felt that Prince “will be hailed for making another significant advance beyond
Company
in the field of the ‘new’ musical.”

Steve Vineberg in the
Justice
observed:
“Follies,
in a pre-Broadway run at the Colonial, may be the most frustrating show I have ever seen. In some ways it is the most mature musical in about five years; in some ways it is awkward and overproduced. But whatever else it may be,
Follies
is arresting; it is provocative; it provides food for thought. And I firmly believe that what is good and important in the play and production is almost too good to be true, even when half buried by the banal dialogue and endless repetition.”

The critics are nothing if not unpredictable. They all saw the same show, yet their opinions were so different. As an example of how their observations can vary, here is what some had to say about Yvonne De Carlo and the song that the creative forces already knew was going to be replaced: “[she makes] a happy evening’s entertainment out of ‘Can That Boy Fox Trot ”’ (Elliot Norton). “Yvonne De Carlo amiably essays a complicated number that’s a lark because she’s doing it, though it still needs work” (Roderick Nordell). “Yvonne De Carlo has a good time with a showy number called ‘Can That Boy Fox Trot!’ ” (Samuel Hirsch). “[Sondheim] has written a fiendishly difficult number for Yvonne De Carlo . . . [who] is simply unable to master Sondheim’s involved lyrics and, for that matter, I doubt if Callas could” (Kevin Kelly). Callas? Was she ever known for performing intricate lyrics? I don’t think so. As it turned out, the Boston critics of 1971, taken as a group, proved to be a pretty good indicator of the overall critical reaction this show would continue to get over the next thirty years. The ones who liked it loved it and got it. The ones who didn’t care for it dismissed it and never saw beyond the details. What was odd about Boston was that the “enlightened” critic missed the point and obviously didn’t enjoy much of anything about the evening, while both a fairly standard newspaper critic and a cheerful blond television reporter got it.

But the most interesting review was yet to appear. Several days after the opening, a member of the company wandered into the theater at noon for the daily note session with a copy of the
Crimson,
Harvard University’s student newspaper. He had happened upon a copy of the paper, which, he said, contained an interesting piece on the show. Someone on the production staff had also picked it up, and soon the paper was being passed around for everyone to read. Hal was fascinated by it, and Steve was absolutely intrigued. Many in the company had no idea what to make of it, and were dumbfounded. Titled “The Last Musical,” it seemed almost more of an essay inspired by the show than a review—at least that’s what everyone thought. Written by a Harvard senior named Frank Rich, it began by describing the women making their entrance for “Beautiful Girls,” the first recognizable musical number in the show.

He went on to say that the show “is about what has happened to these women since their golden moment and, more importantly, what has happened to the American dreams they symbolized for a generation.” He praised the form in which the show was conceived: “It is a measure of the show’s brilliance (and its brilliance is often mind-boggling) that it uses a modern musical form, rather than the old-fashioned one that the Follies helped create, to get at its concerns.” He understood that Prince “has thrown out the time-honored musical convention of using songs to advance a simple-minded script in favor of letting the music add new levels of meaning to a sophisticated libretto.” He captured the mood of the production and articulated it better than anyone:

The most stunning part of Rich’s review—and it certainly stunned everyone connected with
Follies
—was its two closing sentences:

It was not the intention of the creators of
Follies
to present a funeral. And if it had been, it wouldn’t have been their own funeral they were presenting. That part of Rich’s piece stymied everyone. Pathos, resonance, pain, memory, reality—those were the ideas and emotions everyone was going for. But not the death of musical theater. So one of the first decisions made in reaction to the review was to alter the line in the program indicating where the show took place, from “this theater tonight” to “the Weismann Theater.” (Amusingly, several patrons arrived at the stage door following some of the early performances because they took the description of “a party” quite literally and wanted to join in the festivities onstage.) At least if the show proved to be a funeral, let it be Weismann’s funeral and not that of the newest band of innovators of the American musical. And please let it not be the funeral of the musical theater as a genre.

Fortunately, it turned out not to be. There were
A Chorus Line, Pacific Overtures, Sweeney Todd
, and many other innovative musicals to come from this collection of artists. But for a new and original musical, trying out in Boston with the best of intentions, hoping to be a hit, to have touched a nerve so profoundly that it prompted such an eloquent and articulate essay was almost overwhelming for the company of
Follies.
The intellectuals in the group were absolutely fascinated and wondered how Rich’s review augured for the New York reaction. And who was this guy Rich, anyway? No one knew anything about him except that he was an undergraduate at Harvard. Hal remarked that “there’s a key sentence I don’t understand yet, but I have a feeling that man understands the play better than anyone else.” Steve sought him out and invited him to lunch. Most people in the company just hoped it was a good review.

THE FIRST TWO WEEKS OF THE BOSTON RUN,
FEBRUARY 25–MARCH 7

 

 

 

 

I
can’t understand it. It must be a subject that just doesn’t interest him.“ Hal was talking with Jim Goldman. Kevin Kelly’s review came as a blow; it was the one review that Hal had felt reasonably sure was “in the bag.” Not having his support was going to hurt; the question was how much. The advance sale had been building, which is always a good sign, but if it tapered off, the commercial prospects for the future life of the show would look grim. No matter how good other reviews were—and some were very good indeed—at this moment the commercial producer was focused on the
Globe,
Boston’s largest and most influential paper. He didn’t get that one, and he was worried.

The creative staff gathered in the ladies’ lounge to discuss the aftermath of the reviews and decide on a game plan. The decision about replacing “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” had already been made, but how much the reviews were going to influence other edits and changes remained to be seen. I had been told by Steve that Hal really comes to life out of town, and now was his moment to shine. He had been here before, and he thrived on rolling up his sleeves and getting to work. One challenge, of course, was to make certain his collaborators agreed as to what needed to be done. Michael had begun to remove himself slightly from the rest of the creative staff, but he was constantly refining and questioning his work, and everyone else’s as well. He was ready to do whatever was necessary; he had even mentioned, quietly, to those close to him that nothing he was unhappy with would come to New York.

One subject that did come up at the meeting was the Prologue. Everyone felt that it wasn’t quite working, that it was somehow too fragmented, yet there wasn’t general agreement on exactly how to fix it. Michael said he had an idea, and that he would take one more crack at it, but he didn’t want to discuss it with anyone; he just wanted to be left alone to do it. He was persuasive, and since no one else had an alternative, they agreed. The first thing he asked was for Steve to play him all the songs ever written for the show in the hope of finding some music around which to base a more cohesive Prologue.

Before discussing what should be done among themselves, Hal, Steve, Jim, and Michael met with Steve’s agent, Flora Roberts, a brilliant and perceptive supporter of Sondheim’s work whose opinions were valued. She had come up from New York for the opening, as was her tradition, not having been to any of the preview performances. Other colleagues would make their way to Boston over the next few weeks and deliver an armada of opinions, only some of which would be helpful. But Flora was different, and the doors to their meeting were closed to all outsiders. What was discussed at the meeting was never disclosed; chances are she confirmed many of the decisions that were being contemplated.

Hal was revved up by the time the company arrived for their pep talk before the matinee performance. Yes, Boston still had Thursday matinees, and despite a late night partying, everyone had to get back to work. Since performances had begun on Saturday night, this would be the first matinee.
Follies
by daylight, what a thought! Somehow it seemed like such a nocturnal creature.

As the full company assembled onstage, Fifi went over to anyone who would listen and said, “I was not even mentioned in a single review. You know why? Because the song is no good, and I’ve known it all along. They will have to change my song or I’ll leave the show.” She was correct, as far as the daily newspapers were concerned; none of them mentioned her, although several did notice both Ethel Shutta and Mary McCarty, whom Fifi had earmarked as her direct competition. Fifi was not bashful, and in some ways it was healthy to have one member of the company so vocal with her own self-serving opinions; it made the rest of the company keep their thoughts to themselves. And while there was no talk about changing “Ah! Paris,” there were concerns about its position as the final song in the Montage. When Yvonne arrived, she confessed quietly that Hal had told her they were going to build up her part and give her a new song. She was both thrilled and terrified; she knew “Fox Trot” was not going over very well, but since it had taken her so long to learn it, she was nervous about having to learn something new.

Hal addressed the company: “Well, we know what we are going to do and it will entail a lot of work from everyone. We will all be busy until we leave this town. Every time this show is played—here, in New York, and all over the world—there will be people who will hate it. It’s about age, which some people feel is audacious, but the Shuberts love the show and it’s going to run for a hell of a goddamn long time! Nevertheless, you will all be working your asses off in Boston.” Michael, who had been standing alongside, echoed the thought: ”You bet your ass!” The reference to the Shuberts was something new: it was important that the Shubert Organization, as landlords of the Winter Garden Theater, be supportive. Otherwise, they might well begin to think of another tenant for their theater, since their primary interest was to keep their theaters filled: taxes, staff, and maintenance are continuing expenses even when a theater is dark. At this time, the titular head of the Shubert Organization was Lawrence Shubert Lawrence, Jr., but ”the Shuberts” were fast becoming a new team consisting of two lawyers (Bernard Jacobs and Gerald Schoenfeld) and one questionable businessman (Irving Goldman) who had recently taken control of the business. There was no one named Shubert currently in sight.

Hal thanked the company for all their hard work, told them they would triumph, and set them off to prepare for the matinee. “Give a good show,” he said.

 

 

F
ollies
was now settling into a routine. There were to be twenty-nine more performances over the next three and a half weeks, and since the show was the only reason everyone was in Boston, the schedule revolved around performances and rehearsals. Each performance would be slightly different, reflecting not only notes given by Hal, Michael, or the authors, but also including whatever changes, cuts, and additions were being implemented that day. New things would be tried, found wanting, and the previous version would be quickly restored. Some changes took only a moment: a new line could be given to an actor at five P.M., run at half-hour on the stage behind the closed curtain, and put into the show that night, to stay there forever. On the other hand, an entire new number would have to be discussed, written, rehearsed during part of every rehearsal day available, orchestrated, and then put into the show at a performance planned days in advance, to allow for the coordination of new orchestrations, new lighting cues, and new set cues. Most of the changes fell somewhere between those two extremes, but changes on every level were going on at all times. Audience reactions would prove as valuable as anything in helping Hal, Michael, Jim, and Steve figure out when the collective attention span was waning, which jokes worked and which didn’t, and which musical numbers were landing. To know how to listen to an audience is an art in itself, and to balance what an audience can tell you against individual comments made by friends and colleagues is even trickier. Despite the many years of experience represented by the collaborators on
Follies,
they were always in danger of making missteps at this most vulnerable of times. It’s nearly impossible both to keep perspective on the whole and to attend to the details. The best one can hope for is that all the creative people discover that they are, in fact, working on exactly the same show. Then and only then can the back-and-forth of a theatrical collaboration result in a work with a unified point of view.

The actors were still feeling their way into the routine and rhythm of performing the show—after all, the opening night performance attended by the critics was only the fourth time the company had ever played it before an audience. Just finding and timing the traffic patterns was hard enough for the old-timers. Sometimes they weren’t at the right places, and entrances were occasionally made from peculiar and illogical spots. The actors were constantly making slight adjustments of their own onstage, either reacting to lines and modifying moments that didn’t seem to be working, or simply trying to see how much leeway they had to place themselves where they felt they would come off best—or be seen best. This happened most often in the party scenes, where the staging wasn’t precisely marked out. The partygoers had been asked to behave as if at a party, standing around tables of food, chatting. Some of these actors just worked the tables until they found the light and a spot for themselves, usually as far downstage center as possible. Occasionally notes would be given about this tendency, but some stalwarts tried to find other ways to be noticed.

Of course, there were already several golden moments that everyone knew worked. The most obvious was the mirror number, “Who’s That Woman?” Audiences loved it, and almost every review singled it out as not only a great number but also one that was deeply in keeping with the themes of the show. Michael would tweak it (he once said that when he went in to fix a show in trouble—
How Now, Dow Jones
—he first improved the number that was working best before trying to fix those that were not), but for the most part, “Who’s That Woman?” was a solid hit. Other moments worked, but would elicit different reactions every night. Applause on the women’s entrances during “Beautiful Girls,” for example, never happened the same way twice. The principal actors had already made entrances in the Prologue, although in overcoats, and audiences were never sure whether they should applaud again for stars they had just seen, even if now they were in their evening dresses with their gold Miss America—style banners across their chests. In addition, many of the supporting actresses hadn’t yet been introduced, so audiences weren’t sure whether they knew, or were supposed to know, Sonja Levkova, Ethel Barrymore Colt, Justine Johnston, or Helon Blount. The ambiguity of knowing or not knowing who the women were was part of the point, but it made for curious reactions from different audiences.

Certain moments, both in the score and in the libretto, had been identified as problems. “The Right Girl” was one, but it was hard to tell whether the difficulty lay in the performance or the material. It had been a struggle for Gene to master the dance, and Michael had already simplified many of the steps, but he was eager to keep pushing Gene right up to his choreographic breaking point. “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs,” for some reason that was hard to fathom, wasn’t working. This seemed to have happened gradually, and no one was sure why. The rhythms were sloppy and the song seemed to confuse the audiences. Since it was a core moment in the show, it was imperative that it be fixed. And the big worry was whether audiences made the proper connection with Loveland, whether they grasped the psychological state of mind of the whole sequence, which, of course, affected their reaction to the songs. Some got it, some didn’t, and no one could tell why. “Bolero d’Amour” was too long, but it was unique enough to be left alone. Michael and Bob would tinker with it when they had the dancers to themselves.