And as soon as the final curtain fell, the stage was swamped with well-wishers, photographers, friends, and production people hugging, kissing, slapping each other on the back, and generally carrying on. Danny Kaye went over to Dorothy and said, “Look at you. A little while ago you were selling Lucky Strikes and now before you know it you’ll be showing your tits onstage!” Yvonne clung to me for a while, until some of her California friends came and whisked her away. The company was still onstage and in costume, trying without much success to make their way back to their dressing rooms to change for the party. Mary Rodgers found Steve and said, “I should never go out of town again. I didn’t like this show in Boston but I love it now.” Backstage was total mayhem—there were five times as many people milling about as there would ever be after any other performance. Lines of people trying to get up the stairs would brush by lines trying to get down. Showgirls with towels draped around their middle were trying to make their way up to their dressing rooms. It was chaotic, but spirits were soaring.
The opening night party was held at the Rainbow Room—thrown, as the invitation read, by “Tommy Valando, Capitol Records, Inc. and Williamson Music, Inc.”—the two music publishing companies that represented the score in addition to the record company making the album.
B
roadway opening night parties are multilayered events. The people who have worked tirelessly to get the show on want to party with their friends and colleagues. Celebrities who need to see and be seen are there in force, often trailed by photographers, both professional and amateur. And yet that cloud of uncertainty hangs over the festivities, as everyone knows that at a certain point in the evening, the press department will have received advance copies of the morning reviews.
The Rainbow Room was a spectacular place for the party. Being whooshed up to the sixty-fifth floor of the main building of the Rockefeller Center complex in an art deco elevator is an impressive way to begin. Stepping into the Rainbow Room itself is even better: it is a large room with a bandstand against the west wall, tables surrounding a round dance floor at its heart, and stunning views of the city from windows on three sides, looking south to the Empire State Building, east to Long Island, and north to Central Park. It certainly captured the feel of a glamorous age gone by. The people traffic continued all night. Lisa and Boris Aronson were in the elevator with me, hoping they wouldn’t be the first to arrive. Ethel Shutta made a point of introducing me to her son and daughter-in-law. Fifi asked if I would escort her over to Judy Prince, whom, she said, she had never met. Husbands and wives of members of the company, many of whom had been invisible over the past three months, were taken around from table to table for introductions. I remember at one point Elaine Stritch turned to Ethel Merman and said, “Isn’t it too bad that Alexis Smith has gotten so fat and ugly,” to which Merman replied, “Christ, she looks like a microphone!” The band was playing—songs, it seemed, by everyone but Stephen Sondheim. Danny Kaye took Gene Nelson out onto the dance floor. Lauren Bacall hung on to Sondheim, off at a table to the side. There was a lot of table-hopping, hugging, drinking, greeting. I thanked Hal for his extraordinary gift to me. “It’s a memory for us both to remember,” he said.
After an hour or so, I wandered out to where the press people were hanging out to see if they had any news. There was a group clustered around the phone booth. Mary Bryant was on the phone with Ingram Ash, who was at his office, where he could watch all three television news programs, retrieve reviews from the wire services, and take phone calls from the newspapers. He spoke to Mary, who gave the news to Hal. “UPI is good . . . AP is mixed,” she said. “The television reviews are uniformly good.” The
Daily News
was a rave, and it looked as if the
New York Post
was good. She listened a little longer, then signed off, after which she asked to speak with Hal alone. Even the now omnipresent Lillian Ross stayed behind. No one knew exactly what they were talking about, but we had a hunch.
The party continued merrily. After a while, Hal came back into the main room, went over to the microphone, and asked the band to stop playing. He asked for everyone’s attention, as he had done in Boston, although that had been in a far smaller room with far fewer people around. Now it was for real. Once everyone had quieted down, he began: “The last time I was in this room was for a show for which I was only the producer. That show was
Fiddler on the Roof,
I had seen the lines at the box office and I knew that it would be fine. The reviews, lo these seven years ago, were mixed. That was then. Tonight, however, I care even more since this show is
ours.”
A big round of applause and cheers. “It is ours—the fifty-four of you in the cast, and all of you who have been working on the show. This time I do care. So . . .” and he took a pause. “The weekly magazine reviews are swell. The television and broadcast reviews are swell. The
News
and the
Post
are terrific, but the
Times
is not terrific. He found the show shallow, although he had nice things to say about all the people involved. It is, however, much better than his review of
Company.”
The guests didn’t quite know what to make of this. It surely wasn’t good news, but no one could tell how bad it was. Hal went on: “But I just want to tell you all that I am sick of this man, and I can assure you that this review will not go uncommented on. I think I will declare war on this man, and I know there will be a lot of support with me to see that this man is done away with! Let’s send him back to England!” Up rose cheers and loud bursts of applause. This was risky—no one in the theater community particularly liked Clive Barnes, but then they seldom like the person holding his position. Still, twice in a row he seemed to have completely missed the point of a Hal Prince show that had excited so many others, and Prince wouldn’t take that lying down. The news that everyone had been waiting for was bad, but the bad news had been delivered in an inspirational and upbeat way. Hal was defiant; he was in charge. The party could continue in a jolly fashion, and it did.
Hal’s unprecedented moment at the Rainbow Room did not go unnoticed. Earl Wilson wrote about the incident the next morning, under the title “Producer Bites Critic.” And in its weekly edition,
Variety
wrote:
The Sardi’s set and Shubert Alley are doing a big pro and con about Harold Prince’s 10-minute diatribe against Clive Barnes. . . . There is a good deal of sympathy for Prince’s emotional outburst, though others recalled that David Merrick’s several blasts against Barnes did not prove to the producer’s advantage.
The show had been handed the verdict everyone feared: the
New York Times
didn’t like it. If Barnes did in fact like it more than he’d liked
Company,
he didn’t like it
much
more. The first paragraph was indicative of his tone, and of his dilemma:
The musical “Follies” is the kind of musical that should have its original cast album out on 78’s. It carries nostalgia to where sentiment finally engulfs it in its sickly maw. And yet—in part—it is stylish, innovative, it has some of the best lyrics I have ever encountered, and above all it is a serious attempt to deal with the musical form.
His negatives grossly outweighed his positives. In reference to the four lead characters, he wrote that “their marriages are not working out. (They rarely do in Sondheim musicals.)” He continued:
The book is well enough written. . . . The writing is far better than the shallow, narrow story, raising expectations that are never fulfilled. . . . Sondheim . . . is a Hart in search of a Rodgers, or even a Boito in search of a Verdi. . . . His words are a joy to listen to, even when his music sends shivers of indifference up your spine.
Some positives:
I think I enjoyed it more than the Sondheim/Prince last torn marriage manual “Company.” . . . It is a carefully chosen cast that works very hard. . . . My personal favorite was Alexis Smith [who] looks wonderful—and she has a mixture of ice and vitality that is tantalizingly amusing. . . . The lyrics are as fresh as a daisy. I know of no better lyricist. . . . His words are a joy to listen to.
Hal, as producer, had one important task to accomplish as quickly and effectively as possible: demonstrate to the readers of the
New York Times
that their man was wrong. He did this by taking out a large and expensive ad in the Arts & Leisure Section. Spread over all of page two and half of page three were thirty quotes from a variety of extraordinary reviews. He dealt with the situation at the
Times
in as humorous a fashion as he could: the final quote was from Clive Barnes: “I think I liked it better than ‘Company,’ ” which was followed by an asterisk referencing
Company’s
double win as Best Musical by both the Tony Awards and the New York Drama Critics’ Circle.
There was another irony. Despite the large rave-filled ad, the Arts & Leisure Section led off with a review by the
Times‘
s other theater critic at the time, Walter Kerr, who was even more scathing than Clive Barnes. The headline: “Yes, Yes, Alexis! No, No, ‘Follies’!”
“Follies” is intermissionless and exhausting, an extravaganza that becomes so tedious . . . because its extravaganzas have nothing to do with its pebble of a plot; and the plot, which could be wrapped up in approximately two songs, dawdles through 22 before it declares itself done. . . . Ingenuity without inspiration can quickly become wearing, and we are not too long in our seats before we realize that no one has had an idea for the evening capable of sustaining its weight in silvered feathers.
On and on he went, excoriating almost every aspect of the show. And yet, on the very next page, were enough stellar quotes (not two-word blurbs, but extended quotes) to convince any reasonable theatergoer that this was a show worth seeing:
“Follies” is a pastiche so brilliant as to be breathtaking at times. Indeed, it struck me as unlikely that the tools and resources of the Broadway musical theater had ever been used to more cunning effect than in this richly imaginative work. (Douglas Watt,
New York Daily News)
The frontier of the American musical theater is wherever Harold Prince and Stephen Sondheim are. With “Follies” . . . they have put together an act of dramatic creation even more daring than making a Proustian film. Sondheim’s entire score is an incredible display of musical virtuosity and expertise. (T. E. Kalem,
Time
)
“Follies” is a brilliant show, wonderfully entertaining, extraordinarily intelligent, and having both a stunning direct appeal and a rare complexity of feeling and structure. (Jack Kroll,
Newsweek
)
I confess to you that I am in love with “Follies.” I found it spectacular. This for me was the most relevant, entertaining creation I’ve seen on Broadway in a long time. I’ve seen it 3 times in 4 nights. (John Schubeck, ABC-TV)
And so on . . . And farther back in the same section was a full-page ad taken by Capitol Records. Set in the middle of an otherwise empty page were the following lines set in the same typeface used in the show logo: “The Winter Garden Theater is dark today. The cast of
Follies
is away recording for Capitol.”
All of this is not to say that the
Times
stood alone in disliking the show. In fact, the reaction to the show in New York was an even more pronounced version of what had happened in Boston, where critics were either on one end of the spectrum or the other:
It is like trying to make the Eiffel Tower stand on its head, or building the pyramids from the apex up. . . . Some fragments can be salvaged from the debacle . . . nostalgically cloying, [and] smoggily pretentious . . . (John Simon,
New York
magazine)
It is the sort of show that would be easier to miss entirely. The musical numbers are so ordinary, however, that what starts out promisingly never gathers more than mild movement and presently grinds to a standstill. Sondheim’s music is relentlessly monotonous and his lyrics are so labored that the numbers become interminable. The show bristles with inept direction. Harold Prince and Michael Bennett can both go stand in a corner. (Hobe Morrison,
Herald News of Passaic)
The weakest element of a Harold Prince musical is usually the book and this one is intolerable. (Julius Novick,
Village Voice
)
Taken as a whole, the collection of reviews
Follies
received was as rangy as possible. The hope is always for the intelligent reviewers to be linked with the influential publications. Unfortunately for
Follies,
the more influential the medium, the less adventurous the critic seemed to be. Many critics were more than willing to minimize the weaknesses in favor of celebrating the strengths, but often those brave souls were not situated in papers with wide circulations. And as with Boston, some wrote perceptive and probing analyses of a show they recognized as complex. A few examples:
“Follies” is a fresh, new musical; it is not a great musical. It may, however, be an epoch-making musical. It succeeds in collapsing and expanding time like an accordion, in juxtaposing the past and present in such a way that each comments on and gently mocks the other. That’s new and may influence musical comedy concepts to come. (Howard Lord,
Long Island Catholic
)
“Follies” is most trenchant when the pathos of performance is allowed to come through the elaborate contrivance of plot and spectacle. Prince and Bennett have treated the musical numbers with loving dedication and style. But neither they nor Sondheim are thinkers, and if “Follies” can be faulted it is on the grounds of its limited emotional and intellectual range. It is a bold musical which uncovers ideas it is unwilling (or unable) to pursue. It outlines the process of delusion and also argues for more authentic priorities for the imagination. I’ll bravo for that. (John Lahr,
Village Voice
)
For all its rainbow razzle-dazzle, “Follies” is a plaintive anthem to loss: the loss of youth, of love, of the delusions of the past. A disturbing seriousness underlies the glitter of this hard, sad, marvelous musical—a discomforting view of life: we act as best we can, and sometimes the consequences of our past mistakes are hidden for years; self-knowledge comes late and the lack of it can produce frightening results. Strange, sober matter for a musical. By anatomizing the wrong turns we take in life, the dusty answers time brings to our fantasies, “Follies” forces us to preside over the death of dreaming. It is a courageous, not a comforting show. (Arthur Friedman,
Phoenix
)