Life Is Not a Stage (10 page)

Performing in a musical comedy requires that you put a lot of care into your voice. Microphones didn’t come into general use until much later in the 1960s. Shifting back and forth between singing and speaking can be a challenge, as it was for one of the other leads in the show, Ezio Pinza. He was an Italian opera singer who spent twenty-two seasons with the New York Metropolitan Opera before retiring and making a shift to Broadway. A lot of singers are just fine as long as they are only singing. They are properly trained how to use the diaphragm and upper torso. The challenge is to find that same support when it is time to use the speaking voice. They tend to go back into the throat, which gets them into difficulties finding balance and being heard. Opera singers are also not used to singing eight shows a week. You have to be extra careful to avoid straining the voice.

There are many things I learned about keeping my voice in shape. Don’t cough and clear your throat all the time. Don’t go out to dinner at a noisy place where you have to shout to be heard. Inhale steam to keep the vocal cords moist. Before going on in the evening, start humming in the afternoon to approximate the range of the chords and get the diaphragm warmed up, working up to more difficult exercises closer to going on. Consideration in the protection and care of your voice depends on your age as well. The voice also does not fully mature until most singers are in their thirties, so you need to take care up to that point to not injure yourself as I had done (a reason why younger opera singers are discouraged from singing certain songs or roles). And as you get older, you need to spend a longer time training and warming up before shows to keep the voice in shape. The muscle memory may still be there, but singing remains a very physically demanding endeavor.

As I was caught up in the whirlwind of preparing for
Fanny
, one little mundane detail fell through the cracks. I realized while we were preparing the show in Philadelphia that I had totally forgotten to retrieve some clothes at the cleaners on Seventh Avenue in New York before leaving town. I called and asked Ira if he could do me a favor and pick them up for me and keep them until I returned. The next day, there was a knock on my door before the matinee, and there was Ira. “I’ve brought your cleaning.” It was a shock, albeit a pleasant one, to see him standing there.

This remarkably thoughtful gesture marked a tipping point. Our friendship suddenly opened up to something much deeper. I was still not old enough to buy a drink in a bar and a novice in the affairs of love, but a hopeless romantic nonetheless. He was very attentive, supportive, very sweet and kind to me, and not very demanding. Unconsciously, I probably surmised that it was also a plus that he knew the business but was not a performer. He would not have a learning curve dealing with the rigors of my career. Over the coming weeks, I grew in my love for this man, but when he asked me to marry him some months after coming to see me in Philadelphia, it scared the heck out of me. He got down on one knee to pop the question at my apartment on 58th Street. My response was, “I don’t know.”

“You probably need some time to think about this,” Ira replied. Whoa, that was an understatement. I told him I would let him know.

Just prior to the opening of
Fanny
, I was profiled in the September 20, 1954, issue of
Life
magazine. “Reunion Before Renown” was the title of the four-page pictorial spread, and a reporter and photographer flew home with me to Rockport. For those not around to witness the heyday of
Life
from the 1930s to the early 1970s, nothing else in the American media world at the time had more impact, clout, or prestige.

The short text accompanying the photos described “a scrawny little blonde girl” who had now returned and how “dozens of people were pleased to see how prettily she had grown up and how close she was to a big success.” Everything in the article looks quite idyllic. I’m shown as the fashionable young woman on the airplane from New York to Kentucky, reading the music score from the upcoming play in her seat. A perky version of the same woman wearing shorts and showing a lot of leg does an impromptu backyard recital with her sister Emily for adoring aunts and cousins (and a few supposed relatives whom I can’t for the life of me recall—perhaps they were neighbors who crashed the shoot to have their moment in
Life
too). The pious version stands in an old parish church singing. Studious version vocalizes with Christine Johnson accompanying on piano. Celebrity version is fawned over by old boss at soda fountain. Lastly, I’m shown back in New York at Josh Logan’s spacious apartment, viewed in profile like a Renaissance painting in chiaroscuro silhouette, kneeling on the floor by the window studying the script.

Truth be told, behind the mask of those smiling and self-confident poses in the lovely black-and-white photographs was another version—the one of a nervous wreck. Since leaving to study in New York, I had only been back two or three times to see my immediate family. I did so because I was determined to keep the connection with my roots. But making this very private and guarded part of my life suddenly public with
Life
scared me to no end and I needed to be hypervigilant. What if my brother-in-law Charlie was drunk or abusive when the reporter and photographer were there?

Of everyone I knew in New York, only Ira knew the true extent of the impoverished conditions of my early life. It was amusing that the people I met in New York just assumed that I was from a privileged background with a great education and all the trappings. Though internally I was completely comfortable and natural about where I came from, old accent and all, I didn’t broadcast it.

In the end, everything worked out well, with the exception of my nearly killing the reporter, a delightful young woman who became a friend in the process. I was still a kid and did not have that much driving experience. We hit some loose gravel and the car spun out. She gasped. I felt pretty bad about that, to say the least, but we all got through it without a scratch.

The
Life
article concluded, “Florence’s future is anybody’s guess. But when her show opens in November, the best guessers, both in New York and home, believe that with her warm voice and spic and span beauty, she will be the freshest, most endearing newcomer on Broadway.”

When we opened in New York at the Majestic Theater on November 4, 1954, those best guessers were right. It was still the custom to get the critics’ reviews later that night. Such moments become cemented in memory even in the mundane details, like the pink ballerina-length dress I wore to the opening night party at Sardi’s that fit me so perfectly and the purse that went with it (which I still have). I loved the telegram sent to Ezio from my idol and friend Mary Martin, who was starring as Peter Pan at the time—“I hope that your Fanny is bigger than my Peter.” Other memories you wish you could forget, like the congratulatory kiss (“Why is this man putting his tongue in my mouth?”) by the famous writer S. N. Behrman, who cowrote the show with Josh Logan. Most of the reviews were good, while some were mixed, but when all was said and done we knew we had a big hit on our hands. It would go on to run for 888 performances.

About three weeks into the run, I made my first solo on-camera appearance, on
Ed
Sullivan
. I had performed live on national television a few times before, but only as part of a duet. The situation exposed a deeper reality about being in the business. I was terrified at the thought that all of a sudden there would be millions of people watching. I thought I was going to pass out minutes before my turn. No doubt the greater pressure of knowing how important this exposure was to the show took me over the top. It was something to get used to, this new feeling of responsibility for the show, because I was in the lead role, a feeling I had been immune to in my beginning days in
Oklahoma!
If I didn’t end up fainting first, my next question was—would my voice come out when I opened my mouth to sing? I was still not twenty-one and didn’t drink alcohol, but in retrospect, a little slurp of something just before might have helped. Some of the major talk shows put booze in the dressing rooms for that very reason, to encourage guests to loosen up their inhibitions (and tongues) a little before their turn in the hot seat. I was still very much in panic mode during the performance, but mercifully I got through it well enough to be welcomed back for more appearances over the coming years.

Walter Slezak ended up winning the Tony Award for Best Leading Actor in a Musical in the role of Fanny’s older husband, Panisse. Walter could be intimidating and frequently such a hog onstage, but I liked him and learned how to deal with him. No one else gave me a more thorough education in the art of upstaging. Upstaging sounds like exactly what it means. Let’s say you and I are doing a scene together, looking at each other as we normally would but standing in such a way that we’re both facing toward the audience. Suddenly you decide to take a step back toward the back of the stage. In order to continue the conversation and look at you, I am forced to turn my back to the audience. A few moments later, I take a step back in order to reposition myself in the original posture. But guess what? You take another step back, and I am forced to turn my back to the audience again. This dance continues until we’re literally about to bump up against the back wall of the stage. That’s what Walter liked to do.

Another one of Walter’s quirks was that usually he kind of took it nice and easy with his performance on any given night. But if he knew that there was somebody famous or important in the audience (which he always wanted to know), then he truly ramped up the voltage. It was a challenge playing against someone when you were never quite sure whether the performance was going to be on or off. This predicament came to a head over one particular line. Walter complained that he was losing the audience’s laugh and blamed me for it.

“You know, you have to do this, because I’m losing my laugh,” he told me.

My new assertive and assured self answered back, “Walter, if you did it the same way twice, that wouldn’t happen. You’re always changing it. That’s why it doesn’t work.” He kept going on like a broken record, until finally I said, “If you have a problem, go to the stage manager, and I’m sure he’ll straighten it out for us.” That seemed to do the trick. It was nice how a little boundary setting created mutual respect. We never had another problem from that point forward.

The other lead, Ezio Pinza, was a total joy and a wonderful man. There was something so charismatic and irresistibly attractive about him. He loved to tease me. With his wonderful Italian accent, he said, “Oh, Florence, when she gets married, she won’t take her husband to bed; she will take him to church.” Ezio was having a serious affair with a beautiful young girl in the show. When we caught a glimpse of his wife as she came down the alley toward the stage door after a matinee, we would have to go into high alert to give him the cease-and-desist signal. Years later, I did a
Merv Griffin Show
, and he asked me about my memories of Ezio. I told how wonderful I thought he was, but added in a loving and humorous spirit how you had to protect your backside around him. “Ah, bella,” he would exclaim when he pinched “Fanny’s” fanny. Well, I got a letter from his wife. “How dare you talk about Ezio that way,” blah, blah, blah. Ezio had passed away a few years earlier, but I walked into the middle of live crossfire. I told Julann Griffin, my friend who was married to Merv at the time, about the letter. She said, “You didn’t pinch his fanny. He pinched your fanny. And that’s the truth.”

One other fun thing about doing
Fanny
was you never knew who might be outside knocking on your dressing room door. Josh Logan had directed
Picnic
and brought its star Kim Novak to see the show. I had this preconceived image of her as being this sultry, sexy woman, but in person she was just as beautiful but very sweet. She was easy to talk to, and I found her to be not all that different from myself. We had a lovely visit. Another knock on the door I will never forget was what I had thought was my costar Bill Tabbert playing a trick. Knock, knock. Who’s there? “Cary Grant.” I wasn’t biting on that. Another knock. “It’s Cary Grant.” When I opened the door, there he was. He apparently loved the show so much that he came back to see it several times. He was a gorgeous man. He would always joke about coming to see me backstage: “I wanted to ask you to marry me, but I didn’t think I had a chance.” Had he asked, I might have given it some serious thought!

The stage door to the Majestic was right next to the same for the Royale Theater, where Julie Andrews was making her American stage debut in
The Boy Friend
. It was funny how we both got our “big break” at the same time. We became friends and spent a great deal of time together—and we’re both still here!

Change and growth during the time of
Fanny
happened in a great spurt. Generally speaking, I was happy emotionally. The relationship with Ira felt right. I was in a very successful show, studying and learning a lot. My sister had come to live with me, and I wanted to make sure she was happy too. But there were undercurrents simmering that would not stay dormant for long.

CHAPTER 8

Yes, I Was a Virgin!

E
ventually, I said yes to Ira’s marriage proposal. The circumstances felt right. I wanted to be married and felt ready to have a family. The fact that we had different faiths was not an issue for either of us. He understood that I was Catholic and very active in my faith. Ira was less so with Judaism and rarely went to temple, although he had great respect for his religion, and so did I. Importantly, he had no concern about my insistence that any children to come would be raised Catholic. We made it a special point to say grace before our meals in both traditions.

I was about to turn twenty when we got engaged. Ira loved practical jokes, so he had quite a laugh when he gave me the ring.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I cried after opening the little box.

“No, no, that’s not the real ring,” he chortled. Given my background, I could hardly decipher the difference between a piece of glass and a diamond. He took out of his pocket another little box with the real thing, and a gorgeous one at that.

We still took our time before we actually tied the knot, some thirteen months into the run of
Fanny
. It was not easy to get time off in a David Merrick show, but the procrastination was more on my side, the fear of the unknown. It was easy to get hung up in doubts. What was sex going to be like? (Yes, I was a virgin!) It frankly wasn’t something I could talk about with my married sisters or close friends. If anything, Ira was the most help in this regard because I didn’t know anything about the reality of what I was getting myself into. Such moments are always a test of faith. Either you believe it’s going to work out or you don’t.

The actual ceremony of getting married in the church proved a little complicated because of our different faiths. In those days, you had to get a special dispensation to marry a non-Catholic. The diocese in New York turned us down, but we got permission across the Hudson in New Jersey. I was friends with a couple of priests there, and they allowed the ceremony to take place, at the altar of the main sanctuary, no less, which was also a big no-no. It is a wonder we did not all get excommunicated.

It was raining and icy that day, January 9, 1956. I paid for the wedding. Afterward, my agent Barron Polan threw a reception for us at his town house in Manhattan. As we were leaving and getting into the car to go off on our honeymoon, the wonderful theatrical photographer Leo Friedman snapped my favorite image of that day. In front of our car was a bakery truck, and on the back of it as if divinely ordained was a sign that read “Long Life” (the name of the company). We then drove off for a week at Barron’s house in Redding, Connecticut. An understudy went on in my place, David Merrick’s girlfriend. It was the first performance I had missed during the entire run.

One month later, just to make things a little more interesting, I was pregnant. I was so happy that I was going to have a child. With so many older siblings, I had babysat an assortment of children throughout my youth, but now I was going to have my own. When the reality hit, I also had to take stock about what might happen with my career. Gloria Steinem had not yet arrived on the scene. There were few road maps on how to manage a career and parenthood. Most women heeded the conventional thinking of the time and quit their work. I knew I would have to find another way.

One of the first orders of business was to find an obstetrician. I was referred to one on Fifth Avenue. Ira was very concerned about the cost. The doctor pooh-poohed, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. We’ll talk.” Translation: “You’re a big Broadway star, so it ain’t going to be cheap.” The reality was that we hardly had a lavish lifestyle. Just before we married, we got an apartment at 140 W. 55th Street. My name may have been up in bright lights on the marquee, but remember that I worked for the very unwarm and unfuzzy David Merrick, who held his wallet in a tight fist. And I didn’t have a big enough track record to have leverage to demand more. Ira probably made more than I did. Times were different.

Ira said, “We’re not going back to him.” So I found another doctor who would be covered by insurance. Dr. Myron Steinberg at Mt. Sinai Hospital turned out to be a great choice and would come to be with me through each of my childbirths.

Throughout the pregnancy, I was still in
Fanny
. Morning sickness was hard, especially on matinee days. The whiff of the makeup was enough to nearly make me pass out, but I was determined not to give in to that sort of thing. Any time to go and lay down and rest was taken advantage of until each wave passed.

David Merrick was not thrilled when I left the show seven months pregnant. He would have preferred that I did the matinee, had the baby, and been ready in time for the evening performance.

Barbara was born on November 9, 1956. In those days, they knocked you out as you got into the final stages of labor. You woke up to find a baby in your arms. It was long before the natural childbirth movement, but back where I came from, home delivery without much medical intervention was commonplace, as I had witnessed with my older sister. I felt like a sissy. It wasn’t fair. I should have been fully awake and gone through it. A few years later, I bought a record that taught me the Lamaze breathing techniques. So by the time the third and fourth children came along, I did it naturally. Far better!

I felt confident being a new mother...for about a minute and a half. All that so-called experience taking care of my sisters’ and other people’s kids did not count for much when I was suddenly holding my own in my arms. In fact, I came to realize that I was closer in spirit to being a baby myself. Suddenly I felt like I was back to the beginning. The anxiety started to build, a slow burn at first that quickly became an all-consuming blaze. Would the baby die? And what would happen to the baby if I died? And what was going to happen to my career?

It didn’t help that the baby had a stomach problem from the outset. From the time I got her home from the hospital, Barbara was losing weight. She could not hold down food and would projectile-vomit. Following doctor’s orders, I had to be up at all hours of the night giving her short feedings, no more than a half ounce at a time, making sure to burp her after every time. Some drops were also prescribed that helped her stomach relax.

Understandably, I was not sleeping very well at night. Speaking from this experience, I advise young women today that you have to sleep when the baby sleeps and let everything else go. Added to the problem was that I was not eating enough. I had watched my nutrition during the pregnancy, but now I had no appetite. Half the time I was probably running on fumes because I was not keeping my blood sugar up. But it was all a symptom of a bigger problem.

Ira was always very supportive of my career, but like many men of his generation, he was not very hands-on when it came to baby care. One day, we drove over to Brooklyn, and when we got back to 55th Street I asked him to hold her for a second while I got some stuff together. In the blink of an eye, she threw up all over him. Was it a bit of payback for all of his wonderful nights of sleep? I had a good laugh about that.

Around this same time, they wanted me to come out to Los Angeles to do
Fanny
with the Civic Light Opera. Despite being a new mother, I was still very career-driven, but I was torn because I felt I needed to be with my child, so I turned down the opportunity. Again, there were no role models around to show me that there was a way I could do both. Ira knew how both family and career were a priority for me, and trying to protect that, he gave everything the benefit of the doubt. My own childhood baggage around my mother ramped up the intensity about being there for my baby. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, it was another no-win situation that I had to tough my way through in the beginning days. In the years to come, it became easier to integrate motherhood with work. Sometimes the children even got small parts in the productions I toured with or in programs or commercials as they got older, which they absolutely loved. They even performed with me in Las Vegas.

Ira went out of town for a show, and I was alone with the baby for a stretch. I had plans to do so many things to fix up our apartment. Clear as a bell, I can remember reaching up in a high cabinet to put away some dishes when—boom!—I was hit with it for the first time, the perfect storm.

Postpartum depression was not a well-known clinical term in the vernacular of the late 1950s, even though the syndrome no doubt affected the same twenty percent of all new mothers then as it does now. Ironically, Ira’s uncle was a prominent obstetrician who was speaking out about it at the time. Dr. Ronsheim made the news when he was called in as an expert witness at a woman’s trial to explain why she killed her baby. This syndrome can take many forms, but what all sufferers have in common is an inability to think properly. Luckily, I didn’t harbor negative feelings about the baby. Instead I was simply mired in a state of profound sadness, stuck in an empty, bottomless pit.

Had I been more knowledgeable about postpartum depression, I might have talked to my doctor about it. Absent that, I was too ashamed to tell anybody about my condition. But the change in me was palpable and disturbing to family and friends who were so used to seeing me always happy and up. Understanding it later as a mix of hormonal imbalance, exhaustion, poor nutrition, and emotional stress, I could have truly been the poster child. Tears of such enormous sadness rolled down my cheeks. I had coped so well with everything in my life up to that point. But now I was overwhelmed, fearful, and sleepless. My appetite for food was supplanted by an emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

When you’re depressed with a new baby, everybody tells you that you should be so happy and you should feel so good. Ira, too, felt bad about what I was going through, but he added to the chorus. “You have so much to be happy about.” So add guilt to the list, a horrible guilt that I was not happy and joyful when I should have been. I would see other mothers with babies who were on top of it, and it made me feel worse, totally inferior. Oh, and what about the baby? Infants are sensitive to the energy around them, especially coming from their mother. My state of mind was bound to affect her one way or the other. I didn’t want her to pick up on my toxic feelings. More guilt.

You wake up every morning and hope that you will discover that the fog has been lifted and the birds will be singing again. Instead, you’re locked in hopelessness. “I’ll never get out of this,” you think. “What’s the point?” It is easy to convince yourself that there is no help and no relief.

My brother Joe knew that I was having a tough time and came to New York. I spoke to him about my fears about my death or the death of the baby and how my once steadfast faith had been rocked to the core. He assured me that if I died that he would take care of the baby. When I asked, he told me that he was not afraid of dying. “What do I think about death? I think it’s the best experience of life. I think my soul will be in the presence of a great light. I will find perfect peace.”

One day, I was feeling really bad. I decided to take Barbara out for a walk, and I noticed all of these people across the street as I left the apartment building. I was curious why they were all there and walked over to see. What the crowd had gathered to witness was utterly horrific. A lady had jumped moments before from the building. I can still see the position of her lifeless body on the pavement and all the blood. I went into the phone booth at the old Ziegfeld Theater magazine stand and immediately called Ira. I did not think that anything could possibly get any worse, but that experience proved otherwise.

On another day, one of those walks with Barbara led to a more helpful development. A producer named Frank Egan saw me with the stroller walking down 55th Street. He put together “industrial shows,” corporate concerts, and stage performances for specially invited guests. “Hmm, she must be available,” he said to himself, seeing that I was a new mother and consequently not able to work full-time. Unbeknownst to me, Frank and his wife, Jane, loved
Fanny
and had seen the show six or seven times. He had been a performer himself with a Broadway résumé and had sung with Fred Waring’s orchestra. Spotting me on the street, he called my agent, and I went and met with him. Not only did I get the job, but Frank and Jane fast became great friends and remained such for the rest of their lives.

The new friendship also broke through my formidable self-imposed isolation. “Why would I want to be around anybody in that state, and why would anybody want to be around me?” I had thought. It was certainly not helped by a childhood pattern of not imposing myself on anyone harkening back to that appendicitis incident, among others. But Frank and Jane were different. Without imposing a lot on me, they seemed to understand. I confided in them what I was going through. Little by little, I started functioning more and trying harder, but it wasn’t easy.

Thanks to Frank’s initiative, I gently started going back to work, doing a series of private dates for General Motors’ Oldsmobile brand. The performances were lavishly staged but shortened versions of Broadway shows like
Girl Crazy
or
Good News
. GM spent a fortune on these shows, hiring the best choreographers like Bob Fosse or Carol Haney and arrangers like Luther Henderson. The great costumes, dancing, and singing were a big buildup for the grand finale, the presentation of the star of the show: “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for—introducing the new Oldsmobile Rocket 88!” The audience was mostly composed of car dealers and their families.