B00AZRHQKA EBOK (21 page)

17

Clay is a morning walker. So am I. We see each other now and then and wave.

This morning our paths crossed, literally.

“Fate,” he said.

We walked together without speaking. Morning walkers understand one another. As we left The Public Gardens and entered The Common, a young couple carrying a blaring, large portable radio passed us. The music was a spirited 1979 version of “Just One of Those Things.”

Clay stopped in his tracks, turned, and watched the couple until they and the music had gone.

“Cole Porter,” he said.

“What?”

“Mr. Cole Porter. My personal God. I was his rehearsal pianist for three and a half years. What years!”

“You’re a musician, too?” I asked.

“Was. A spoiled composer.”

“Why spoiled?”

“I gave up when I saw I didn’t have it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have hung around Cole Porter.”

“Hey! You may have something there.”

“You should have tried somebody maybe like our little Hy. His music is slick and catchy—but it doesn’t wear well.”

“He’s all right.”

“All right isn’t Cole Porter.”

“Nothing
is.” We continued our walk. “Mr. Porter was a great professional. Funny how I still think of him as Mr. Porter—I never did get to call him 'Cole.’ What the hell. I was eighteen. He was Cole Porter.
Kiss Me Kate.
Lord, I couldn’t believe it. I suppose I’d call that a perfect show. All the way. And right after that, he did
Out of This World
. Same producers, director. Everything. Even me. And it was leaden. A soufflé that refused to rise. All effort, strain, pushing. As far as I could see—we all worked harder on that one than we did on
Kate.
The result was zero. A complete failure. A few months after it closed he had me up to his place in Williamstown for the weekend. He had some copying he wanted me to do. And one night, I asked him what he thought had happened, and he laughed that sunny laugh of his, and said, 'The book, dear boy, the book. Great book, great score. Lousy book, lousy score.’

“‘But why should that
be,
Mr. Porter?’

“‘Because, my lad, the songs come out of the book. Who’s singing—and what they’re singing about? And where? And when? “I love you. I love you,” isn’t a song—it’s a platitude—but if the right character sings it to another right character, it can be heaven. The book, remember that, he said to me,
'My Fair Lady!
I’ll never get over it. It is simply the best show I’ve ever seen. I wonder what
I
might’ve done with it if they’d asked
me
instead of Fritz. I once told you about the book—didn’t I? Well, there’s a perfect example. There’s a
great
book—result: a great score.’ I’ve had years to observe all this through the years, and believe me. Mr. Porter was right.”

“Then why isn’t
our
score better?
We’ve
got a great book.”

“No. A pretty good book.”

“All right. Is the score
as
good?”

“No.”

“Why not, then?”

“Because they’re not writing the book. They’re trying for song hits. For Number One on the charts. For showstoppers. They’re bringing stuff up out of their trunk. Stuff that didn’t work in other shows. Maybe it’ll work in this, they think.”

“Could they change?”

“If they wanted to, of course. They’re extremely talented. But misguided. They want the book bent to suit their stuff. Were you there for the 'Red Cross’ number battle?”

“Was I
there?
I’m always there!”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course, you were there.”

“The invisible woman, that’s me.”

He seemed reluctant to leave the subject of Cole Porter.

“I owe him everything—just about everything I know about this business, and I know plenty. Every day, I check what we’ve got against the principles he laid down. We’re getting there—could get there—but it’s going to take what I doubt we’re going to get.”

“And what’s that?”

“Unselfishness. Everyone working on the same show. God Almighty, they seem to forget we’re all on the same side.”

“Another thing,” I said. “They seem to be losing the love story.”

“Oh, how right you are, and how important it is. Why can’t they see it?”

“Tell them,” I suggested.

“I would if they’d listen. Up to now, we’re all talking different languages. That screamer the other day—when Art shoved Hy right out of his room. Physically?”

“Wasn’t that
awful?
Two grown men—like street kids.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that fight they had,” I said, “I heard every word, and I didn’t even know what it was about. And I don’t know
now.”

“About the records. The singles.”

“Yes—but
what
about the singles?”

“About who to grant permissions to, and in what order, and how many, and so on.”

“I’m lost again.”

“What do you care?”

We were walking back to The Ritz now, down Beacon Hill.

“I once went up to see him, Mr. Porter—at The Harkness Pavilion—it was toward the end. What style! Even in the hospital. I remember a young Englishman in a beige alpaca jacket meeting me at the elevator and saying, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Botsford. I’m one of Mr. Porter’s valets.’ And he took me to the lounge, which apparently Mr. Porter had arranged to have to himself. And a tea was served. You know the kind. Grand. Little sandwiches and pastries and cookies. And we talked. Mostly about me and what I was doing. Then later, he wanted to know what was doing on his beloved Broadway. The real dope—not the kind you get in the papers or
Variety.
I told him that Dick Rodgers and Alan Jay Lerner were working on a show. He leaned forward in his wheelchair, and those big eyes got bigger. 'Dick and Alan! Wonderful. A great match. What’s the show?’ I told him. 'What? Coco Chanel? A musical? Impossible. I knew her. Knew her well.’ 'But that’s what it is, I’m sure.’ 'It can’t be done, I tell you. I
knew
her.’ 'What’s that got to do with it?’ He was irritated—not only by me but the whole subject. His voice rose: 'You can’t write a musical about Coco Chanel.’ 'Why not, Mr. Porter?’ 'Because she was never in
love!’
he shouted…I thought he was all wrong. A bit envious, perhaps? But years later, many, it was done—not by Rodgers, and even with the great Hepburn—it just didn’t do. That Cole Porter. The things he knew. And what he didn’t know, he felt.”

We had reached the hotel and I was sorry.

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Friday, November 2

PLEASE NOTE
: ANOTHER CHANGE TO BE ADDED TO THE CHANGES DISTRIBUTED TODAY:

On page two of the changes, at the bottom, the following
is left in:

BELLE

It’s something, certainly, but don’t you think you’re making too much of it too soon?

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“A good sideshow often earns the expenses of the entire circus.”

John Ringling

November 1 was Gloria’s birthday. A belated happy one and sorry it missed the bulletin.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: IVAN KURLANSKY
(Sets)

NADIA KURLANSKY
(Assistant)

This is me Nadia Kalinin Kurlansky writing down for both. Ivan Ivanovich Kurlansky is born Tiflis, August 29, 1902. Father famous big good painter for portraits andsoforth. Grandfather same. Great-grandfather also same. Whole family almost same. Ivan is smallboy wins Prince Igor prize for painting, goes to Conservatory of Art, Moscow. First job scene painter Moscow Art Theatre. Then designer. 1925 comes America with Stanislavsky and Company: (LYSISTRATA, BROTHERS KARAMAZOV, CHERRY ORCHARD, MISTRESS OF THE INN). Likes New York. Goodbye Stanislavsky and Company. But no work. Makes window display R. H. Macy Company. In 1928 first show for Mr. John Golden. Since 88 shows Broadway and regional. Also 6 one-man show paintings. Also 2 churches, 3 temples, 6 Tonys.

In 1939 me Nadia I come here for refugee. I am born Odessa, father and mother photographers. I hate photography. Study theatre and art. Ad in NEW YORK TIMES for assistant for stage designer. I am hired to Ivan. I make models and so forth. Two years we live together. O.K. Then marry. One daughter, Basha. She hates stage design. Is teacher retarded children.

Happy marriage. I believe Ivan best designer in all world, he believes me best assistant. Is enough.

N. K. Kurlansky

THE COMPANY NORA KEPT
:

(From THE NEW YORK TIMES, November 14, 1923)

The ACTORS EQUITY ASSOCIATION Announces

EQUITY ANNUAL BALL

“MIDNIGHT JOLLIES”

Staged by Hassard Short

Greatest Midnight Show Ever Presented

The Following Stars Will Appear

George Le Guere, General Manager

Hotel Astor, NEXT SAT. EVE., Nov. 17
^th

Tickets on Sale at

The Tyson, McBride and Bascom Agencies

Hotel Astor and Hotel Flanders

There are now 24 days remaining until the Philadelphia opening.

18

The “record boys,” as everyone seems to refer to them, came down four days ago, saw a matinee, and spent from five o’clock until well past midnight in a secret session with Hy and Fred and Art. Already there are beginning to be vital and dramatic changes in the score. One after another, the character numbers, the germane period songs, and the few comedy songs are being replaced by candidates for the Hit Parade or for Number One Single. Clay was right. I see it now. Hy and Fred are distressed, but don’t show it. Larry is furious and shows it too much.

Star and Val are delighted, since their record label deal gives them great opportunities for moneymaking.

I find it hard to understand how and why the record boys should wield such power. How and why are they in a position to dictate what goes in and what comes out? At lunch at the Automat, I ask Hy to explain. He is, understandably, a changed man and has been popping pills like crazy for days. One of his pills—I have no idea which—is apparently the kind that makes one talk without stopping.

“Don’t ask me goddamn asinine questions like that, for Chrissake! If you don’t know, you won’t know even after I
tell
you. How the hell did a wet-behind-the-ears amateur know-nothing like you
get
on this show?…It’s because this goddamn production is costing twice as much as it
should
cost because we’ve got a knucklehead for a producer who knows from nothing, from
less
than nothing. So everybody cons him and rips him off. Holy Jesus, did Clay tell you what’s going on in the prop department, for Chrissake, in the prop department
alone?
This property man’ll retire to Florida when it’s over. Just from
his
rip-off. And
everybody
takes our meathead boss. So the show which should have cost, say, a million, is now going to be more like a million six, or a million seven. So where does it come from? That big boring Cindy Sapiro, she’s syndicated a few hundred thou, and the Shuberts are in for a piece, and Art claims some of his is in—more likely his wife’s—but the main stuff, baby—the real simoleons, the long green, the shekels, the
gelt
—that comes from the record company because they stand to make more than the producers, more than the backers, if this thing comes off. A million albums at fifteen bucks an album, that’s fifteen mil, no matter how you slice it. And you know what it costs them to produce the record? Bubkes. That’s all. A few bubkes. They’ve got the orchestrations, they’ve got the vocal arrangements, they’ve got the rehearsed players, so what? They hire the studio and the musicians for scale and we go in there on the Sunday after we open in New York and we cut the whole goddamn record in one day. So how much does
that
cost them? And next thing you know, they’re raking in fifteen million bucks. So that’s why they’re interested in what they’re going to have on the record, on the original-cast album, on how many singles they can get going, and how many different artists they can get to do every single. I’ve had numbers in shows where we cut forty-five, fifty different singles. And this is the dough on
top
of the album money. That’s why these guys are up here! And that’s why what they say goes. What’s more, they’re tough. They’re not artists. They don’t discuss, they
tell.
They don’t ask, they
order.
I’ll tell you something else. There’s not a songwriter in the business who’s prepared to mess around with them. For Chrissake, they
make
songwriters. They make performers, too. They’ve got power. And they know how to use it.”

“But could I ask you something?”

“If it’s not stupid, yes.”

“Do you think the score is getting better or getting worse, or doesn’t it matter?”

“What’re you looking for, cookie, a split lip? A knuckle sandwich? You want a punch in the mouth?”

“Why would I?”

“What do you mean, 'better worse or the same’? Who knows? Who can tell a thing like that? It’s how it
goes.
It’s what grabs them. It’s what’s a hit.”

“I sure miss 'Lights-Out.’ It wasn’t only the song, it was that terrific way the Everleigh sisters used to do it.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten us a quarter. Didn’t mean a thing. In fact, it’s dollars to doughnuts even if it
was
in the show and we cut the record, we’d have left it out.”

“So why not leave it in the show and off the record?” I ask.

“So why not stop bugging me and stick to your shorthand?”

“I’m trying to learn,” I said.

“Well, the best way to learn is to listen and not talk so much.”

He takes three more pills, one blue, one yellow, and one pink. Swallows them without water. He is such an experienced pill-popper that he simply throws them back into his throat and swallows.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Aspirin. I’ve got a headache.”

“Colored aspirin?”

“Colored aspirin. The best kind.”

“Could I ask you one more thing?”

“No,” he answers.

“Just one.”

“I said no.”

“A half a thing?”

“No.”

He stands up, abruptly, and walks out. I walk home slowly and think about the bad luck of mixing money and art. Hy knows as well as I do, as well as we all do, that the score is being slowly and systematically wrecked.

At the hotel, I run into Larry. He has been spending some time with AC, trying to get him to control the record boys.

“The best I could do,” says Larry, “is a 'let’s-wait-and-see.’ He thinks as time goes by, we’ll be able to make some readjustments, and then later some re-readjustments, but I don’t know. I think the poison has set in. Especially since we’re battling not only those greedy salesman but they’ve got Hy and Fred on their side, and her and Val, so the rest of us count for nothing, or at least very little.”

“Does it always happen like this?”

“Always when that kind of power gets to ride herd on a show.”

“Is there anything can be done?”

“I’m thinking,” says Larry. “Believe me, I’m thinking.”