B00AZRHQKA EBOK (36 page)

41

The charges against Clay have been dismissed, and he has received an official letter of apology—or at least, explanation—from the Police Department.

There was some talk, mainly from Atkins, about suing the city for false arrest, or something like that—but Cindy, through her heavy contacts, soon revealed that this was no more than a political ploy. Atkins, a Republican with ambitions, was prepared to do anything to embarrass the present Democratic administration.

He sent Clay a hefty bill. Clay turned it over to Art, who said forget it, he would take care of it. We all thought it a fine gesture until we found he was charging it to the production.

Eddie was replaced by Ted Reid, a splendid actor who came down from New York and went on in two days. Actors are supermen.

Eddie’s case is being handled by Diana’s roommate’s boyfriend, who says it does not look good. There is no way Eddie is going to avoid some time in the slammer.

I hate to write these next paragraphs. The incident is over. While it was going on, the show continued to play eight performances a week, numbers went in, numbers came out, cuts were made, and work went on.

Now everything has returned to normal—or what passes for normal around here. And here is the hateful part: The dope situation is unchanged. The puffing and sniffing and shooting still go on. The supply flows. There is a connection in the company. Who? I do not know. I do not want to know.

The users make up a kind of secret society. The drug culture has its own rules, its own standards and morals and behavior. Gene says the colossal profits in it make it almost unassailable.

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Tuesday, December 11

SCRIPT CHANGE
: Act II, Scene 1A, and Act II, Scene 2, have been eliminated. The running order should now read as follows:

Act II, Scene 1—Rector’s

Act II, Scene 2—Nora’s Room

Act II, Scene 3—The Everleigh Club

Please note that the rest of the scenes on the running order will now have to be renumbered.

RESEARCH
:

Butterflies in The Everleigh Club were like chorus girls in a New York show in a single respect: Only one out of several ensembles ever stood out. Not that coryphées and courtesans have anything in common, which, of course, they haven’t, but few in either walk have that comedy quality or that dramatic instinct which takes them apart from their chosen endeavor. Only one of a hundred in both professions finds her name in lasting print.

The Everleigh Sisters estimate that upwards of 600 girls came and went during their eleven-year reign in Chicago and yet they found it difficult in 1936 to recall more than a dozen who left any sort of an exciting impression.

The comical girls and the villainesses were the featured players. There was no role for the heroine. The ultra-good, ultra-kindly, and ultra-expert made no trouble and are forgotten. Such is the price of sanctity in a sporting resort.

COLOR
: Today is Blue, tomorrow is Orange.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: PHIL ROSENBERG
(Musical Director)

I come from Toronto and if I didn’t like this country I’d go back where I came from.

There is nothing in the world I would rather be doing than conducting this great show—no, not even
that!

I was a child prodigy. (Violin.) I know I don’t
look
like a child prodigy but I didn’t even when I
was.
Some said I was a midget making out. For the first 15 years of my life, I practiced 10 hours a day. The next 10 years, 5. Then 3. Then 2. Then once in a while. Result? I bombed out. Traded my bow for a baton. Band act for years. Then into the pit—first as second fiddle, then second conductor (
that
I practiced). Big chance when Hal Prince tapped me as a replacement. From then on, no more replacement.

Of all the shows I’ve worked on—this is the best. An honor to be with Star—also the best.

Mazel tov.

RESEARCH
: Copies of THIS FABULOUS CENTURY 1900-1910, 1910-1920, are in Mr. Gabel’s office. Please look them over at your convenience.

Mr. Clune recommends that everyone read “Concerning,” a booklet published by Jack Norworth and Nora Bayes. Midge has copies.

There are now 9 days remaining until our New York opening.

42

Larry to the company:

“Today, a word about humor. Humor doesn’t necessarily mean jokes or funny lines or double takes or pieces of business. Humor means coming to terms with the nonsense and inequities and chaos and craziness of everyday life.

“Long ago I was on a play and we were out of town—in fact, down here—and that superlative playwright Robert E. Sherwood was a friend of
our
playwright’s and came down to see the show. Later, at the conference, after he’d praised everything there was to praise—which wasn’t much—he began to discuss the performance of the leading part and he said, 'Unfortunately, the leading character is dull. And when a character is dull, it poisons every scene he’s in.’ Our playwright was dismayed. He said, 'Well, good God, Bob, it’s hopeless then, isn’t it?’ And Sherwood said, 'Of course not. When you have a dull character, or a dull actor—and in this case you have both—give them a sense of humor. You can help some, Charlie, in the script, and he’ll have to do the rest. But once that character possesses and demonstrates a sense of humor, he won’t be dull.’

“Think about that, everyone. You, Star; Gloria, Patti, look how brilliantly Gracie and Ella have made the two Madams so appealing. It’s because they have humor. They have humor about life and about themselves. About the situation. Nora, herself, in real life had a
tremendous
sense of humor. As you know, we’re only telling a part of her life. She and Norworth split up later on. She married someone else, and someone else and someone else and someone else. She was what might be called 'the marrying kind.’ They sat once on an Atlantic crossing, the orchestra, in the course of dinner music, played Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and as they hit the opening strains, Nora jumped to her feet and saluted. The other people at the table looked up, perplexed, and she said, 'That’s my National Anthem!’”

The company laughed.

“That’s a good line,” said Star. “Why the hell isn’t it in the show?”

“Because, dear, that’s only good after she’s been married five times, and in the part of the story we’re telling, she’s only been married once.”

“Well, maybe we’re telling the wrong story, then,” she insisted.

“No, dear, I don’t think so. If you examine your part, you’ll see that there are many opportunities for injecting humor. Humor in a part is like the seasoning; without it,
any
part can be bland, but humor gives it the salt and pepper and rosemary and thyme and oregano and chili powder and chives. It brings the spice to it all. It provides variety. And by the way, that’s the second thing. Every single one of you—Ted, Calvin—look for the
variety
in your parts. The best playwrights in the world err in this matter. They get a concept of a character and write to that concept. The good guys are good, the bad guys are bad. Well, that’s understandable. The playwright’s trying to make a point, and it’s easier to make it if the character delineations are clear, but once that’s done, for God’s sake, don’t fall into the Johnny-One-Note trap. It’s been said so often that it’s become a cliché that when you play a hero look for his bad side; a villain, for his good side; a powerful man, look for his weakness; an independent woman, look for her femininity, and dependence. Shakespeare understood this. That’s why the strongest and most heroic of his men have moments of gentleness and tenderness. His most feminine women—Juliet and Rosalind and Portia—have scenes in which they’re as powerful as men. If each and every member of this company will continually seek out the variety in his part, we’ll begin to have the sort of multi-colored mosaic in front of which a viewer can stand for hours without getting tired or bored.”

43

Trouble in an unexpected place—the pit.

Not with Phil this time—although he has already been fired and rehired four times: twice by Hy; rehired once by Art and once by Larry.

Once by Art; rehired by Hy.

Once by Star, and rehired by her after one show with the substitute.

This time the problem is with Ruby, the fantastic first trumpet.

From the first dress rehearsal, it was clear that his overture solo on “Nightfall” was outstanding. Ralph Burns, the orchestrator, has worked with Ruby many times and knows his work, so he indicated an ad-lib trumpet solo for Ruby—and did that Ruby deliver!

Everyone applauded, even the other members of the orchestra. Hy was beside himself with excitement. I suppose for him it was like a playwright hearing—for the first time—Laurence Olivier reading a scene he has written.

Hy raced down the aisle to the pit yelling, “Hold it! Hold it!” The orchestra wound down in a discordant fade. “Stand up, Ruby!” he ordered.

“You think?” asked Phil.

“God damn
right
I think!”

“I don’ wanna stand up,” said Ruby.

“Why not?”

“Bashful.”

A laugh from the orchestra.

“Stand up, Goddamn it! You’ll get used to it.”

Ruby stood up. Hy turned to the spot platform at the back of the balcony.

“Hit him with a white on that solo.”

“What’s the cue?”

“When he stands up, that’s the cue.”

“I can’t see him so good from up here.”

“You blind or what?” yelled Hy.

Clay appeared on the apron.

“I’ll do it,” he said. To the spot man: “I’ll give it to you on the phone. Warning and go.”

“Thanks, Clay.”

“Go back,” said Hy, “and let’s do it.”

“From G,” said Phil, rapping his baton.

One chorus of “Waltz,” then Ruby stood up. The spot hit him hard and he played his solo of “Nightfall” even more soaringly than before. He sat down. Hy was screaming. “Bravo! Bravo, you bastard!”

So it went. Through the dress rehearsals, the previews, the opening in Boston, the run there, and the Philadelphia opening.

Then, in the middle of the third week here, a note from Val:

“No good the trumpet player standing up like that with a spotlight on him when he plays 'Nightfall’ in the overature because after, in Scene Two, when She has to sing it, it’s like the whole impack is gone. Also unfair on account of after all, he’s got a whole trumpet and all She’s got is a voice. So no standing and no spot and also tell him take it easier on the solo. Even sitting. It’s like he’s reaching for the moon. Or trying for that big hand. Which he gets.”

Art read the note, handed it to me, and said, “Give this to Larry for action.”

“Larry?” I asked.

“Sure Larry. Why not?”

“Hy put it in, don’t you remember?”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“O.K., then. Have
him
take it out.”

I gave the note to Hy, who looked at it long enough to read it six times, and said, “God damn son-of-a-bitch bastard! He wants war? He’ll get it.”

“You think it’s him?” I asked.

Hy stuck his finger in my face and said, “Bug out of this, Midge. You’re an all-right secretary, but you don’t always know your place!”

“Sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t.

The rehearsal that afternoon was interrupted by loud talk coming from the back of the house. Louder. Louder still. I recognized both voices. Hy’s and Val’s.

I was sitting in the fifth row with Larry. He looked back once or twice, hoping the noise would come to an end. No.

He turned to me and said, “Tell them to take it somewhere else, will you?”

I walked up the aisle. At the back of the house, Val and Hy stood head to head, both yelling at once, which made it impossible to understand what either one was saying. Only a word or a phrase now and then escaped the shouting match.

“—to talk to her—”

“—your ass—”

“—fucking
stupid!—”

“—protect
shit—”

—
and so on.

I moved as close to them as I dared and said, “Gentlemen. Gentlemen,
please!”

They neither heard nor saw me. Should I touch them? Finally, I did. They regarded me, resentfully.

I spoke. “Larry says would you mind please stepping into the lobby or somewhere else?”

“Get me Art Clune over here,” said Hy. “Right away.
Now!”

He walked into the lobby, followed by Val, who was already picking up the thread of the battle.

“Clune?” he shouted.
“Clune
, for Chrissake. What the fuck is
he
gonna supposed to do?”

“You’ll
see
what!”

“He don’t own us!”

“He owns the show!”

They were off again. I closed the doors as tightly as I could and returned to Larry. The sound of the argument could still be heard, but with a diminished volume.

“Hy and Val,” I said.

“What about?”

“Ruby standing up.”

“Come
on!”
he said. “Your humor sometimes.”

“No humor,” I said. “That’s it.”

Larry stood up and shouted up to the stage, “That’s it for now! Take ten.”

He turned back to me.

“Ruby?” he asked, incredulously.

I handed Val’s memo to him. He read it, gave it back to me, started for the lobby. I followed him.

In the lobby, the battle had become more intense, and it was clear that Val was winning. I could tell because he was now the relaxed one and they are usually the victors.

“All right, Hy,” said Larry. “Take a rest. You too, Val.”

“Me?” said Val. “I’m rested.”

“Have you heard what this know-nothing greaseball is up to now?” asked Hy.

“Yes,” said Larry. “Let me handle it.” To me: “Tell Jenny she can run 'One Night at a Time.’ I’ll be a few minutes.”

As I left, I heard him say, “All right, fellas. Let’s go somewhere and get a cup of coffee, O.K.?”

I got Jenny started and hurried out of the theatre to rejoin Larry. I had not been invited, but I was fascinated.

Larry had, out of the wealth of his experience, chosen a busy coffee shop, knowing that people are less inclined to shout in public.

I joined the three of them in the booth and ordered coffee.

They sat in silence. I wondered if my presence had turned them off. No. If it had, I’d have been asked to leave. They were thinking, that was all.

After a time, Val spoke. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “I don’t know why I should tell
you
bums the truth, you’ve always treated me like shit, right from the start you’ve treated me like shit, so why should I tell
you
the truth? But I’m gonna tell you the truth. I was against this whole thing from the start. This whole show. Who needs it? And it’s costing us a fucking fortune. It’s an—you know what it is? It’s an ego trip for her, that’s all. Broadway!
Broadway,
for Chrissake! It’s not like Broadway in the movies. No more. It’s a dump. It’s a goddamn hellhole. Hookers and pushers and mini-pimps and cotton candy. Filthy dirty. It stinks, for Chrissake. And the theatres are fleabags. But She’s always had this thing in her head from when She was a kid—
Broadway!
We get more for one night in Cleveland than She gets for a whole week around here. Eight times. So if on top of all that, it’s gonna be aggravation on top of it, She could kiss off fast and why not and no hard feelings. Goodbye and good luck.”

“Let me ask you something, Val,” said Larry.

“Go ahead. You’re payin’ for the coffee, so go ahead.”

“Are we talking about a trumpet player taking a standing chorus in the overture? Is
that
what we’re talking about—or what?
I’m
talking about control.”

“What’re
you
talking about?” asked Val.

“I’m
talking about control.”

“What’s
that?”

“I’m talking about who’s in charge here. I don’t care if the trumpet player stands or sits or stands on his head. What’s the difference?”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is I can’t have her calling the shots, mister. I’m an old hand at this game and I can tell you one thing for sure—the minute a director loses control of a show, he may as well quit.”

“All right,” said Val. “So why
don’t
you? Who’d
miss
you?”

“Jesus!” said Hy. “What the hell kind of dumb talk is that? Especially from you. Don’t you have
any
appreciation of what Larry’s done for her?”

“Done
for?”

“Fuckin’ well right! He’s given her elegance and poise. She looks like a star now—an actress—not just a performer. But you don’t know enough about anything to
know.
Jesus!”

“Take it easy, Hy,” said Larry. “I can handle myself. Thanks, but lay off.” He turned back to Val. “Everything in the show is discussible.”

“O.K., so I’m discussing.”

“Not quite. You’re giving orders. Laying down the law. Or She is. And that I can’t have. And I’ll tell you why. Because once it starts, there’s no end to it. If you people start making the decisions—where does it end? She wants something in, it’s in? Out, it’s out? Fire this dancer, this singer? Get rid of me—”

“Aha!” cried Val. “That’s your worry, huh?”

“No,” Larry replied. “My worry is being stuck with this thing if it should fall into your hands or hers. Then it would be up to Art to decide—me or her.”

Val laughed. “They used to say in the Army they have this great dish—a horse and rabbit stew. You know how they make it? One horse and one rabbit. That’s like this. You or her. One horse, one rabbit.”

Hy. “There’ve been big hits without stars, y’know.”

“Sure. And big flops.”

“Could we stick to the subject?” asked Larry.

Val. “You said discussible, right?”

“Right.”

“O.K. So let’s discuss. About the trumpet player. Never mind about control and all that bushwah. Just the trumpet player.”

“May
I?”
asked Hy.

“Sure,” said Larry.

“Look. Ruby’s more than a blower. In this way,
he’s
a star, too. More than that—he’s marvelously supportive. Ask
her
if you don’t believe me. The way he noodles around her singing—it’s fantastic.”

“Who said not?”

“So why cut him down?”

“Answer me this,” said Val. “He stands up in the overture with a hot spot on him and he blows this big chorus and he gets a big hand. O.K.? So now, twenty-three minutes later by my stopwatch, She comes on and sings the same number. You don’t think that hurts her?”

“Helps
her,” said Hy.

“How?”

“Sets it up for her. Makes it familiar. Like a reprise. Audiences
love
reprises—it’s like they know the number. It’s like when I do my club act and I go into one of my songs they’ve heard, they applaud. Why? Applauding
me?
Of course not. They’re applauding
themselves
for recognizing it.”

“Hy,” said Val. “From my heart I wish to tell you something. You’re as full of shit as a Christmas
turkey!”

“All right,” said Larry. “I think we’ve spent enough time on this earth-shattering question. There’s something in what he says, Hy—”

“There’s
nothing!
He’s a—”

“Hold it. And there’s a hell of a lot in what you say. Now. We’ve done it your way for a while. Let’s try a few shows this way, her way. Then we can decide.”

“But what about
tonight?”
asked Val.

“Tonight he sits.”

“Nothing doing,” said Hy.

“Now look, Hy,” said Larry. “I don’t want them in charge, but I don’t want
you
in charge, either. So mind your manners!”

“It’s
my
overture, God damn it! The overture isn’t the show.”

“Oh, come on, Hy. You know better than that. I’m going to try it. Then we’ll see.”

“See that?” said Val. “Discussible. Why not? So what did we need all the screaming and getting ulcers?”

Larry, to me: “And from now on, all memos—his, Art’s, anybody’s—all come to me. That was a mistake on Art’s part—going directly to Hy.”

“My fault,” I said.

“How’s that?”

“I thought because Mr. Balaban put the effect in, he ought to take it out.”

“You were wrong.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Thus the meeting ended. As in the case of most compromises, everyone involved was unhappy, no one completely satisfied. Val knew that his triumph might well turn out to be temporary. Moreover, he had blundered into an organizational rearrangement that might be damaging in the future.

That night, Ruby did not stand up for his chorus, but then, even
I
could tell he was laying way back during the entire performance. His customary bite and crackle were absent, and he seemed to have no contact with Star.

It was reported that directly following Act One, She stormed down to the musicians’ room below the stage, found Ruby, and bawled the bejesus out of him. Ruby, the coolest cat in the business, took it all, wide-eyed, claimed complete innocence, insisted he honestly did not know what she was talking about.
Honestly!

During Act Two, he played exactly as written, submitting to circumstance in the manner of a dutiful but frigid wife during intercourse. The effect of this on her performance was telling.

At the end of the show, She sent for him, but he had already left the theatre.

The next day was a matinee day. Ruby failed to appear. The second trumpet took over his part, with devastating results. Star was well and truly thrown.

“My God!” I said to Larry during the intermission. “I never would have believed one man in the pit could make such a difference. My God!”

“Could you believe,” asked Larry, “that one spark plug could interfere with the performance of a Rolls-Royce?”

Clay appeared. “She wants you,” he said.

“No, She doesn’t,” said Larry. “She wants Ruby.”

In her dressing room, we faced a livid Star.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” She said. “Hasn’t he got a contract? Like me? Like everybody? Where the hell does
he
come off? That prick. I’ll report him to his goddamn union!”

“He’s sick,” said Larry.