Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (7 page)

In its simplest form, the set was a series of three square, raised platforms rising to the rear of the stage in angled perspective, with a corner facing the audience. Each angle was different, giving a sense of false perspective, and they were all floating on a flat-black floor, which was itself raked. Skeletal units, which also looked as if they were crumbling, were stationed offstage right and left, three on each side. They moved in tracks in the floor, on the diagonal. These units, made of structural steel and pipe, included pieces of crumbling walls, staircases (some functional, some not), piles of rubble, and various planks making areas in which small scenes could take place. One series of planks formed an area large enough to accommodate a piano, bass, and drums for the onstage party band. When these units were pulled offstage, the stage looked vast, black, and empty; when they were pulled onstage, the emptiness of the space closed in and shifted, so that scenes could appear to be more intimate. Cleverly disguised within one stage-left unit was a series of levels that created a rubble-strewn staircase used for the grand Follies-style entrance of all the ex—Follies girls at the top of the show during “Beautiful Girls.” As the aged tenor sang “Hats off, here they come, those beautiful girls,” they each made a grand entrance at the top of the stairs and promenaded down. To the audience, it looked like variously shaped older women dressed in a motley assortment of fancy party dresses walking through a junk pile. To them, it was gliding once again down the staircase of their youth. It was a moment that captured the essence of
Follies.
And it was only the first song of the evening.

Even though the Follies sequence was still being conceived and written, Aronson had already come up with some ideas. That there would be such a sequence was known, as was the fact that it would be reminiscent of the old Ziegfeld Follies. The main set was far too big and “constructed” to be moved out of the way, so the challenge was to take over the space effortlessly. The ingenuity was extraordinary: Aronson had designed two pie-shaped small stair units—three steps each—that were hidden underneath the main platforms and which, when pivoted out, joined the top two platforms to make one big, if slightly abstract, round staircase. Then from the flies would come Follies drops, inspired by paper doilies, valentine cards, and certain Fragonard paintings. They would be bright—white with red hearts and cherubic scenes painted in cameos—and their round openings would get larger with each downstage drop, creating an iris of doilies. In front would be a richly textured sky-blue tab curtain. The appearance of all this color was meant to be startling, and it would be. And all the drops hung only over the center portion of the stage with no masking, so the ghostly sides of the stage were never obscured. It was magic.

Aronson’s presence was felt during the week, though he was in contact only via telephone. Hal had made a decision to lower the entire set, and his designer was not pleased. Originally the set was to begin three inches above stage level, and when Hal realized just how high that would make everything else, he decided to have the basic raked floor start at stage level. Fritz Holt, in his position as production stage manager, was on the phone for an hour and a half discussing this with Aronson. The producer was making decisions about his set that tampered with his artistic vision and he wanted his set left alone. Hal had already explained how nervous he felt the actors, especially the older ones, would be with the multiple levels of the set. Lowering everything would at least mitigate the problem to some degree. In addition, Hal and Michael were a little annoyed at Boris because they had gone to see his new production of
Fidelio
at the Metropolitan Opera, and when the curtain went up they had turned to each other and said: “Oh, my God, it’s the set for
Follies.”
There were similarities, to be sure, but no one else ever expressed a similar concern.

I was sent to Aronson’s apartment to pick up some drawings. He lived in an old ten-story apartment building just off Central Park West. Through the ornate iron door of the building I could see one of those old-style elevators built in a cage, with an open staircase wrapped around. Finding the bell was a challenge—it was carefully hidden in a gargoyle rosette. As the elevator descended, a mass of cables hanging down the middle of the cage moved, in both directions, it seemed. The operator looked as if he belonged on an old steamboat, especially when he thrust the lever all the way to one side of the engine-room-style telegraph. As we arrived at the proper floor, he opened the door, then pointed, saying, “Aronson is there.” He waited while I rang the doorbell. Numerous locks were turned, and a serious-looking red-haired woman opened the door—slightly. When I explained why I was there she smiled and through the partly opened door handed me a carefully wrapped roll of tracing paper with the words “Follies—Stage Manager” written on it. “Be careful that it does not fall out,” she said. Later on I found out that this was Lisa, Boris’s wife and assistant. As she closed the door, I noticed Boris himself lurking quietly in the shadows behind her, and then I heard the locks turned once again.

In the middle of the week Michael flew to Cleveland for the opening of the tour of
Coco,
a musical that he had choreographed starring Katharine Hepburn as the couturiere Coco Chanel. Rather than have everyone just go over what had already been staged, he left the choreography in Bob’s hands for more work on “The World’s Full of Boys.” When he returned, the first thing was to show him what had been done in his absence. The work was fine, but the song was cut shortly thereafter.

Auditions were held on Tuesday, first for the older ballroom-dancing couple. This was hard. It does seem to be the only process that works, but auditioning is ruthless. When it involves older performers, there is an added melancholy. Who wants to reject someone the age of his parents or grandparents? Still, everyone in the theater understands the rules: if you want the part, you have to audition. Couple number one is introduced to Michael. They say how thrilled they are to meet him, what good things they’ve heard about him, etc. He thanks them graciously. Then he asks: “What do you have for me?” “Oh, anything you want—tango, merengue, fox-trot.” “I would just like to see you move, so anything would be fine.” The couple go over to the pianist, hand him some music and mutter a few words, then wander to the center of the room and begin. They move about the floor, doing a series of routines, but their faces show no emotion. When they finish, Michael says: “Thanks very much. We will let you know when we decide.” And suddenly the feeling of disappointment in the room is palpable. They know what that line means. They haven’t made it. They leave as quickly as possible. If it doesn’t go well and you get the “thank you,” it’s best to beat a hasty retreat. No one wants to engage in conversation. The next couple is ushered in. “How tall are you?” Michael asks. “Five-eleven.” “We are looking for dancers over six feet.” The woman pipes up: “Do I have to be six feet, too?” The man suggests: “We could go on the stretching machine every day.” They do their routine. “Thank you.” The woman goes over to Hal, who is not looking thrilled, and introduces herself as the friend of a friend of his. The name doesn’t register. “Well, she doesn’t even know I was coming down to audition for you. Won’t she be surprised?” Hal smiles. Several other couples come in; none gets selected.

Then come the three finalists for the role of Young Ben. Sondheim is summoned from a conference with the music department. The first candidate is brought in. All three young men have been screened by Hal’s in-house casting director, the respected actress Joanna Merlin. The first two seem lightweight—one wears a floppy bow tie, the other has a bouffant hairstyle. Neither is of much interest. But the third, Kurt Peterson, is a distinct possibility. He reads some scenes with a stage manager and everyone seems pleased. John McMartin is summoned to see what they would look like together, since they would be playing the same person at different ages. “Well,” said Hal, “it looks as if over the years the nose has changed shape a little bit, but we can play with some putty.” John asks if he could hear him sing. “Oh, yes, fine, okay, by all means.” Kurt chats with the pianist, then his large voice fills the room with “Lonely Town,” from
On the Town,
and everyone is pleased. He stands there, smiling, with his hands in his pea coat, looking somewhat sheepish. When asked how old he is he says: “Twenty-two, twenty-three in February,” to which Hal replies, “No. Didn’t hear that. You’re twenty-two.” Kurt seems somewhat dumbstruck. “Well,” says Hal, “I hope to see you . . . in rehearsal!” “Ah, really, thank you very much.” Then Kurt beats his own hasty retreat. As he leaves, a toothbrush falls from his pocket. The atmosphere this time is decidedly upbeat. A good and successful audition can energize a room. The truth is that everyone in the room wants every audition to be great. It’s just that so few are. Kurt Peterson is hired to play Young Ben.

The four principals were taught their signature song, “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs.” Michael began to rough out some staging, with Hal sitting close by. It was the first time I had seen them together. Their relationship seemed carefully crafted. They had clearly enjoyed working together on
Company,
a joyous experience for everyone. Michael had his sights set on directing, and he was looking for the right opportunity. Hal was in transition, clearly preferring the artistic challenge of directing to the business drudgery of producing, and he wasn’t about to hand the direction of this show over to anyone else. Michael knew that the fluid nature of the show would require him to do a lot more than just create isolated dances, so he saw it as an opportunity to move one step closer to directing. Both men realized that this show would be important to their careers, so they had agreed on the almost unprecedented notion of codirecting. Basically Michael was responsible for all the dances and the movement, which in
Follies
was a prominent part of the direction. Hal directed and staged the book scenes, which were, by nature, episodic and short; very few were traditional in structure, and they tended to involve ghost figures and crowd movement in addition to dialogue. But, to the credit of these two artists, the end result looked seamless. The actions of these first few days, however, were indicative of how things would progress: Michael was using every second of the time allotted to him, while Hal would work with any actors who were free on any scene in which they were involved. (Hal seemed to have a lot of time on his hands.) “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs” was a song that landed right between both men’s responsibilities, and it was Sondheim’s favorite song. He made it known that he wanted to see how it was to be staged as soon as it was on its feet. By week’s end, enough of it had been blocked out for him to be summoned for a run-through. He was pleased, but afterward he called a brief meeting out of earshot of the actors to explain just what liberties he would allow within the melody and rhythms—and which ones he would not.

As the week went on, preparations for the first day of full company rehearsals took focus. The scripts had been prepared by Studio Duplicating, a firm that specialized in scripts for Broadway shows. Everyone used them, and their style was distinctive. The process was by mimeograph, in which each page had to be typed onto a stencil that would then be placed on the drum of the printing machine, inked, and printed, copy by copy, on 8½” x 11” paper with two holes on the left-hand margin. The process was repeated for each page, and then the collated scripts would be bound in specially coated covers fixed with little brass screws. The covers were distinctive; no other copying establishment had them. And they were available in a vast array of colors.
Follies’
was orange, but there had already been earlier versions in green, red, and light blue. The title was embossed in the center in a single, no-nonsense typeface. Because the mimeograph process was time-consuming, once rehearsals began it would become my responsibility to type out individual pages with changes and make enough copies to go to those who needed them. I would make copies either by placing multiple carbon sets in the typewriter (I worked up to being able to do ten at one time) or by using the new machine at the Prince office made by the Xerox company. This dry copying system was fairly new, and it was slow. It would, however, be the preferred route if large numbers of copies were needed.

Saturday would be the official first day of rehearsal. A whole lot of people would be showing up. In addition to the entire cast, people who would be working on the show over the next few months would also be attending—designers, musical staff, press agents, and assistants from the office—as well as some friends. Part social event, part actual work, the first day of rehearsal has an almost ritual feel to it. Everyone would gather in the large rehearsal room, which would be arranged with several tables pushed together in the middle surrounded by as many chairs as we could find. Around the periphery would be additional chairs, even crates and boxes, to accommodate everyone. A high table on casters was positioned so that the model of the set could be viewed by everyone. The piano was pulled out of the corner so Sondheim could play the songs. Following general introductions, the script would be read through. Then the work would begin.