Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb (9 page)

We’d had enough of the histrionics by then, Ricka and I.

“What?! Just say it!”

John shrugged and said, “We’ve signed Eve Arden.”

After a little victory dance, Ricka walked over to Stuart and solemnly put her arm around his shoulder.

“Well, Stud,” she said, “We’re gonna let
you
break the news to Miss Copeland.”

Somewhere in the bundle of mug shots we carried with us into Sardi’s restaurant that late October afternoon lurked the remaining cast members of
Moose Murders
—all we had to do now was to flush them out in time for the callback auditions beginning the following week. Sardi’s, the most popular watering hole for show people, was the best place to chow down if you wanted to flaunt your involvement in any current project of
note
. The food here was irrelevant; you went to steep yourself in tradition, feast your eyes on hundreds of celebrity caricatures hanging from the walls, and—most important—to stuff your ego. Every time you strolled into the place, there was at least a ninety percent chance that you’d be noticed by the Broadway Brass.

The brass was a little tarnished that afternoon. The only “celebrity” to show up was Leo Shull, the bombastic blowhard who owned and published
Show Business
, a weekly trade tabloid notorious for ripping off casting notices from its far worthier successor
Back Stage
. I had firsthand knowledge of Leo’s distorted sense of ethics because I’d been one of his miserably paid editorial thieves several years before. During that time I’d never once witnessed him living up to his early reputation as the “actors’ crusader,” but I could vouch for the fact he fought damn hard to make sure his rag carried more “news” than his competition—no matter what the cost to his own dark and wizened soul.

And now, here he was again, pushing his way through the crowd, sporting a nearly-floor-length beaver coat and slobbering on a Cuban cigar he’d probably gotten from his best friend and fellow septuagenarian, Henny Youngman. While he was tossing his pelts over one of the chairs at a nearby table, he glanced in my direction for a split second, and I spastically turned my entire body in the opposite direction.

Here I was, sitting at Sardi’s with the producer and associate producer of my first Broadway play, and yet suddenly I was overcome with nausea and reliving those awful days of not-so-long ago when I’d plagiarized casting items to pay my rent. Both John and Ricka were naturally compelled to ask what my problem was, so I told them my sob story without sparing a single Dickensian detail.

“What an asshole,” reflected Ricka, just as a bottle of champagne was delivered, compliments of her husband Albert. “Don’t worry. We have a
much
better table.”

By the time we’d covered this better table with glossy photos of all the actors we were considering for callbacks (“not the most discreet method,” John admitted), it wasn’t just the Dom Perignon that was going to my head. Sardi’s was working its magic on me, and I stopped worrying about any impending visit from Leo Shull. As we mixed and matched head shots like Olympian Gods toying with the mortals below, I found myself making broad, sweeping gestures and pontificating on the fine art of casting, as if somebody was behind me filming a documentary on my steady rise from newspaper galley slave to emerging Broadway playwright. When Leo actually did brush by our table on his way out, I was actually a little surprised he didn’t stop to pay his “respects.”

Approximately forty names ended up on the callback list we later delivered to Stuart and Amy. Encouraged by this accomplishment, and by the news from our general manager, Eddie Davis, that the official opening date for
Moose Murders
had been set for February 7 (with a week of previews beginning January 28), we decided to wander over to both the Booth and Plymouth theaters, two of the potential houses for our production. Eddie had assured us that other theaters could very well become available after the holidays.

“Looks like the O’Neill may be up for grabs soon,” said John as we continued to shop for real estate in the theater district.

“So
The Wake of Jamie Foster
is a self-prophesy,” suggested Ricka, referring to the Beth Henley play that had recently opened at the Eugene O’Neill.

“The reviews are killing it,” said John. “I spoke to Norman this morning, and he said he was passing by here yesterday and saw Beth standing on the curb, crying her eyes out. He stuck around and eavesdropped while one of her SMU chums tried to console her. ‘Beth,’ the friend says, ‘what’s wrong?’ ‘Last year I couldn’t lose,’ she says. ‘
Crimes of the Heart
made me Queen of the Prom. Now they’re throwing mud on my dress and tearing out my hair!’”

“‘But Beth,’” the friend says, ‘remember when we were all together in school and we said the only thing that mattered was the opportunity to one day do what we do best—screw the rest! Do you remember that?’”

“’Yes,’ she says. ‘But I lied!’”

This little cautionary tale pulled me right back down to earth. As exciting as it was right now to anticipate the arrival of empty theaters, it was terrifying to hear about how they actually got that way.

The area around 44th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues where the Belasco Theater was located was under heavy construction that first day of callbacks, which made the grand old building built in 1907 look like Boris Aronson’s set for the musical
Follies
. All the scaffolding, beams, and girders made it impossible for me to figure out how to get inside, although I was vaguely aware I should be looking for something marked “Stage Door.” Two scruffy men were sharing a smoke in the alley, and, thinking they might be a couple of Joe Buffalo Dances who’d come dressed for the part, I considered waiting around with them for a while. Neither of them seemed too eager to fraternize with me, so I called the Pulvino & Howard office to obtain the backstage number of the theater. A few minutes later Amy appeared from some dark recess, and, after rolling her eyes just a little bit, took me by the hand to lead me into the theater.

This was my first time inside David Belasco’s palace, and, although it had obviously fallen into ill repair over the past several years, its spoiled splendor still managed to weaken my knees. The dark, rich, paneled woodworking on the walls was glowing warmly from the light cast by dozens of Tiffany lamps, and everywhere I turned I discovered another lavish mural—eighteen in all, I later learned, each done by an artist named Everett Shin. I remembered from my college theater history class that everything I was looking at had been designed to Belasco’s specifications. Educated in a monastery as a child, and prone to wearing faux clerical garb as an adult, the trailblazing impresario had come to be known as “the Bishop of Broadway,” and indeed, standing there in his magnificent neo-Georgian cathedral, I felt more spiritual than I had in years.

Catching me in this reverie, Stuart approached with his head bowed, and his hands clasped like a monk. “You know,” he said, “Belasco’s old business office and private apartment take up the top floor.”

“Can we take the tour?” I asked.

“Nope. Closed off. Besides,” he said, dropping his voice a bit, “you wouldn’t want to.”

“Why?”

“A lot of eyewitnesses claim Belasco’s ghost still haunts the place. And there are some very unsettling stories about what he was like when he was alive . . .”

Before Stuart could elaborate, Lillie called hello to us from the first row of orchestra seats. I was a little surprised to see her here, until it dawned on me that she’d probably been called in to help John determine the most credible Holloway family portrait.

“Can you
believe
that bone structure?” whispered Stuart.

I sat down next to Lillie just as Amy welcomed our first contender, an Erma Bombeck look-alike named Wendy Wolfe who had the kind of indiscreet charm of the upstate New York bourgeoisie I was looking for to play Snooks.

Something had happened to Wendy since we’d last seen her. All the piss and vinegar had evaporated, and she’d turned into a real lady—more Emily Post than Erma Bombeck.

“I haven’t auditioned for anything in over a year,” she said, after John suggested that she try to show us a little more of the brazen quality of her first audition. “I’d forgotten how horrible, how demeaning, how devastating this experience is. I’m
petrified
.”

She opened up a little when belting out a few bars of both “Jeepers Creepers” and “People,” but she never did manage to regain the confidence that had impressed us all at the Bennett Studio.

“I see this all the time, especially at callbacks,” Stuart said after Wendy had made a tearfully apologetic exit. “It’s the old ‘the less I do, the less they won’t like’ syndrome.”

Holland Taylor walked on stage next.

“What did you people
do
to that woman?” she demanded. “I think she may need a tranquilizer.”

“She hates auditioning,” explained John.

“Well, I’m with her on that,” laughed Holland. “Do you know how hard it was for me to leave my nice, safe, comfortable rehearsal to come here and put myself on the line?”

The rehearsal Holland was referring to was for the Lee Kalcheim comedy
Breakfast with Les and Bess
that would be opening in December at the Hudson Guild Theatre in the Chelsea area downtown. This show had a limited run, so Holland would presumably be able to work things out logistically should she be cast in
Moose Murders
. For now, at least, this didn’t seem to be where the cards were falling. Holland commanded the stage with her elegantly aggressive interpretation of the supporting role of Nurse Dagmar, but by doing so, clearly demonstrated that she was far better suited to play the leading role of Hedda.

And that little apple had already fallen to Eve.

Jean DeBaer, who followed Holland, was a much more feasible Dagmar. She was authoritative, svelte, and faintly exotic.

She also had a nice rack—which, let’s face it, told you just about all you needed to know about Nurse Dagmar.

She made her way on stage like one of Minsky’s headliners, and confronted her polar opposite, Mary McTigue.

“Who are you?” Jean asked innocently.

Mary folded her arms across her chest and gave Jean a long, icy stare.

“I’m
reading
with you,” she finally snarled.

Mary continued to be short and testy throughout Jean’s audition. She’d been out of sorts all morning, and her broadly telegraphed indignation was starting to really bug me. I asked Stuart if there was some specific problem she wasn’t willing or able to talk to us about.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I think she just needs a good cup of coffee.”

The next actor to test his luck with Mary was Scott Evans, who was about the same age as Marc and who, also like Marc, had the kind of youthful quality that allowed him to get away with playing a teenager on stage. He took his time with his entrance, inching his way toward Mary like Norman Bates working up the nerve to ask Marion Crane to come on up to the house to check out his stuffed bird collection. He milked his fidgety and psychotic tics and spasms for all they were worth, and had us chuckling long before he even opened his mouth.

These antics raised his stock with me personally. Before then I’d merely thought of him as having an interesting voice. Still, I remained solidly predisposed not to favor him or any other Stinky over Marc.

Scott had done his homework. He epitomized the rich, cloistered kid gone bad, and, little by little, meticulously exposed different facets of Stinky that far transcended drugs, sex, and rock ’n’ roll—although these elements were all nicely represented in his performance as well.

“He’s not just relying on external humor,” commented Lillie. “He’s making your lines funny, too.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, crossing my eyes for emphasis.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she said.

Unfortunately, I did know what she meant, and it was making me very nervous. Scott was now presenting a challenge for Marc (who was waiting in the wings with a couple other Stinkys), and—considering the way he’d let his nerves get the better of him the last time—I wasn’t sure he was going to be up for it. I’d spoken to Marc that morning before leaving for the theater, and he’d seemed fine, very determined—in much better shape than he’d been two weeks ago.