Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (43 page)

Michael wanted the onstage band to segue back into their party music from “Who’s That Woman?” at the top of act two. The problem was that they hadn’t been used in the song, and therefore it wasn’t in their repertoire, so they were a little grumpy; they really didn’t want to learn anything new at this late juncture, but they tended to improvise anyway, so they were able to get a lead sheet and work up a passable arrangement.

 

 

T
he saga of the intermission wasn’t yet over. By midday Saturday, another new/old idea was floated: perform the show without intermission. Steve was opposed, but Hal wanted to give it a try. So for the fourth time in as many performances, the show was played differently. Running time was slightly over two hours, and on Saturday night, which was also Arnold Moss’s first appearance, it was performed as one act. Hal loved it, and felt it was right for the arc of the show. Michael was noncommittal. Steve succumbed to Hal’s enthusiasm as did everyone in the company, whether they cherished losing the time to take a breather or not. “Well,” said Hal, “life is full of surprises.” Each of the previews had played with a different act break, all of which were different from any of the configurations in Boston. From Saturday night forward, through all the New York performances and the brief tour that followed,
Follies
was played without an intermission. The people who were the most bothered were those who ran the concession stands, who were thus robbed of their prime sales opportunity.

Sunday was a day off, and it was the night of the Tony Awards.
Company,
which was up for fifteen Tonys, won seven: Best Musical, Best Lyrics, Best Music, Best Book, Best Director of a Musical, Best Producer, Best Scenic Design. Sadly,
Company
took none of the prizes in the performing categories, for which five cast members had been nominated: Best Lead Actor (Larry Kert, who was nominated in an interesting rules twist, since he hadn’t opened the show), Best Lead Actress (Elaine Stritch and Susan Browning), Best Featured Actress (Barbara Barrie and Pamela Myers), and Best Featured Actor (Charles Kimbrough). And Michael Bennett, in his fifth consecutive nomination for Best Choreography, lost out to Donald Saddler’s toe-tapping extravaganza
No, No, Nanette.
Steve Sondheim had never won before. In accepting his first Tony, as composer, he acknowledged Jonathan Tunick’s orchestrations as “the most brilliant ever made for the musical theater.” He thanked Hal Hastings and then said, “I’ve never thought very highly of awards, but I must say, it’s awfully nice to receive one.” Coming right back to collect another Tony for his lyrics, he said, “It’s even nicer to win two.” It was Hal’s second as director and fifth as producer. For Boris, it was win number three, and in his speech he said it was “the most exciting assignment I ever had . . . to do something for this magic city.” At the end of the evening, when the award for Best Musical was handed out, Hal brought Ruthie up with him and asked her to do the speaking. Many at the award ceremony had already seen
Follies
and probably assumed they’d be seeing the same gang again at next year’s ceremony. The evening must have been especially disappointing for Michael. His nominations began with
A Joyful Noise
in 1967 and continued every year:
Henry, Sweet Henry
in 1968,
Promises, Promises
in 1969,
Coco
in 1970, and then
Company
in 1971.

 

 

M
onday’s rehearsals began with a lot of Tony congratulations, after which Michael cut the entire verse from “Love Will See Us Through.” Harvey Evans and Marti Rolph were devastated: this was their one song, and now half of it was gone. Michael also had the Old Four remain onstage during both Young Four numbers, standing to the side in their street clothing, just watching as their younger selves performed. It was yet another attempt to make certain the audience got the connection; it was also a neat flip of the moments in the Prologue when the ghost figures stood by and watched as their present-day counterparts made their entrances. Yet it seemed odd—somehow, after the song “Loveland,” we had been taken back to somewhere else; and to have the modern characters stay around and watch hadn’t worked in Boston, and it wasn’t going to work now. It seemed unnecessary. My conclusion was that some audiences were simply never going to make the connection, and everyone would have to accept that fact. I didn’t know where the new idea had come from, but it was becoming apparent that Hal and Michael were at odds once again. According to Hal, Michael wanted both of the Young numbers cut, as well as “The Road You Didn’t Take.” Steve was siding with Hal.

Generic photographs had been in the lobby display cases, but were being removed in preparation for mounting new shots taken at the run-through on Wednesday. When the new photographs went up, still black-and-whites, some of the cast members became grumpy at the choices made. There was one large photo of Justine Johnston and Victoria Mallory singing “One More Kiss.” No one quite understood why. It was, however, a good photograph of a modern character and a ghost character together, which is probably why it was chosen.

A new scenic element for “Buddy’s Blues” arrived on Monday: a flying harness. The idea was that as Gene Nelson yelled “Hello!” over the nervous vamp of the number, he would pop his head through the curtain at the top, and then slide down through the center slit to the stage level, accompanied by a slide in the music. Once there, he would sing the verse with only his head showing. When he came through the curtain, he would be driving his little toy car and the audience would see for the first time that he was dressed in an electric-blue jacket and loud plaid pants. He was the first of the four principals to do a song in the Follies section, in Loveland, and I guess someone thought it would be a good idea to make a splash about being in a different reality. The harness was rigged, Gene was strapped in, and he was hoisted up to fifteen feet or so above the stage floor. Once up there, he grabbed on to the curtain for dear life, unsure of how to balance himself in the harness. Then he laughed and hollered that it was a mighty odd feeling. They lowered him to stage level and somehow he got down without a mishap. After a few tries he got the hang of it. Getting the costume rigged with the harness and the toy car hanging from his shoulders took some coordination. After some clumsy attempts to strap on the car after he was back down at stage level, it seemed easier to simply have him fly up with the car attached. That way, once he arrived at stage level, “all” he would have to do was remove the harness and put on his jacket—while singing the verse to the song. There wasn’t any leeway in the music, so everything had to be timed perfectly. After a few dry runs, the whole sequence was worked through with the two girls. It was silly, but it was very vaudeville and completely appropriate. Michael, still tinkering with the very end of the number, changed some of the movements and asked if it was okay for both girls to sing along on the final chorus. Those changes were made, and the staging went in that night, harness and all.

Hal took the rest of the company out into the lobby for notes. He was in a sentimental mood and first spoke about the Tony Awards and how thrilling it was to have a show that he cared about so deeply acknowledged by the theater community. He complimented Ruthie for her deft handling of her speech accepting the award for Best Musical, and the company gave her a nice hand. She had never really connected with the company, choosing to remain with Hal or as a go-between with Fritz and the technical side of the production.

 

 

P
lans were proceeding for the recording of the cast album on the Sunday following the opening. While the people from Capitol Records seemed enthusiastic, it was still up in the air whether they would agree to a two-LP set. Hal was working behind the scenes to persuade them to go for two records, and he indicated to the company that he thought he was making progress. Larry Cohen had been asked to write the liner notes. I, of course, was thrilled: since he and I hung out a lot, I had a preview of what he was writing, and he was using “my” typewriter up in the stage managers’ office. (His notes turned out to be superb; they even got a mention in the review of the album in the
New York Times
.) Alas, late Monday afternoon final word came from Capitol that they would not go for two records, which put everyone in a foul mood, including, of course, Dick Jones. He now had to propose cuts throughout the score in consultation with Steve. I was handed the task of creating lyric sheets that accurately reflected all the changes and cuts. The music department would be making its own “maps” of what would be recorded for the orchestra, and that would keep Mathilde and her crew busy.

Monday’s performance was down, with some of the bad old habits cropping up again. Yvonne messed up a bunch of lyrics, which caused Hal and Michael, standing in different places in the rear of the theater, to turn their backs to the stage at exactly the same moment. Gene seemed to walk through his performance but acquitted himself perfectly with his new “Buddy’s Blues” gymnastics. The audience loved it. Arnold Moss was settling in. This, his second performance, was more confident and relaxed. He gave off the air of someone in charge. Finally we had a real Weismann. Ethel got a rousing reaction for “Broadway Baby,” but after the show she shrugged and said, “You know, I just let compliments go in one ear and out the other.” One of the fan drops in the Follies sequence got stuck—something that had never happened before.

Later that night, Gene’s wife, Marilyn, phoned Hal at home. She had an emergency and was having trouble reaching Gene: their eight-year-old son had been hit by a truck on the way home from school and was in a coma in a Los Angeles hospital. Hal went to the hotel where Gene was staying (he had turned off the phone), broke the news, and brought him over to the Prince house so he could more easily connect with the West Coast. Obviously Hal wanted to help in any way he could, but he also had a duty to the production at hand. How would the opening of the show be affected if Gene had to rush back to Los Angeles? The child was being cared for by the same doctor who had treated Patricia Neal when she had her stroke, so at least he was getting the best care possible. His present situation could alter dramatically at any moment, or it could drag on unchanged for a long time. If Gene had to fly back to Los Angeles, either the opening might have to be postponed or the show would open with an understudy in one of the lead roles.

This was a professional crisis for Hal the producer. Ever since the middle of the Boston run, Hal the director had been far more in evidence, but here was a situation that needed a producer’s expertise. Producers are loath to postpone—no matter how dire the personal crisis, word always goes out that the show is in trouble. Hal had invited the critics to begin coming toward the end of the week, so that they had a choice of several performances they could attend. This was a policy he had initiated a few years earlier, suspecting that it helped the actors by not putting all the pressure on one opening-night performance. Cleverly, he also always invited the important critics to the opening performance as well, should they want to come merely as guests. But with this new dilemma, one possibility was to be completely open with the critics, tell them exactly what was happening, and invite them to a performance earlier in the week. Then at least they could see the complete cast, and if Gene had to fly out over the weekend, the reviews would reflect the official opening cast. That was the direction his thoughts were leaning, but by Monday night, things were still uncertain. For the moment, the status quo would be maintained. At one point Gene turned to Hal and said, “I have always made the wrong decisions in my life, and one of the first right decisions I have ever made was to do this show.”

Obviously, the stage managers would have to be alerted to the situation. Gene’s understudy, Dick Latessa, would have to be rehearsed, since there was now the very real possibility that he would go on. Dick arrived early on Tuesday and was put through the blocking by Fritz. Nothing was said to the company when they arrived for rehearsal. The overnight news from the hospital was hopeful. Hal, however, wanted to be prepared, so he ordered a full-page insert for the Playbill, including a large photograph of Dick Latessa and, instead of the usual bio, the following note:

It was an elegant way to deal with the bleak reality of opening a show without one of the stars.

Cleanup continued: Michael reinstated the verse to “Love Will See Us Through,” which he had cut the day before, and removed the Old Four from their watching position. He added a bump before the final chord for the girls’ jump into the guys’ arms. Harvey and Marti were relieved; cutting the verse had been especially hard for Marti. She had made the decision to move to New York to do this show, leaving her husband behind in California, and while she was very good in her role, it was clear that the Young Four were not getting as well noticed as other members of the cast. She had already been questioning her decision, and when the verse was cut, that seemed like the final straw. At least having the verse to the song back gave both her and Harvey a measure of dignity. Harvey, trouper that he was, kept a stoic posture during this whole episode. I had mentioned that I didn’t understand why it had been cut, so after it was reinstated he came up to me and thanked me for any influence I may have had in getting the verse reinstated. Needless to say, I had had none.