Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (45 page)

On Friday and Saturday, Michael and Hal continued to give notes and tinker with lines and steps. Hal Hastings went on polishing the music. Gene and Michael figured out some cuts that could be made in the dance for “The Right Girl” to accommodate his sore ankle. They came up with a shorter version of the number, which played for three weeks until his doctors gave him the okay to do the full dance. Other numbers were drilled for precision. At one point, the ensemble was sitting around on the stage waiting for rehearsal to begin. Michael Bennett said to them all, casually, “Someday I’m going to do a show about dancers, and you’re all going to be in it.”

Basically, the show was now frozen. There would be no more changes; the show that was now playing would be
Follies
from now on. This was the moment that prompted Ethel Merman’s famous comment, “Boys, as of right now I am Miss Birds Eye. I am frozen!” Luckily, the performances on Friday and Saturday went well, and there were critics at all of them. But the big wait was for Sunday, our official opening night on Broadway.

OPENING NIGHT, APRIL 4, 1971

 

 

 

 

V
alidation for a Broadway opening is having an Al Hirschfeld drawing in the Arts & Leisure Section of the Sunday
New York Times
—“above the fold.” Follies had one, and it took up almost the entire top half of the front page. It was annotated “Boston,” which meant that Hirschfeld had been up there, although I couldn’t say when. He had clearly been inspired by “Beautiful Girls,” for several of the leading ladies were depicted lined up on the geometrically shaped playing area. Front and center was Alexis, captured in a posture with an odd twist she made with her body and arms as she crossed downstage. I hadn’t noticed it, but it was one of those character quirks that Hirschfeld captured so uniquely. Every time I saw the cross from then on, I thought about the drawing. (Even Alexis was amused.) Standing behind her, up on the platform, were Dorothy and Yvonne, as well as Ethel, Fifi, and Mary McCarty. There were no men anywhere. The other women’s poses and bodies were also nicely done—best was Ethel, whose stance, pointed finger, and facial expressions were unmistakably
her.
Hirschfeld included the ghost figures by lining up six females at the rear, corresponding to the six women down front, but with different postures. (There were seven “Nina’s,” all well disguised in the feathers, fringe, and architectural details.)

A joint profile of Alexis, Dorothy, and Yvonne accompanied the drawing, under the headline, “Three Show-Biz Girls and How They Grew.” A few characteristic quotes—Alexis: “I haven’t pursued a career seriously for ages, and I’m not pursuing one seriously now.” Dorothy: “Believe me, it’s wonderful being in
Follies,
but that’s just the icing on the cake. It’s Ron [husband Ron Holgate] who has brought such joy into my life.” Yvonne: “I’m too dumb to be nervous about New York.”

The company was called for two P.M. This was a Hal Prince tradition, to assemble the company on the afternoon of the opening and walk through the entire show. It gave the actors something to focus on during the day, and brought them into the by now familiar surroundings so they could be as relaxed as possible for opening night. Although many influential critics had already seen the show, an opening was an opening; tonight was still a big deal. There would be a lot of press attention. There would be celebrities and family and friends. The better things went, the better the chances for a long and happy run.

Of course, before the cast could get to the stage they had to make their way through the heaps of flowers and gifts strewn all over backstage, up the stairs, in the hallways, and in everyone’s room. Deliveries continued all afternoon. Gifts were passed around among the members of the company. Steve gave each of the principal actresses one of their costume sketches, framed, and to Jim he gave the original Hirschfeld drawing. Jim had sterling-silver stars engraved with “FOLLIES” for the principals; for the rest of the company, myself included, he had the cover of the New York Playbill made into a plaque. My note read: “Dear Ted, With gratitude for a lot of coffee and a lot of good will.” Yvonne gave champagne; Dorothy wrote lovely notes to everyone (to me: “For all the teas—root beers—sandwiches—and my beautiful ‘revised’ script, my thanks—and my love—Always, Dorothy”). Alexis gave Brooks Atkinson’s book
Broadway
to her fellow performers. Hal had copies of the Hirschfeld drawing made. Ruthie gave everyone a large glass mug with “FOLLIES” etched in the front. To me she wrote: “To Ted from Ruth with thanks for being a great ‘go for’ (as I was once).” Sheila Smith gave each of the women a bottle of champagne with a hanging tag dated the same year as the reunion banner they wore during “Beautiful Girls.” She also made cards with small round mirror chips glued to them, onto which she had etched, for each person individually, the name of the show, the date, and the person’s name—all in reverse (“Just a little remembrance of
Follies
and the ‘Mirror’ number”). Ethel Barrymore Colt gave me a medallion of St. Genesius (“Patron Saint of actors. Let him guide you well”). By rough estimate, Dorothy got the largest number of flower arrangements. Fifi said she would be taking all her flowers to a sick woman staying in her hotel. Ethel Shutta was pained by each successive arrangement of flowers, appalled at how much they must have cost.

When I was at the office on Friday, Annette had asked me if I could take something and not open it until Sunday. Then she handed me a box about the size of a shirt, but heavier, wrapped in silver foil. It was Hal’s opening night gift to me; it was one of the photographs that Martha Swope had taken of Hal and me standing at the back of the theater earlier in the week, in an 8” x 10” Cartier silver frame engraved: “FOLLIES—April 4, 1971.” His card said simply: “Thanks, Ted! Yours, Hal.” I was floored. And moved. To this day, that frame has stayed with me, though I’ll confess that I’ve never displayed it with the original photograph.

Once the company assembled, Hal gave a few final touch-up notes, and then started at the top of the show, easing through the book scenes and marking through most of the numbers. He was subdued, but generally upbeat. There was a new person in evidence today:
The New Yorker’
s infamous reporter Lillian Ross, who was hanging on Hal’s every word for a profile (which, incidentally, never ran). She had a small child in tow and was furiously taking down everything anyone said.

I was asked, for what turned out to be the last time, to go out and get coffee. Suddenly I felt nostalgic—it was starting to sink in that my experience with
Follies
was about to come to an end. I was still typing and collating lyric sheets for the cast album, a task that would keep me busy through the week, but with that my duties would be over. Furthermore, having spent three months away from school, I had promised to return for the last month, mainly to participate in the theater department’s spring one-act plays.

Rehearsal ended at four P.M. Hal excused everyone and reminded them that half-hour was 5:45, since the opening night curtain was scheduled for 6:15. I went home, changed into a tuxedo, and corralled my comrade for the evening, a classmate named Drew Ketterer. (I had been offered two good seats in the center of the balcony for the opening, and had been invited to the party as well.) Drew was my best friend at Connecticut College, yet we two couldn’t have been more different. The sum total of his show-business interest was a Victor Herbert song, “Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with Me,” and I suspected that had more to do with the sentiment of the lyric than with any abiding interest in light opera. He had never seen a Broadway show before, much less attended an opening night. I thought this would be a good introduction into my world for a friend who had already declared government as his major. (No, it didn’t change his career path; Drew later became attorney general for the State of Maine.)

By six o’clock, backstage was ready. The callboard was plastered with telegrams. “Congratulations on a great show. I’ve seen it twice so far and loved it. You are marvelous. Keep socking it to them. Best, John V Lindsay.” From Gene Kelly: “All the luck of the Irish to you, Fred, and everyone connected with ‘Follies.’ I don’t have enough money to send all my friends separate wires, but start with Prince, Sondheim, Nelson etc. and work your way through the cast.” Individual members of the company sent telegrams to the full company as well: “Each and every one of you are the jumping end. How proud I am to be with you. Love, Gene.” “Enjoy our farewell opening. Love, Alexis.” “Good luck to a wonderful company. John McMartin.” “There is no way to make our show more beautiful than you have made it. It is a dream come true and I cannot convey to you how much that means. Jim Goldman.”

Out front, the audience was gathering. This was a black-tie event, and a dressy one at that. All the people who had been working on the show in blue jeans and sensible clothing were now decked out in their finest. The unwritten rule seemed to be to come in black or white. Most of the men wore black tuxes, but Michael Bennett’s was white. Most women were in black formal gowns; Ruthie and Flossie were both in white. Time had clearly been spent in hair parlors and at the makeup table; even Mathilde Pincus and her sister and mother were dolled up and looking glamorous. Police had cordoned off an area in front of the Winter Garden’s entrance on Broadway, with space for limousines to pull up, in full view of the paparazzi and the newspaper photographers behind the barricades. The autograph hounds were out in full force. Any well-dressed figure they didn’t recognize they would ask, “You in show business?” Celebrities began to arrive—Danny Kaye, Lauren Bacall, Ethel Merman, Mayor John Lindsay, Betty Comden, Adolph Green, Ruby Keeler, Patsy Kelly. Those who wanted to see their pictures in the papers lingered beneath the marquee. Inside the lobby, the decibel level was higher than it had been at any of the previews. No one was in a hurry to sit. The place felt like a big, elegant party.

There was one commotion, however. A hairdresser from
Company
had arrived, visibly stoned. As he went down the stairs toward the men’s room, Ruthie blew up: “I want that man fired. I want him fired.” Company manager John Caruso went after him and asked him to leave the theater, which he did; but then he returned a moment or two later. Once again he was asked to leave, at which point Ruthie spoke up again. Hal was standing with Lillian Ross, and when he saw what was going on, he stepped in. “No, I will not have that man fired,” he insisted. Flossie, who had observed it all, told him that Ruthie had already ordered him fired. “I don’t care what Ruthie said, I will not have that man fired.” Ross was eagerly making notes. Hal went over to the man, spoke quietly to him, and then came back to the gang. “I’ve spoken to him and he’s going to go home.” Indeed, out he went, and into a cab.

Getting the performance started anywhere near the scheduled time was difficult; three times the house lights were dimmed to try to get everyone into their seats. Finally, fifteen minutes late, the house lights dimmed out completely, the audience applauded, the drumroll began, and the opening night performance began.

The cast was clearly nervous. Michael Bartlett, who had finally gotten his lyrics down cold, started inventing once again—”. . . nothing receptacle . . .” Dorothy seemed a little tentative, which was new. Gene was doing the shortened version of “The Right Girl,” and Virginia Sandifur, who was feeling ill, sounded a little raspy. Yvonne completely blanked in her scene with John McMartin, so he had to feed her lines back to her as questions. When she got offstage she just laughed it off. But none of it mattered: the audience hooted and hollered all night long. They cheered, they laughed, they yelled “bravo” after the mirror number . . . and at the end they stood up en masse. The cheers just got bigger and bigger as each successive performer came out for a curtain call.