Me and Orson Welles (17 page)

“And my blueprints? And
my
set design?”

“What set!” laughed Orson, and he turned to me. “There's no scenery!” He turned back to Leve. “Do you want a special citation for no scenery? ‘Bare stage constructed by Samuel Leve'?”

“Then I'll start pulling down the ramps I built on the
bare stage
right now,” said Leve. “I'll start ripping out the platforms I built for your
bare stage,
and I'll fill in the holes I cut. And you can really play your play on a
bare stage
and see what the hell you've got!”

“Sam, you've been paid,” said Orson. “Frankly, I don't see what we're arguing about.”

“My
name!”
said Leve. “I'm arguing about my name. The money is
immaterial
to me, Mr. Orson Welles. I've done artistic work here, and I demand the credit to which I'm entitled. And if I
don't
get it, I will call the union; I will close down this show—and don't think I can't do it. I'm not scared of you, Mr. Orson Welles. I'll rip out every platform I built. I'll repaint the back wall the way I found it, and good luck with your opening night, Mr. Orson Welles.”

“The
Playbill
s are
printed,
Sammy.”

“Then they'll have to be
reprinted.”

“There's no way we can reprint them by tomorrow.”

“Then I'm tearing down my set.”

“For God's sake, Sammy, we
open
tomorrow. It's four o'clock in the afternoon; there's no printer on earth who can redo these by tomorrow. Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?
Receiving no credit for my work is reasonable? I'm tearing down the set.”

“John, for God's sake talk to him.”

“It was an oversight, Sam,” said Houseman in his best English-gentleman's manner. He touched Leve's shoulder. “You understand that. I'm sure we can get this rectified by Friday.”

“Sure, put my name in
Friday
when no critics come!”

“My God,” said Orson, “I can't believe you're pulling this bullshit twenty-four hours before we open. Everywhere I turn—people determined to
steal
my show.”

“Steal your show!” shouted Leve. The veins were protruding from his forehead. “Look at this.” He waved the
Playbill
wildly. “ ‘Entire production designed and staged by Orson Welles.'
That's
stealing, Mr. Orson Welles! You've stolen my work.” He tapped his chest. “My reputation. For four years I studied at Yale, Mr. Orson Welles. Then I worked for the Federal Theatre. I not only designed the sets, I designed the costumes!”

“Sammy, you're a wonderful man, but any skilled technician could have done what you did, and nobody but Orson Welles could have done what I did, and
that's
what this
Playbill
reflects.”

“It was an oversight,” repeated Houseman.

“It wasn't an oversight,” said Orson darkly. “It accurately reflects the credit for this show. But if you're
unhappy
with it, Sammy, then I'm big enough to reprint it for you. You want it to say that you played Brutus, too? You want it to say that you wrote the script? Fine. I'll print anything you want. But
this
is the
Playbill
we open with tomorrow night.”

“Orson!” said Houseman. “Will you stop making it worse? The man has an authentic concern as an artist. He has his own reputation to consider.”

“Go ahead!
Take his side like you always do!
You're another one waiting to steal my credit for this show! Good God, it's every man for himself in this company—now that you smell a hit.” Orson turned to me. “You know the only one I trust? This kid! C'mon, Junior, let's get something to eat; we'll work on our scene.” He began leading me out of the dressing room.

“We're not done here, Mr. Orson Welles,” said Leve. “You're the big expert on Shakespeare? Do you remember what Iago tells Othello?” And here Leve recited in his thick Jewish accent. “ ‘Who steals my purse steals trash. But he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him—and makes me poor indeed!' ”

“Get the hell out of my theatre!”

Leve continued reciting, and his face was dangerous. “ ‘Good name in man and woman, my dear lord, is the immediate jewel of their souls!' ”

“The man is deranged.”

“I'm going out there with my hammer right now,” shouted Leve, “and I'm tearing up that set board by board.”

“Do it and I'll have you arrested!”

Houseman moved between them. “We'll change the credit, Sam. By Friday it will be corrected. I give you my word as a gentleman.”

“You
are
a gentleman,” said Leve. Then he pointed to Orson. “There's a word in Yiddish for what he is—a
chazar!
A pig!”

Orson turned.
“I am Orson Welles,”
he said in his iciest tones. “And every single one of you stands here as an adjunct to
my
vision. C'mon, Junior, you're the only one around here I can talk to.”

I followed him out to the stage. Orson was whispering to himself in an angry torrent. He was enraged and nearly out of control. “Production design
and
lighting design! Credit-stealing, son-of-a-bitch Jew.”

“Don't call him that.”

Welles turned on me. “I called him a credit-stealing, son-of-a-bitch Jew because that's exactly what he is. Does that statement bother you?”

“Yes, it does.” And I realized as I spoke that what filled me with an instant, visceral compassion for Leve was that he sounded so much like my grandfather. They carried the same prideful sense of their Jewishness. And what so infuriated me about Welles was his near-remorseless annihilation of anyone in his path.

“Then I'll fire your ass, too. I don't need
any
of you!” Welles was playing to the whole company now. “Listen, you want a career in the Mercury Theatre and in everything else I plan to do, then remember one simple rule:
I own the store
. You don't like the way I work here?” He pointed to the back of the house.
“There's the door!
Find somebody else to star you on Broadway. Now, you've got something to say to me, Junior? Start talking.”

I met his eyes. “All I meant was that you didn't have to treat people like that.”

He goaded me. “Go on.”

“He's a human being; he doesn't need to be humiliated and demeaned to make your point. He deserves some respect.”

“He's nothing,” said Welles. He turned to the company. “Ladies and gentlemen, we open tomorrow, and I'm proud of every member of this company. Every single
one
of you has come through. You're a magnificent company—on par with any theatrical company in the
world.
And by Friday morning every literate person in this city is going to know who we are, and they'll be
lining
up for the privilege of seeing our work.” He clapped his hands. “John! Sonja! Longchamps—my treat. I'm absolutely
starving
to death.”

“I'll meet you there, Orson,” said Houseman quietly.

Sonja gave me a gesture that said:
What can I do?
and she followed Welles as he walked up the aisle. He was still wearing his military coat and gloves.

“Sam, I am so sorry,” said Houseman. “Words fail me. You see the way he is. He's not in his right mind. You can't talk to him now. Let me calm him down. I'll talk to him, and if I can get him to reprint it by tomorrow night, I swear to you I will. If not, I'll try to do an insert.” Houseman took Leve's hand. “He's under an enormous amount of pressure. We all think he's unbreakable, but he's near the breaking point. If this thing fails it's all on his shoulders. He doesn't know what he's saying.”

“He knows exactly what he's saying,” said Leve. He was staring down the aisle.

“Sam,
I
know what you've done for this production. We all do. There would
be
no production without Sam Leve. And, believe me, even Orson knows that. You saw him in one of his crazy moods. Sam, he wants to be everything: the writer, the star, the designer. He knows this moment isn't going to come again for him—and he sees you as a threat.”

Leve shook his head, stared down at the stage floor.

“He's young, Sam—talented and ambitious as hell. Forgive him that. When his mother died he was raised by a Jewish doctor; he adores the Jewish people: their compassion, their generosity, their sensitivity to the arts. Believe me, he's out of control now, but that's not who he is . . . . Sam, I promise I'll do what I can for you.”

Leve finally met his gaze.

“Thank you.”

Houseman sighed and hurried off to meet Welles.

“Mr. Leve, I'd like to buy you a coffee,” I said.

His eyes were watching the retreating Houseman.

“What?”

“I said I'd like to buy you a—”

“Thank you.”

He put his hand out, and I shook it.

“Yiddisher?”
he asked.

W
e found a deli on Broadway, and with my last handful of change I bought us a coffee, a tea, and a baked apple.

We sat there for an hour talking about nothing but Orson Welles.

“He's a
mishugunah,”
said Leve, shrugging his shoulders. “But he's a genius.”

“You know,” I said, “I was with Welles the other day over at CBS, and there was a sign on a door there that said TALENT ONLY—meaning, I guess, that only performers could enter that way. But I keep thinking about that with Welles—that it's
talent only.
That the only thing he has
is
talent—that all other human virtues: generosity, decency, loyalty—whatever—are missing. And because people are so hungry to be part of his success, they'll endure
anything
from him. Any kind of behavior is acceptable, no matter how demeaning, as long as he keeps bringing in success. I respect Welles as an artist; I really do. I'm in awe of him. But, as a man, he seems to me more and more a kind of monster.”

“We live in a world where the monsters get their faces on the covers of the magazines, my friend,” said Leve, and he took another forkful of his baked apple. He smiled at its taste. “
Besser kennet zoyen.
Do you know what that means?”

“How do you know that?

“Are you kidding? I had to do my whole Bar Mitzvah speech in Yiddish:
Meine taiera elterin und verte farzamalte. Zeit alla begriest!”

“That's very good!” laughed Leve. “Listen, I have a theory about my work, about
our
work. I want you to hear this: ‘As in the synagogue we sing the praises of God, so in the theatre we sing the dignity of man.' What do you think?”

“I like that: ‘In the theatre we sing the dignity of man.' ”

“It's what I believe. And all my religious friends who tell me why do I deal with all the
schmutz
and
dreck,
all the
filth
of the theatre? I answer them that the purpose of my art is to sing the dignity of man.”

“And what does Orson Welles know from the dignity of man?” I asked.

He made a guttural sound of distaste. “Orson Welles knows from Orson Welles.”

When we parted he said, “I thank you, my young friend, for the tea; and I thank you for the baked apple; and I thank you for being a human being.”

“It doesn't cost anything to be a human being.”

“Don't be so sure.
Gai gezint.”

 

Welles had decided there had to be more musical underscoring, and with two hours to go before the curtain of our final evening preview, he insisted upon reworking the entire musical score. He stood on stage with the composer, Blitzstein (a little sharp-nosed guy with a mustache), and Epstein, the organist, and the score pages were flying in the air. Blitzstein would play a figure on the organ, and Welles would yell either, “Great!” or “That's the worst thing I've ever heard in my life!”

Epstein was shaking his head. “We need time to rehearse this, Orson.”

“You'll be fine,” said Welles. “You're a professional—every place I put an X, that means you play a march. Two X's mean a fanfare, and three X's mean a drumroll. Every place I draw a circle, just give me the sad horn melody. And the dotted line means thunder. Got it?”

I found a seat in the audience next to Cotten. Coulouris was sitting in front of us. “The word on the street,” he announced, “is that the show is a bomb.”

“The
Post
is going to give us a rave,” said Cotten.

“We're supposed to be a classical repertory company—is that correct?” asked Coulouris. “Well, you judge a repertory company by the number of paid subscribers, don't you? The people who have
paid
for a whole season's subscriptions? You know how many paid full-season subscribers the Mercury Theatre Company currently has?
Less than twenty!
You tell me how we're going to make it.”

 

That evening's performance was a mess. The house was good—about three-quarters—and they seemed as hungry for a hit as we were, their hands held to their lips in concentration, their brows furrowed, but the music was miscued, jarring, too loud. Drumrolls mysteriously began in the middle of major speeches—and ended just as mysteriously. Gabel was in the middle of “Three parts of him are ours already” when a trumpet fanfare began. He just threw up his hands in exasperation.