Hello, Gorgeous: Becoming Barbra Streisand (34 page)

On a piece of cardboard, Jerome Robbins scrawled the names of the actresses who had been mentioned as possibly playing the part of Fanny Brice in the play he was going to direct for David Merrick and Ray Stark. At the top was Chita Rivera (an interesting choice). Then came Tammy Grimes. Judy Holliday. Paula Prentiss. Susan Pleshette. (Robbins meant Suzanne.) Mimi Hines. Kaye Stevens. Eydie Gormé. And then a woman whom Robbins clearly had little knowledge of. “Barbara Streisman.”

All the famed choreographer of
Gypsy, West Side Story,
and the New York City Ballet probably knew of the “Streisman” girl at that point was that she was appearing in another of Merrick’s productions. If Robbins had seen
Wholesale,
he didn’t mention it in correspondence with friends.

Instead, his passion was reserved for someone who wasn’t even on that list. Anne Bancroft, who’d won the Tony for Best Actress for
The Miracle Worker
two years ago and for Best Featured Actress for
Two for the Seesaw
three years ago, was Robbins’s first choice. Indeed, they’d been talking with Bancroft about the role for some time now. The chance to work with “Annie,” as Robbins called her, was a large part of the reason he’d signed on to the project in the first place.

But Ray Stark, Merrick’s coproducer and the one really in the driver’s seat for this show, had his reservations about Bancroft. Stark was married to Fanny Brice’s daughter, and he had a personal investment in the casting—literally: He’d had to make deals with his wife, his brother-in-law, and even his own children since they were all part of Brice’s estate. He’d had to buy the rights to the story of his father-in-law, Nick Arnstein, Brice’s second husband, who was still living. So with all that riding on the project, Stark was going to be very particular about their leading lady. Very quickly, he—or maybe it was Mrs. Stark, no one knew for sure—had soured on Bancroft.
She didn’t want to play Fanny Brice, Stark insisted; she wanted to play a “new character based on”
the legendary comedienne. If they did it Bancroft’s way, Stark wrote to Robbins and composer Jule Styne, they’d be left with nothing of Brice: “The personality of Anne Bancroft, not only through characterization but also through the style of singing and dancing, will be the only personality to emerge.”

Still, Robbins preferred Bancroft over everyone else Stark kept suggesting as alternatives. Last fall, the producer had been set on Kaye Stevens, whom he called “the most exciting girl”
and the “answer to our quest.” Stevens was a bubbly singer and comedienne who, with her carrot-red hair and slender body, resembled “a Spanish exclamation
point,” as one scribe thought. Stevens was attractive enough, but no great beauty by any means. The real Fanny Brice had also been far from pretty and was known for her large nose. But there were some who thought Frances Stark only wanted an attractive, ladylike actress to play her mother. (Her original choice for the part had been Mary Martin.) Enthused by Kaye Stevens—perhaps hoping she’d be the perfect compromise between the reality of the part and his wife’s unrealistic expectations—Stark had pleaded with Robbins to fly out to the Coast to meet her. But the director, busy fixing
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
for George Abbott and Hal Prince, had declined, which infuriated the producer.

They were very different personalities, Stark and Robbins. The former was soft-spoken and winsome—one account called him “pixieish”— where the latter could be surly, bombastic, and overwrought.
Robbins’s ferocious temper was legendary. It usually erupted during times of self-doubt, which for Robbins was pretty much all of the time. Even after so much success, he still struggled with a deep sense of not being good enough. After the triumphant premiere of his show
Fancy Free
in 1944, for example, his first thought had been that he now had enough money for analysis. Robbins’s fears and self-doubts could be traced directly to deep-seated conflicts over both his Jewishness and his homosexuality: Most of the time, Robbins wished he were neither. When, in 1953, he named six of his colleagues as Communists to the U.S. House Committee on Un-American Activities, he sidestepped the blacklist, but gave himself yet another layer of shame to live under for the rest of his life.

Ray Stark, on the other hand, was utterly without shame. Soft-spoken and winsome he might be, but that pixieish grin was cover for a shrewd, often cutthroat mind. Like David Merrick, Stark thought nothing of playing collaborators against each other, rationalizing that if it was good for the project, the ends justified the means. Director John Huston thought Stark’s penchant for starting rows among his company emerged from a belief “that out of the fires
of dissension flows molten excellence.” But Stark’s devilry was always conducted with a smile. With Jerry Robbins, people tended to know where they stood: He was either screaming at them or lauding them with praise. But Stark left them guessing. He could tell an actor he was brilliant in the morning but fire him by lunchtime.

The kind of doubts and anxieties that plagued Robbins had no place in Stark’s life. Self-reflection was a waste of time, and Ray Stark had no time to waste. Among his favorite expressions was one word: “Commit.”
From everyone he worked with Stark expected complete commitment because he himself gave two hundred percent. He was always on the lookout for what was next, whether it be the next film for his production company, Seven Arts, or a follow-up to his first stage success,
The World of Suzie Wong.
To all of them he brought the same level of unflagging commitment. No other producer, said Arthur Laurents, had “more infectious
enthusiasm” than Ray Stark.

And nowhere was that enthusiasm more obvious, Laurents added, than when Stark was “casting young actresses.” Ray’s eye for the ladies was notorious. He was known to walk actresses he found attractive through his sculpture garden back in Beverly Hills and compare their buttocks to those on the nude statues. It was one final detail that set Stark apart from Robbins, and it suggests that it wasn’t only Mrs. Stark who was rooting for a pretty candidate to play Fanny Brice.

Whatever the reasons, it seemed Stark and Robbins simply could not see eye to eye on who should play Fanny. In November, Stark was pushing the attractive Georgia Brown, known best for playing Nancy in the West End production of
Oliver!
But Robbins argued if they weren’t going with Anne Bancroft, then they should go with Carol Burnett, the wacky sidekick from
The Garry Moore Show
who’d proven her Broadway power—and vocal chops—for more than a year in
Once Upon a Mattress.
Advance word on Burnett’s television special with Julie Andrews, written by Mike Nichols and to be called
Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall,
was outstanding. With her offbeat looks, comedic timing, star presence, and big Broadway voice, Burnett seemed to Robbins the perfect choice to play Fanny Brice. On the surface, Stark was open to Burnett, insisting he wanted “to see her in person
because television doesn’t necessarily do her justice.” But at the same time, he was offering actress Paula Prentiss—who was far more conventionally attractive—as an alternative.

That was where they stood now. The list Robbins had scrawled on that piece of cardboard was a mix of his ideas and Stark’s, though “Barbara Streisman” was probably neither’s. She’d made the list, most likely, because—thanks to Richard Falk and the Softness brothers—people kept bringing up her name: columnists, stage managers, TV commentators. Whether Robbins had seen or heard a mention of “Barbara Streisman” is unknown. But clearly someone had, with the result that Barbra’s name, however misspelled, was added to Jerry Robbins’s list.

When Bob, with Barry Dennen in tow, showed up at the Lichee Tree restaurant at 65 East Eighth Street, just before midnight on May 10, the place was mobbed with several hundred people. The night was a bit chilly, but partygoers were spilling out onto the sidewalk since the restaurant was packed to the walls inside. Photographers were snapping away as Mike Wallace, Abe Burrows, Phyllis Diller, and others arrived bearing gifts. The reason for all the fuss? The official celebration of Barbra’s twentieth birthday.

Bob was carrying a framed drawing he’d done of Barbra. But once he and Barry worked their way inside, there seemed to be no place to leave it for her. Every available table was crowded with huge floral tributes from David Merrick, Leonard Bernstein, Richard Rodgers, and others. “Many more, sweetheart,” Mike Nichols had written on a card attached to a bouquet. Another card read: “With love from Ethel Merman.” Bob looked over at Barry and cracked, “Gee, what do you think the pope sent?”

“Matzo balls,” Barry deadpanned.

Glancing around the crowded room, they couldn’t see Barbra, but they could sure smell the feast that was being laid out. Sizzling Go Ba combined chunks of lobster and crab with snow peas, bamboo shoots, and mushrooms. Filet mignon was flavored with the sweet berries of the lichee tree and served on a bed of bean sprouts and rice noodles. Irene Yuan Kuo, who ran the restaurant with her husband, prepared the menus and planned the parties. She had taken a liking to Barbra, who was a frequent patron, and so when Don Softness approached her about hosting the party, she’d happily agreed. In China, Kuo told Softness, it was traditional to “welcome a girl into the realm of womanhood when she attains the age of twenty.” The Kuos had agreed to foot the bill because they believed—or were convinced—that the publicity would be good for their two-year-old eatery. When Barry learned that salient little fact, he marveled over the “genius for self-promotion” his former girlfriend had developed since the days when they were putting up posters for her weekly appearances at the Lion.

Since she hadn’t won the Tony, Barbra needed some other kind of exposure to keep her name in the news—and in the running for the Fanny Brice show. Howard Taubman had just included her in a list of the top ten newcomers on Broadway for a photo spread in the
New York Times,
even using her publicists’ talking points: “a natural comedienne who has been
likened to Fanny Brice.” But more was still needed. Weaving in and out of the crowd at the Lichee Tree was Don Softness, working the room for his client. His focus was the gaggle of newspaper columnists who always showed up whenever free food was offered. Already he’d lassoed Leonard Lyons for their cause; now Earl Wilson was being wined and dined. The party was as much for the press, Softness admitted, as it was for Barbra’s friends and coworkers.

The birthday girl herself finally emerged, wearing a long wool dress that she’d bought at Filene’s Basement while the show had been in previews in Boston. Softness made sure to tell everyone that she’d paid $12.50 for it—marked down from $100. That was what the press had come to expect from Barbra’s wardrobe. Thrifty. Quirky. Kooky.

Elliott was at her side. For her actual birthday he’d given her a rose, which had made her happy, though she’d told her mother
that he’d given her cash. At least that’s what she told the press that she’d told her mother. It was getting hard to know what Barbra really said versus what she said that she said—or what her publicists said that she said.

At her party, Barbra didn’t approach anyone; people came to her. Marty ran interference, keeping all but a few from getting in too close. Terry Leong never even got a chance to say hello to his old friend, even though he was planning to move to Europe soon to study fashion. Barry, pleased and surprised to have received an invitation, nevertheless was kept at arm’s length by Marty every time he tried to start a conversation with Barbra. Barry felt that the obstruction was “deliberate.” He believed that Barbra had given instructions to Marty beforehand “to keep her old friends at a distance.”

Bob,
however, was more sympathetic as always. He pointed out that with such a large crowd, intimacy was impossible. If anything, Bob blamed Elliott for the distance they felt from Barbra. From the start, Elliott had been uncomfortable around Barbra’s old friends, perhaps because they knew a part of her that he didn’t. Largely because of the “vulnerability” he perceived in Elliott, Bob had withdrawn, no longer asking Barbra to join him at some of their favorite old haunts. Their long telephone conversations and late-night makeup sessions were now things of the past. Barbra hadn’t shared much with Bob about her relationship with Elliott, but Bob thought he could figure it out. Elliott was very much in love with Barbra, which no doubt must have been exhilarating for her, given what she’d been through with Barry. And with Elliott “really lusting after Barbra,” she had “total control over him,” Bob observed. What more could Barbra want?

As they stood off to the side, catching glimpses of Barbra through the crowd, Bob and Barry both had a sense that their old friend had left them for good. “I always thought you would be the legend,” Bob told Barry in a moment of reflection.

“I don’t want to be a legend,” Barry insisted. “I just want to be a working actor.”

Behind them, flashcubes were popping and people were applauding. Barbra was slicing her birthday cake.

Her hair done up in a bun, Barbra rode onto the stage in a motorized cart with Robert Goulet, the star of
Camelot,
at the wheel. The announcer introduced them, but they seemed not to hear very well, since Barbra waved to the audience when Goulet’s name was mentioned and he waved when hers was. It was all part of a silly opening number on the May 29 episode of
The Garry Moore Show,
in which pairs of performers tramped across the stage in three-legged pants singing about teamwork. Barbra and Goulet were spared that indignity, though they struggled to sing along, mostly succumbing to giggles instead.

Sharing the stage was Barbra’s rival for the Fanny Brice show, Carol Burnett, who most observers figured had better odds at landing the part since she was better known and already an Emmy-winning star comedienne. Perhaps for that reason the writers of the Moore show had given them no scenes together—a pity, because their humor might have worked well in tandem. Instead, Barbra was largely on her own. Moore introduced her after delivering his pitch for the show’s sponsor, Winston cigarettes. “One of the biggest thrills for a guy who’s been around this business as long as I have is the advent of a bright new young star.” The teleprompter speech he was reading from had been prepared from materials submitted by Barbra’s publicists, and they’d made sure to indicate exactly how to say Barbra’s name. With clear, specific emphasis, Moore enunciated “Streisand” as if he’d been practicing it or if he were reading from a pronunciation guide. The mispronunciation of her name during introductions was one of Barbra’s pet peeves, and she’d insisted to her publicists that it must not happen here.