B00AZRHQKA EBOK (6 page)

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Friday, September 7

COSTUMES
: Our Star's wardrobe for “Nightfall” and “Wondering” will be executed by Ray Diffen, 43 West 61st Street, LT 1-7217. The remainder of the costumes will be done by Brooks-Van Horn, 117 West 17
^th
Street, 989-8000. Najan, 41 West 72
^nd
Street, 555-5280, is doing the wigs.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: CHRISTOPHER FELLER
(Author)

Born in Alexandria, Virginia. Long line of State Department employees in the family. My life in that atmosphere seemed to be leading in that direction. But then—Catholic University and Walter Kerr and the theatre department, and I became the family black sheep by becoming a playwright. My first play a disaster. My second, BREAD AND CIRCUSES, a big hit, thank you. Hollywood. The black sheep got blacker still. Back to Broadway with my third—an
undeserved
catastrophe. Back to the sunshine. Seduced. I am now a Californian and love everything about it: the work, the life, the people. So what am I doing here on the battlefield again? Art Clune. A man I would do anything for. Probably the most astute producer in films today. After this, back to the safety and comfort of movies. No more Broadway—unless Art Clune asks me.

I live in Big Sur, California.

MORE PUBLICITY
: Larry Gabel and Clay Botsford conferred with Paul Cooley of the Press Department on various ideas of publicizing the Everleigh Girls as a unit. Any suggestions from the company will be welcome.

A SCRIPT MEETING
: will be held in Larry Gabel’s office tomorrow, at 10:00 A.M. Present will be Mr. Gabel, Hy Balaban, Chris Feller, Fred Monroe, Clay Botsford, and Stuart Bender.

CASTING
: The long search is over. Roger Corman has been signed for the role of Claude Gordon.

VOTES
: We will be in Boston on Nov. 6, Election Day. Make arrangements for an absentee ballot now.

GIRL DANCERS ONLY
: Please see Midge re calendar info as soon as possible.

THE REAL NORA
:

“I am a comedienne by accident. It all came about when I first sang 'Down Where the Wurzburger Flows,’ which I had planned to sing straight—without the interpolations that I later added to it. One night I forgot my lines. I got through two verses safely, but when I plunged into the chorus I was lost—I couldn’t for the life of me remember a line. In desperation I simply made motions with my hands and did the chorus in pantomime. To my surprise it was a hit—the audience laughed itself into spasms.”

Among other songs made popular by Nora Bayes and her husband, Jack Norworth, were “Strawberries,” “Shine On, Harvest Moon,” and “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?”

There are now 36 rehearsal days before the Boston opening.

There is friction almost at once between Larry and Art. It is hard to figure out why. Certainly too early for important artistic differences—everything is still in a vague, undefined state. It can’t be about money or authority—those lines are clear. I suppose it is personal. Art resents Larry’s talent and experience and reputation and know-how and charm since he himself possesses none of these important attributes. Larry has contempt for Art’s purchase of power, amateurism, boorishness, and theatre ignorance. They are different in other ways, too. Larry is fastidious, always beautifully groomed and dressed. Art is a slob. Expensive clothes sloppily worn; shoes off at conferences; a nail-biter, of all things; a nose-picker; a soup-slurper. He dyes his hair. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but he, to save money, does it himself, and the results are far from happy. He scratches his privates, no matter who is around.

Art has a large alligator steamer trunk—the first I have ever seen—in his suite at The Plaza. It is filled with boxes, large and small, from Gucci, Cartier, Tiffany, Hermès, Ted Lapidus, Pauline Trigère, and God knows where else. Scarves, jewelry, digital watches, neckties, wallets, silver pens, gold pencils, belts, cigarette cases, and so on.

He uses all this largesse in the way I suppose a football team’s trainer uses a first-aid kit. The minute Art senses a problem, a moment of disaffection, an irritation, a wound—he is there on the spot with one of his inevitable little boxes. It is surprising to observe how effective the method is.

“Something for nothing,” Larry comments. “One of the most powerful anesthetics in all the world. It works—even on me. Look at this.” He shows me an ivory shoehorn from Hermès, a recent gift from Art.

The day I reported for work for the first time, he gave me a Trigère scarf. I wear it a lot, and it sometimes softens my harsh thoughts about him. I am ashamed of myself, but a fact is a fact.

Today, Larry and Art, in a discussion that soon becomes an argument. I take it down for practice.

L
ARRY
: You didn’t tell me, Art, that you’re going to be—you know—producing a movie simultaneously. With this show.

A
RT
: What’s it your business?

L
ARRY
: I need a producer.

A
RT
: You got a producer. Me.

L
ARRY
: I need one around when I need him. There are often, I mean, decisions have to be made on the spot. Sometimes they can’t wait—not even ten minutes.

A
RT
: You ever hear of that wonderful new invention they got? The electrical telephone?

L
ARRY
: Not the same, Art. We can’t show you like, say, a sketch or a dancer on the phone.

A
RT
: You want me to do your job, too? That it?

L
ARRY
: Not at all. But responsibility without authority is useless.

A
RT
: Jesus! What’re
you
? A Dale Carnegie graduate?

L
ARRY
: I’ve done lots of shows, Art, and—

A
RT
: —and
I
haven’t done
any
. That’s what you’re gonna say, right?

L
ARRY
: No. I was going to say—

A
RT
: Bullshit! Don’t tell
me
what you were gonna say. Don’t
ever
say that to me again—because—

L
ARRY
: Again?! I haven’t said it
once
.

A
RT
: You were
gonna
!

L
ARRY
: Oh, Art!

A
RT
: Let’s get ourselves like organized around here, O.K.? This is
my
property that I bought with
my
money—or money I raised—so it’s my show. Everybody else, see?—including you—is a hired hand.
Everybody
. And if they work good and do their jobs right, they won’t be sorry. If they fuck up, they’re
out
. Or if they make trouble. So, so far you’re concerned, just do what you do very well—you’re supposed to be excellent—that’s why I hired you and not any of those other hundreds of clowns who were kissin’ my ass to get the job. I don’t have to like
you
—I like your work. I didn’t buy
you
, I bought your work. And I don’t give a shit if
you
like
me
or not. We’re not gettin’ married. We’re only doing a show. So we clear?

L
ARRY
: As crystal. But I’m still worried about you being away so much.

A
RT
: Look, boy. You don’t know me. I’m organized, f’Chrissake. I’m an
executive
. I’m an administrative
genius
. How the hell do you think I got—with two years’ high school—from the William Morris mail room to trainee to junior agent to agent to quittin’ and takin’ six hot clients with me, to half of Berger-Clune, to gettin’ rid of that putz who cared more about his name first than pullin’ his weight, to The Clune Agency, to my own independent producing organization with six hits out of eight pictures, and would have been eight out of eight if not for me makin’ the mistake of givin’ those two old farts final cut? I’m gonna be doing my picture, sure. And this show, goddamn right. Easy. I’ve got it all taped. Each week four days here and four on the coast. In that way—

L
ARRY
: Say that again.

A
RT
: Say what again?

L
ARRY
: What you just said.

A
RT
: The whole thing?

L
ARRY
: No, just the part about every week four days here and four days there.

A
RT
: Who said?

L
ARRY
: You did.

A
RT
: The hell I did! (
To me
) Did I?

M
E
: I thought it was a slip of the tongue.

A
RT
: (
To
L
ARRY
) That’s what it was—a slip of the tongue. Jesus Christ, a little nothing
secretary
understands and you don’t.

M
E
: (
Getting up
) I’m
not
a little nothing secretary, Mr. Clune. I’m an administrative genius.

(
I go into the kitchenette, drink three glasses of water and consider quitting. When I return, they are still at it
)

A
RT
: —will always know where to find me—day or night—home three numbers, Hillcrest, studio four numbers, even on the set I have my private line. And my mobile in my car. And even my portable
briefcase
phone. You seen it? Stop bellyachin’.

L
ARRY
: All right, Art. I see we’re going to have to try it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Inconvenient as this system proved to be in the very first week, it did have its comic aspects and furnished the creative team with a good many laughs.

The prerehearsal conferences were all held at Hy Balaban’s elegant town house on East 73
^rd
Street because Hy insisted on using his own Steinway grand.

For the first four days, while book revisions were being discussed and new songs demonstrated and models being shown by Ivan and sketches by Alicia, Art was on the phone in the library next to the sitting room, talking to the coast most of the time. At six o’clock, he joined us.

“O.K.,” he said. “I think we’re in
great
shape.
Great
! You’ve all done a
great
job and this is going to be a
great
show!”

“Midge,” said Larry, “remind me to buy a present for Mr. Clune. A thesaurus.”

A mistake, but Art let it pass. “I’ll see you all Monday. In the meanwhile, keep up the terrific work. Oh, and Larry, can I talk to you a minute private?”

“Certainly,” said Larry.

Art went out to the library followed by Larry, who turned to us and made a moue before disappearing. The door closed, and before long, Art’s angry voice could be heard. Then Larry’s—soft, pacifying. Art’s less loud. Larry’s. Art’s, quiet.

They came out, Larry’s arm across Art’s shoulders. Apparently, Larry had succeeded in recovering from his careless gaffe.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I wish to apologize to Art for the dumb joke I made a while ago. It was uncalled for, even though it was made in the spirit of fun. I think we’d all—especially me—do well to watch our language and our jokes and our gratuitous comments. Everybody talks too much anyway.”

Art. “Listen, I apologize, too. I mean, why get hot over a word? And he’s right. Everybody talks too much. Except me.”

A big laugh, bigger than warranted.

Art went around the room, shaking hands with the men, kissing Jenny and Alicia and me. He left and Larry resumed.

“Fred,” he said. “In the girls’ number in Scene One—”

“Yes?”

“Would you give some thought to a few more snappers in the lyrics? There’s nothing I love better than laughs in the lyrics. Remember how superbly Larry Hart used to do that? And Hy’s an expert at designing the music to make room for laughs. Cole Porter did it marvelously, too.”

Fred. “Why don’t you get Porter or Hart, then?”

Larry exploded. “Holy sweet fucking Jesus! Am I going to have to put up with touchiness from you, too? Listen, you knucklehead—With the Big Cheese, I have to apologize—it’s his ball and bat—but not with
you
! If you were a professional, you goddamn daffodil, you’d be able to handle a suggestion without getting testy and sulky.”

“A great act,” said Hy. “Testy and Sulky. I used to see them at the Palace.”

“I’m just as much a professional as
you
are,” said Fred.

“A professional
what
?” said Hy.

“If you are,” said Larry, “then behave like one.”

“See y’,” said Fred, and left.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” said Larry, “if we only saw
him
four days a week?”

“He’s O.K.,” said Hy, noodling at the piano. “He’s got problems, that’s all.”

“Who hasn’t?” asked Jenny.

“His are bigger and better,” said Hy. “Bear with him. A big talent—
big.”
He sang, accompanying himself:

“‘I’m practical

Back t’ call-

Ing a spade

A spade.

A mistake I made

In the past was

Calling a spade

An arrow from Cupid—

Stupid!’

“You don’t get chunks like that often.”

“No one’s putting him down,” said Larry.

“I know, but he’s nervous,” Hy explained. “A nervous man. Insecure. So when you start mentioning the gods he panics. He’d like to be those guys, but how can he be?”

“Who’s asking him to?” asked Larry.

“I’ll spell it out,” said Hy. “You do a musical, it’s bound to be a mixed grill, right? Have you ever seen one not? We’re full of straights and gay and both—present company, of course, excepted.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Jenny, laughing.

“But Fred—he’s a tormented kid. He’s minty, but he doesn’t
want
to be. He’s not like, you know, the great British ballet dancer—what’s his name? What’s the difference?—when he got mugged in New York and two days later all his hair fell out—remember?—and they told him that since it wasn’t physical—but mental—he needed psychotherapy and hypnotism. So he went to the great Dr. Kubie, but before they started, he said, 'Listen, Doctor, I certainly want my hair back—but I must tell you this—I’m as queer as a coot—and if you do anything to change
that
, I’ll
kill
you!’ Well, Fred’s not like that—he’d like to switch; he’s tried, can’t—so it makes him—his torture—A: a great lyric writer, and B: a nervous wreck.”

“And C,” said Larry, “a pain in the ass…I’m not interested in his sexual problems. There’re clinics for that. I’m interested in getting the best out of him—and the rest of you—and myself. So if you ever see him again, tell him. And tell him not to be such a baby.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Hy.

“So now what? Can we hear the new chorus?”

“Sure,” said Hy. “I’ll sing it. I sing fifty times better than he does anyway—but I have to let
him
demonstrate all the time. Never mind. Here we go.”