B00AZRHQKA EBOK (48 page)

55

Larry and Gene did indeed spend the whole afternoon with Star, and Gene reported to me that She had turned, overnight, into a doll baby. She listened, She repeated after Larry, She got up and performed all around the room. Gene said one could see her confidence returning like a blood transfusion.

“And what’s more important than confidence?” he asked. “In any endeavor? Do you know why Adlai Stevenson lost both times? Because he
knew
he was going to—or
thought
he was going to, which amounts to the same thing. Athletes tell me that unless they are
convinced
they are going to clear the bar or make the basket or hit the homer—they don’t do it. She’s good because She
knows
She’s good—when She gets scared and tentative, She’s
gone.
In any field—I suppose in the theatre more than in any other place—a positive wrong is better than a negative right.”

“How right you are,” said Larry. “Wonderful actress I worked with once—Ruth Chatterton. I was the second assistant stage manager, and there was a word in her part—'scenario’—and from the first reading, she pronounced it 'shenario.’ It was so positive, so confident, that the rest of the company began saying it that way. So did I, until about a year later, a brilliant girl I knew—a poet—said to me, 'Why are you saying that word in such an outré fashion?’ And we looked it up in twelve different dictionaries, and of course, there
is
no such pronunciation. That Ruth Chatterton!”

While Gene and Larry were with Star, I was at the session at the theatre. What a difference! Ivan was blasting the lights, Hy screaming about the sound system, Art blaming everyone, including the ushers. And the ideas for improvement! Jenny blamed it all on lack of chorus precision. Clay thought the show had been rushed—making too much of it incoherent.

“Not my department, actually,” said Alicia. “But at this point, I suppose it’s fair game for each of us to say. And, may I say, I do think you’re quite wrong, Clay. My inner clock told me that the performance was dilatory in the extreme.”

“Oh, shit,” said Art to himself.

Alicia went on. “I mean to say, it was
leaden
—loud but leaden.”

“Loud is right,” said Hy. “Every note sounded like the same note.”

“Benefit audience,” said Fred, feeling the need to say something.

“Tonight is, too,” said Art, in misery. “So what can we do about
that?”

“It’s all in Scene One,” said Jenny. “If that kicks off, the show kicks off. Sets the tone, the style—gets the audience with us. Give me a rehearsal of Scene One, and I’ll show you!”

“Get her a rehearsal of Scene One,” said Art.

“I can’t,” said Clay. “The company has no call.”

“Make
a call, God damn it. Get ’em together here, those lazy bastards.”

“Try, Stu,” said Clay, resigned.

Two hours later, the staff had managed to round up everyone in Scene One—with the exception of Star and one girl. Patti, who is now Star’s standby, went in for Nora, and the swing girl went in for the missing one. Jenny bounced around, adjusting an arm here and a leg there, showing the girls how to sit and how to rise. In an hour, she had covered the first four minutes of the scene.

I reported all this to Larry and Gene during dinner at Gallagher’s.

Larry laughed. “Lord, isn’t it amazing how nothing changes? It all repeats itself—the whole life process. What you just told us? Long ago, Gershwin had the most enormous success with a show called
Of Thee I Sing.
An out-and-out smash. He and Ira, Morrie Ryskind, George S. Kaufman—incredible. But even these masters made a mistake. They did a sequel,
Let ’Em Eat Cake
—and it didn’t go. Notices mixed. A society lady at a dinner party once asked, 'Mr. Kaufman, when you theatre people say “mixed notices”—what does that mean precisely?’ 'It means,’ said Kaufman, 'good and lousy!’ So,
Let ’Em Eat Cake.
Business poor, and got worse, and after a few weeks, the producer, Sam Harris, decided to close the show. When George Gershwin heard the news, he was furious, put an overcoat on over his pajamas, and rushed down to Harris’s office.

“‘You
can’t
close this show!’ he yelled.

“‘George,’ said Harris, 'we’re doing no business. We’re losing money every week.’

“‘But how can that be?’ cried Gershwin. He was in pain.

“‘It can be, George, because it costs more to run the show than we’re taking in, so when more goes out than comes in, that’s how we lose money every week.’

“So Gershwin said, 'Let me ask you something, Sam. Isn’t this book better than
Of Thee I Sing?’

“‘In my opinion, yes.’

“‘And isn’t the score better?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘And the production?’

“‘Absolutely.’

“‘Then damn it all,’ said Gershwin, 'how can you close this great show?’

“Harris sighed. What could he say? 'What do you want me to do, George?’

“‘Don’t close for two weeks. Give it a chance. I’ll pay the losses. There are a few things wrong. I’ll fix them and we’ll catch on and run two years. Just give me that chance. You owe it to me.’

“So Harris said, 'All right, George. Except one thing. You don’t pay the losses. I do.’

“‘Fine,’ said Gershwin.

“Well, the next morning, there was a full dress rehearsal—at The Imperial—God! Right where we’re suffering now. A full orchestra, scenery, lights, costumes. It must’ve cost a fortune.

“George Kaufman had heard about this plan. He called Morrie Ryskind, and together they went to the theatre, sneaked in, and went up to the balcony to watch.

“And the first thing Gershwin did was rehearse the orchestra for an hour and fifteen minutes on the overture. Then the opening number. 'All right, girls—listen. When you sing “Mine! Love is mine!” the word is one long syllable—not two, and not one short syllable—“Miiine!” Got it? All right, let’s hear it. One! Two!’ The girls sang.
'No!
No no no! Here. One at a time. You.’ The girl on the end sang the word. 'Fine. Next.’ And so on. Sixteen girls. Finally, all together. 'Great!’ he yelled—'You’ve got it—now keep it! Once more, but first—What’s your name, honey?’ 'Betty.’ 'And yours? No, not you—
you.’
'Frances.’ 'O.K., Frances and Betty change places. Good. And what’s your name? No, the blond girl.’ 'Mimi.’ 'And you?’ 'Dolores.’ 'Right. Mimi and Delores change places. Much better. Now. From the beginning—and remember—“Mine!” One long syllable, not two and not one short. One! Two!’ At this point, up in the balcony, Kaufman leaned over to Ryskind and said, 'Y’know? I don’t think that’s what’s wrong with this show!’”

Gene and I laughed. Larry had brought that old scene to life.

We finished dinner. I felt fine, the way I usually do after one of those superlative steaks. Gene and Larry seemed up, too. And confident.

We walked down Eighth Avenue to the theatre. A big, noisy crowd. Much hugging and kissing and waving and shouting across the auditorium. A benefit audience. But happy and enthusiastic and excitedly anticipatory.

Larry said, “I guess they haven’t heard about last night, huh?”

“I don’t know,” said Gene. “They look to me like the same people who were
here
last night!”

When the house lights began to dim, I suddenly had to go and pee. I dashed down, did, and returned just as the overture was beginning. I was nervous and light-headed. What the hell did
I
have to be nervous about? The overture had a new, crackling, sparkling sound. Some adjustments had been made. The overture got a big hand. It had gotten nothing last night. We all looked at each other happily.

Well. Now.

The early part went extremely well, and as Gene and Larry and I stood there at the back of the house, spirits were high. We smiled a lot and there was a good deal of rib-poking and even a little mutual backslapping. When “Nightfall” just about stopped the show, which was no more than twenty minutes old, Larry pantomimed, “Drink?” and the three of us went over to The Grotto to toast the remarkable change in our fortunes and the health of our splendid enterprise across the street.

“The only worry now,” said Larry, “is holding on to this excellent temperature and pace.”

“Not a worry in the world,” said Gene. “She’s on the right track now. They love her, and She knows it. So She loves them.”

“Christ!” said Larry. “We’re in the love business.”

“Sure we are,” said Gene. “That’s what the theatre is—should be—a temple of love—not for Gods and idols—but for the human race.”

“Let’s go back,” I said. “This conversation’s making me horny as hell!”

“Do it again,” said Gene to the bartender. “But make it Glenlivet this time.”

“You got a hit, huh?” said the bartender.

“Bet your ass,” said Gene.

“How’s about two for next Saturday’s matinee?”

“Do you serve free drinks in here?” asked Larry, bristling.

“Don’t get hot,” said the bartender. “I just asked.”

He served the drinks and went off.

“Here’s to no passes,” said Larry. We clicked the glasses and drank. “Why is it people think we get free tickets? They think 'house seats’ mean free seats. Don’t they know that someone has to pay for every ticket? Even Art. Even me. Press seats are free, and that’s all.”

“Jesus!” said Gene.

“What?”

“I
thought 'house seats’ meant free!”

Why this made us all laugh so hard, I can’t imagine, other than the fact that we were so euphoric and that Gene was fast becoming a member of the theatre family—that tight-knit, highly charged, competitive yet admiring and appreciative, generally spirited community.

(I had never been aware of all this until Clay had taken me to a Sunday-night Actors Fund benefit of
Annie.
The audience was made up mainly of all the other companies playing on Broadway. Never have I seen or heard such a reaction—screaming and yelling, stamping and whistling—entrances and exits applauded wildly. It was hard to tell who was having a better time—the company on the stage or the companies in the auditorium.

Out on the sidewalk during the intermission, I said to Clay, “It’s a revelation! A mind-blower! Do you understand it?”

“Of course. It always happens.”

“But look, I’ve seen this show before, and it’s swell, certainly, and went well—great, even—but not like
this!
And they’re all showfolk—experts—I should’ve thought they’d be harder to please.”

“Oh, no. Wrong. Actors are the best audience, as a rule. The good ones can play anything—they can even play the part of an audience, and they love it. They do what an audience is
supposed
to do—laugh, cry, be thrilled, scared, whatever. Comics are the best laughers. Tragedians, the best criers.”

“I’m getting to love them all,” I said.

“When I was on
Hello, Dolly!,”
he said, “Thornton Wilder used to come around from time to time. The friendliest man in the world, he was. Loved to stay up late and pub-crawl with the players. Once, Pearl Bailey or someone brought along a dog and made a great fuss over it and talked to it and announced to us all that no one loved her as much as that little dog, and that’s why she loved that little dog. And it made Mr. Wilder angry. I can remember him sitting in that little Algonquin bar and saying—not loudly, but firmly—'Now listen! That dog does
not
love you! Dogs don’t love people! Dogs love other dogs! Dogs do not love people…’ Well, that’s more or less what you’ve got here tonight. Actors love other actors. They’re a breed, a race, a nationality.”)

“Lordy, what a world,” Gene was saying. “How do you people survive it year after year?”

“Some of us don’t,” said Larry.

“I always thought the newspaper business was hard—but it’s a snap compared to this. This isn’t only hard—this is almost
impossible!”

“True, Gene. But for the few times in a lifetime when it all comes right—it’s worth it.”

“Well, this certainly begins to look like one of those times, doesn’t it?”

“Fin dine moil tsu Gott’s eyren,” said Larry.

“Translation, please,” said Gene. “My Yiddish is a bit sketchy.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” said Larry.

“Let’s drink to that. Moe,” he said to the bartender, “if I give you two for the Saturday matinee, will you give us three drinks for right now?”

“Yes, sir!” said Moe.

“What a metamorphosis,” I said. “Like a face-lift. Tonight and last night. Last night seems like last year. And I’m not sure I can see what’s so different.”

“The difference,” said Gene, “is basic—life and death. There’s no blood circulation in a corpse, and it doesn’t sweat or sing. I remember the time Ali fought Joe Frazier, and I interviewed him on the day after his astonishing defeat. 'What happened?’ I asked him. He shook his head and sighed, and said, 'Man, I just couldn’t work up my sweat—you know? My coordination, my life.’ Well, that’s what we’ve got here. Last night, She couldn’t work up a sweat—even though She was belting and trying and working. Tonight, She’s dripping already, and it’s only—what?—eight fifty-five.”

“Let’s go back,” I said.

We got back to the theatre just as “Jump for Joy” was going on, and it was apparent at once that something had gone wrong.

The house had become restless. There was more than the usual amount of coughing. The whole audience, which had seemed painted on when we left, had turned into a shifting, undulating, wristwatch-watching, whispering mass. We had lost them! How? Why?

Star and Phil seemed to be having difficulty getting together. We saw her look at him and begin to snap her fingers (not in the routine), this was the worst possible sign; it meant She was taking over again and running—or trying to run—the show. She began to woo the audience with her familiar little trademarks—the hooked notes and the kooky phrasing. During the dance with Sammy, She winked at someone in the first row, pretended to trip and recover—it got a laugh even a little hand, but the number was shot.

“Go back, Larry,” said Gene. “For Christ’s sake, go back and talk to her!”

“No, no,” said Larry.
“Never
during a performance.”

“Intermission?”

“I’ll talk to Clay.”