Alan Jay Lerner: A Lyricist's Letters (25 page)

    
Dear Herm:

    
I think the content of this letter will come as a disappointment to you, and even though it may seem infantile to mention it, it in no way influenced our decision. I think you know Fritz and me well enough to know what when it comes to
My Fair Lady
we always try to be dispassionate and objective and to do what we feel is professionally right for it.

        
It is for that reason that we would like to cast a strong negative vote about going to Russia, and explain to you in full detail our reasons for so deciding. And I am taking the time to write it all out so that you will understand fully why we feel as we do.

        
1. We have just learned that Rex is unable to go, and when faced with a concrete fact that we would be sending a show that is not at its best, we find ourselves deeply reluctant to let it be seen that way. Even though we have had many discussions about [Edmund] Mulhare versus [Michael] Evans,
²³
somehow it always seemed in the vague future, and for myself I was always clinging to the hope that Rex would go. But now that the time is here we find ourselves instinctively withdrawing. We would not like the show to be judged in an international capital without Rex or Julie.

        
2. Although the morale of a company is not necessarily of major importance, nevertheless we feel the New York company will seriously suffer on that level, if the road company goes. Fritz and I—and I’m sure you too—have been bombarded with letters from the company, and
recently we received a long telegram asking us to meet them after a performance to hear their case. So persistent have they been, that we feel their disappointment about not going may be greater than we had at first imagined.

        
3. There are many risky features about the entire venture. To sum them up quickly, there is the physical risk, and there is the artistic risk if they do not like it.

        
4. All the above reasons could be balanced if we really believed that there was a great publicity value in our going. After much investigation and inquiry, we are both of the opinion that the publicity value is questionable. At best there may be a brief story on the front page of the
Times
and
Tribune
, and the chances are more likely it is not front page material.
On the Beach
had a formal opening in Moscow recently, the first American motion picture to so do. Gregory Peck was on hand for the premiere, and there wasn’t one line about it in any newspaper. Ed Sullivan was there for a month, and neither his presence nor his subsequent television show created a ripple. Bob Hope was there, and his adventures were totally ignored by the press. Max Youngstein of United Artists, a pretty sound public relations fellow who has been back and forth many times to Russia, is even more positive in his opinion that we have nothing to gain. I mention these few instances, but I know many more.

        
I also know how much work you have put into it, and your own optimism about its value to the show. There have been amazingly few things in connection with
My Fair Lady
about which you, Fritz and I have differed. We are both sorry it has to be on something as large as this, that has involved so much of your time and labor, but we feel that we would be something less than honest with ourselves, and capricious with our professionalism, if we didn’t speak up, even at this last moment.

        
If we can be of any assistance in explaining this to the State Department, we will cooperate in any way you see fit.

        
Again, forgive us for this last minute decision.

Yours,

Alan

    
In short, Lerner and Loewe felt there was much more going against the idea than in its favor. The possibility of sending the show out in anything less than its ideal form was not something they were willing to countenance, because, like Levin, they saw the importance of its international reputation but disagreed with him on how to promote it. They were also increasingly keen to take charge of the destiny of their own work, as is shown by their decision to produce
Camelot
themselves (thereby creating tension between Levin and the writers). But, as Levin points out in his irate reply, Lerner and Loewe had already announced plans for the tour the previous November, and it was now too late to pull out:

    
From Herman Levin

    
January 29, 1960

    
Dear Alan:

    
When I received your letter last night, I telephoned Washington and read it to Mr. Thayer and Mr. Magdanz of The State Department. They were shocked. I am too. You and Fritz agreed to the Russian tour months ago. You confirmed your agreement by announcing it to the press on November 24th, 1959.

        
Relying on your word, I gave mine to The State Department and they in turn entered into an agreement with the Soviet Government. I do not know what State intends, but if they are unwilling at this late date to release us, I think we are bound.

        
The work I put into this is unimportant and had your change of mind come before our Government relied on your assent, I would not quarrel with the reasons you advance to justify your new attitude. However, I believe them to be without substance.

        
1. You were told ten days ago that Rex would not go and besides you never made it a condition that he go. The question has always been[:]‌ Mulhare or Evans?

        
2. As to the morale of the New York Company, I too received a telegram. I answered it by a memorandum posted on the theatre bulletin board, and I am informed they are resigned to the logic of it and to the fact that our decision to take the road company is the only one we could make. Furthermore, I question the fact that this creates any morale problem at all. I go further—if it does, I’m sorry but we can’t help it.

        
3. As to the risk. It exists but it existed when you and Fritz agreed that we all take it.

        
4. As to publicity. Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic is a more analogous situation. Their publicity was tremendous and I think ours will be much greater.

        
On the Beach
is not even a good picture. Youngstein is a nice fellow but certainly knows no more about my business than I know about his. Neither Sullivan nor Hope is the greatest musical of the century. I’ll borrow your phrase—you are comparing chalk and cheese. I’d rather
listen to my own estimates and to Maney’s. He is certain of the publicity value.

        
Now let me, without waving the flag (or even if I do wave it a little), tell you that your entire letter ignores the most important aspect of the entire project. I think it a privilege to have some part in improving the relations between the United States and the U.S.S.R. May I respectfully suggest that this is a damned sight more important than considerations of personal convenience or whether or not the New York Company is annoyed for a day or two. In fact—if we do not get one line of publicity, it will still be something of which we can be proud forever.

Yours,

Herman

Lerner and Levin each had different takes on the situation, with the producer apparently inspired in the project by a patriotic spirit, and the situation was not going to be easily resolved.

    
In the middle of this battle, Lerner was also engaged in putting together
Camelot
, as the musical was now called. But after a smooth pre-production period, the first of the show’s numerous problems had already arisen. In September 1959, Gilbert Adrian, who had completed initial designs for many of the show’s costumes, suddenly died. Lerner describes seeing the designs for the first time: “When we saw the sketches we were jubilantly impressed. They were original and beautiful and as fanciful as the book.”
²⁴
In his memoir, the lyricist implies that Adrian’s contribution was a cornerstone of the evolving project, which made his death all the more problematic to the
Camelot
team. In desperation, Lerner turned to Cecil Beaton, the designer of
Fair Lady
and
Gigi
, to beg him to take over the job at the last minute:

    
To Cecil Beaton

    
January 28, 1960

    
Dear Cecil:

    
No news. No gossip. Business. Business. Business. Business.

        
Moss, Fritz and I are aware, and have been for a long time, of your determination never to design costumes without doing the sets too. To come to the point quickly, so that you will know whether or not to read the rest of this letter, we all want desperately to talk to you
about
Camelot
, and to try to persuade you to make an exception this once. Even though we have all had a wonderful personal relationship together, and affection for you runs high, not for anything in the world would we want to appeal to you on that basis. It would be quite unfair, and from my point of view, unprofessional. Quite the contrary. If you are free to do a show in the fall, and would give us the chance to woo you, we would like to meet with you in February when you come over, and try to excite you about the show and its possibilities.

        
I assure you that nothing short of the tragedy you know about would have made us ask you to change a perfectly sound artistic position. But the fact is, here we are, wanting you and needing you.

        
Please let me pick up my mail very soon and find a note in your inimitable doctor’s prescription handwriting, saying that you will meet with us when you come over, to discuss it further.

        
You will be pleased to know that it has been a disastrous theatrical season and
My Fair Lady
is running along not necessarily briskly, but steadily.

        
We are still ensconced in the Waldorf waiting for our apartment to be ready, which seems to be a more complicated operation than the invasion of Normandy.

        
Moss is quite impossible since the success of his book,
²⁵
Fritz is in good health, and even though it’s hard to believe, I’m more enchanting than ever.

        
Whether you spurn us or embrace us, I’m delighted you will be here in February, and so look forward to seeing you.

Love as always,

Alan

    
Unexpectedly, given his intention never again to design costumes without also doing the scenery, as well as being second choice on the project, Beaton agreed to assume the role of costume designer of
Camelot
. Lerner’s charming letter had worked its magic. But a problem soon undid this apparently ideal solution. As Lerner explains in the following letter, the fact that a contract had been issued to use Adrian’s designs meant that they could not now discard them and start again with Beaton’s:

    
To Cecil Beaton

    
February 26, 1960

    
Dearest Cecil:

    
Fritz, Moss and I now fall under the sad category called “the best laid plans of mice and men,” etc. What has happened is rather complicated and I hope you will bear with me through a rather dull explanation.

        
As you know, a costume or scenic designer is not permitted by the Union to begin work without a contract. Fritz and I were in Europe for many months, and before we left we gave Adrian an outline of the play. Because of his irrepressible enthusiasm he went immediately to work, sans contract, and completed an enormous amount. When we returned from Europe, and before we realized how very much more was needed, we were hauled up before the Costume Designers Union to explain why we had engaged a man, put him to work, and never given him a contract. We told them, quite honestly, that it was a benign error, that Adrian was not working on speculation, and that we had had all intention of drawing proper agreements when we returned from Europe. We were then instructed to honor that intention and employ someone else to complete whatever designs were necessary.

        
In the ensuing months we discovered that a great deal indeed was necessary, and hastily wrote you, totally forgetting the obligation we had previously assumed. We now find out that we cannot disregard that obligation, and that the only course left open to us is to use the work Adrian did, and hope we shall find someone who will finish the show and supervise the execution of his designs. To do otherwise would be considerably less than honorable, in view of our pledge to the Union.

        
In short, dear Cecil, we are in a charming little pickle, not only for ourselves and the show, but with you who graciously was willing to make an exception in our case, and design only costumes. From every view, Fritz, Moss and I were deeply distressed and can only hope you will forgive us for coming to you so impetuously before considering all the other factors.

        
When we received your letter saying that you would try to work out your schedule to enable you to do the show, we were all “several stories high.”
²⁶
To discover it is now impossible, is a real blow, both personally
and artistically. But there it is—and here we are on the good ship Andrea Doria.
²⁷

        
When you come in March, I shall ring your phone and pound your door and bully my way back into the bosom of your friendship. I shan’t be happy until I know you understand and forgive.

        
Micheline doesn’t get all this. With the ruthless logic of Descartes, she just looks at me and says, “How can you do a show without Ceceel? You are an ass.” I quite agree.

Affectionately,