Notes on a Cowardly Lion (45 page)

Lahr decided to do the play, with the idea that if it worked well Myerberg would bring it to Broadway. On the surface, Lahr was pleased; but from the beginning his uneasiness with intellectual ideas, his fear of failure, the strange format of the show, and a young director bred anxiety. Myerberg had contracted with Alan Schneider to direct the production after Garson Kanin, his first choice, backed out at the last minute. Schneider, with only two Broadway credits—
Anastasia
and
The Remarkable Mrs. Pennypacker
—had been recommended to Myerberg by Thornton Wilder, who had seen Schneider's revival of
The Skin of Our Teeth
, which Myerberg had originally produced in 1943. Beckett's play extended Wilder's early fascination with the philosophical and dramatic consequences of the flux of time. Beckett was hard-headed where Wilder was sentimental, poetic where Wilder was folksy.

Schneider recounted his first introduction to Beckett's work and also his meeting with Beckett in an article for the
Chelsea Review
(Autumn 1958). As the director who later became Beckett's chief
interpreter in the United States as well as the director of Edward Albee's major plays, Schneider's reactions are important. Beckett's significance in America at the time was limited to a small coterie o£ intellectuals; only after
Waiting for Godot
did he become the important literary and dramatic voice in America that he already was in Europe.

Schneider met Beckett; Lahr did not. Schneider saw the play in other countries; Lahr did not. Schneider's experience with Beckett is important because, as director, his vision of the play and how to convey Beckett's meaning were different from what finally evolved in Lahr's interpretation.

In 1954, Schneider saw
Waiting for Godot
in both its Zurich and Paris versions. Captivated by the play's strength of thought, he set about tracking down the seclusive Beckett. As he chronicles his exasperating search—

“Finally a friendly play-agent informed me that the English language rights had been acquired by a British director, Peter Glenville, who was planning to present the play in London with Alec Guinness as Vladimir and Ralph Richardson as Estragon. Besides, added the agent, the play was nothing an American audience would take—unless it could have a couple of topflight comedians like Bob Hope or Jack Benny kidding it, preferably with Laurel and Hardy in the other two roles. An American production under those circumstances seemed hopeless, and Mr. Beckett was as far removed as Mr. Godot himself. I came home to New York and went on to other matters.

“The next spring [1955] I had occasion to remember once more.
Godot
received its English language premiere in London, not with Guinness and Richardson at all, but with a non-star cast at London's charming Arts Theater Club. Damned without exception by daily critics, it was hailed in superlatives by both Harold Hobson and Kenneth Tynan (The Atkinson and Kerr of London) in their Sunday pieces, and soon became the top conversation piece of the English season. At the same time, the English translation was published by Grove Press in New York.

“I read and re-read the published version. Somehow on its closely spaced printed pages, it seemed cold and abstract, even harsh, after the remarkable ambience I had sensed at the Babylone. When a leading Broadway producer asked me what I thought of its chances, I responded only half-heartedly. Intrigued as I had been, I could not at the moment imagine a commercial production in Broadway terms.

“One day in the fall of that same year I was visiting my old Alma
Mater, the University of Wisconsin, when to my utter amazement I received a long-distance phone call from producer Michael Myerberg asking if I would be interested in directing
Waiting for Godot
in New York. He had Bert Lahr and Tom Ewell signed for the two main roles … It was like Fate knocking at the door. After a desperate search in practically every bookshop in Chicago, I finally located a copy, stayed up all night on the train studying it with new eyes, and arrived back to New York to breathe a fervent ‘yes' to Myerberg.

“Followed a series of conferences with Lahr and Ewell, both of whom confessed their complete bewilderment of the play; and with Myerberg, who insisted that no one could possibly be bewildered, least of all himself. He did think it might be a good idea, however, for me to see the English production, perhaps stopping off on the way to have a talk with Beckett himself. To say that I was pleased and excited would be a pale reflection of the reality. And my elation was tempered only by the fear that Beckett would continue to remain aloof—he had merely reluctantly consented to a brief meeting with ‘the New York director.'

“At any rate, a week later, I found myself aboard the U.S.S.
Independence
bound for Paris and London—and by coincidence, the table companion and fellow conversationalist of Thornton Wilder, who was on his way to Rome and elsewhere. He greatly admired Beckett, considered
Godot
one of the two greatest modern plays (the other one, I believe, Cocteau's
Orpheus)
, and openly contributed his ideas about an interpretation of the play which he had seen produced both in France and Germany. In fact, so detailed and regular were our daily meetings that a rumor circulated that Wilder was rewriting the script, something which later amused both authors considerably. What was true was that I was led to become increasingly familiar with the script, both in French and in translation and discovered what were the most important questions to ask Beckett in the limited time we were to have together. More specifically, I was now working in the frame of reference of an actual production situation—a three-week rehearsal period, a ‘tryout' in a new theater in Miami, and, of course, Bert and Tommy. It wasn't Bob Hope and Jack Benny, but the Parisian agent of two summers before had been correct so far. Was she also going to prove correct in terms of the audience response?

“Beckett at that time had no phone—in fact, the only change I've noticed in him since his ‘success' is the acquisition of one—so I sent him a message by pneumatique from the very plush hotel near the
Etoile where Myerberg had lodged me. Within an hour, he rang up saying he'd meet me in the lobby—at the same time reminding me that he had only an hour or so to spare. Armed with a large bottle of Lacrima Christi as a present from both Wilder and myself, I stationed myself in the rather overdone lobby and waited for the elusive Mr. Beckett to appear. Promptly and very businesslike he strode in, his tall athletic figure ensconced in a worn raincoat; bespectacled in oldfashioned steel rims; his face was as long and sensitive as a greyhound's. Greetings exchanged, the biggest question became where we might drink our Lacrima Christi; we decided to walk a bit and see if we could come up with a solution. Walk we did, as we have done so many times since, and talk as we walked—about a variety of matters, including, occasionally, his play. Eventually, we took a taxi to his skylight apartment in the sixth arrondissement and wound up finishing most of the bottle. In between I plied him with all my studiously arrived-at questions as well as all the ones that came to me at the moment; and he tried to answer as directly and honestly as he could. The first one was ‘Who or what does Godot mean?' and the answer was immediately forthcoming: ‘If I knew I would have said so in the play.' Sam was perfectly willing to answer any questions of specific meaning or reference, but would not—as always—go into matters of larger or symbolic meanings, preferring his work to speak for itself and letting the supposed ‘meanings' fall where they may.

“As it turned out, he did have an appointment; so we separated but not before we had made a date for dinner the next evening. On schedule, we had a leisurely meal at one of his favorite restaurants in Montparnasse, then I persuaded him to come along with me to a performance of
Anastasia
at the Theatre Antoine … it turned out to be very artificial and old-fashioned and Sam's suffering was acute. Immediately after the last curtain we retired to Fouquet's, once the favorite café of his friend and companion James Joyce …Shortly before dawn—since I had a plane to catch for London—we again separated. But not before Sam had asked me if it would be additionally helpful if he joined me in London at the performances of
Godot
there. He had not been to London in some years, had never liked it since his early days of poverty and struggle there, but he would be willing to come if I thought it helpful! I could hardly believe what I heard. Helpful!

“Two days later, Sam came into London incognito …That night, and each night for the next five days, we went to see the production of
Godot
, which had been transferred by this time to the Criterion
in Piccadilly Circus. The production was interesting, though scenically over-cluttered and missing many of the points which Sam had just cleared up for me. My fondest memories are of Sam's clutching my arm from time to time and in a clearly heard stage whisper saying, ‘It's ahl wrahng! He's doing it ahul wrahng!' about a particular bit of stage business or the interpretation of a certain line. Every night after the performance, we would compare what we had see to what he had intended, try to analyze why or how certain points were being lost, speak with the actors about their difficulties. Every night also, we would carefully watch the audience, a portion of which always left during the show. I always felt that Sam would have been disappointed if at least a few hadn't.

“Through all this, I discovered not only how clear and logical
Godot
was in its essences, but how much and how easy to know Sam was, how friendly beneath his basic shyness. I had met Sam, wanting primarily to latch on to anything which might help make
Godot
a success on Broadway. I left him, wanting nothing more than to please him. I came with respect; I left with a greater measure of devotion than I have ever felt for a writer whose work I was engaged in translating to the stage.…”

Myerberg's conception of
Waiting for Godot
, after seeing the London production, was more certain than Schneider's. Where Schneider had questioned its commercial nature, Myerberg was immediately impressed at the play's ability to hold an audience despite a production he considered, in general, to be mediocre. “Let's face it,
Waiting for Godot
is not everybody's cup of tea. It's a theatrical property; it might he called a great play. I call it a theater piece. I don't know what a play is myself. Everybody else seems to know, but I don't. I look for material that can be put on the stage and hold an audience for an evening. I don't know what a play is …”

Schneider, in his article, registered little surprise at the suggestion of two stand-up comedians like Jack Benny or Bob Hope playing Vladimir and Estragon. Myerberg's first reaction was to envision Lahr in the role of Estragon. “Knowledge of performers is part of the producer's equipment. I have a kind of card index mind which riffles through them. I get one casting in my mind and that's the casting I go for. When I contracted for the play, I said ‘I'll produce it only if I can get Bert Lahr to play in it. How I'll sell it to him, I don't know. If I don't get him, I won't produce it.'”

Myerberg's cunning led him to another important decision that had
a bearing on the final performances. He would do
Waiting for Godot
on Broadway, not, as in London and Paris, in the experimental noncommercial theater clubs or off-Broadway houses. The choice, which astounded many, was not daring to a producer of Myerberg's frame of mind.
“Waiting for Godot
was a revolutionary play that had never been done here. Beckett had not really been introduced to the public. I regarded the problem of production this way: either you do it or you don't. I don't feel you can have the opportunity unless 1) you have the proper stage, 2) you attract the proper actors. I couldn't have gotten the final cast I got—E. G. Marshall, Kurt Kasznar, Alvin Epstein, and Lahr—for off-Broadway. It's just a question of professionalism. You couldn't have done the play off-Broadway on the scale it demanded. After it's established, then it can be done any place.”

Myerberg's statement is an interesting backward glance; but the initial tryout of
Waiting for Godot
was handled in such a myopic fashion as to suggest that even Myerberg, for all his assurance, did not quite know what he had on his hands.

Myerberg himself admits that mistakes were made. He had mounted the play on a highly stylized set that not only made it difficult for the actors to move, but also detracted from the words and action. As Myerberg later told
The New York Times
, “I went too far in my effort to give the play a base for popular acceptance. I accented the wrong things in trying to illuminate corners of the text I felt were left in shadow in the London production. For instance, I cast the play too close to type. In casting Bert Lahr and Tom Ewell I created the wrong impression about the play. Both actors were too well known in specific types of performance. The audience thought they were going to see Lahr and Ewell cut loose in a lot of capers. They expected a farcical comedy, which
Waiting for Godot
, of course, is not.”

Myerberg had sold out the two-week Miami engagement a month in advance by advertising Beckett's play in the finest tradition of P. T. Barnum. The people who rushed to the box office had Myerberg's advance notice humming in their minds.

Bert Lahr, the star of
Burlesque
, and Tom Ewell, the star of
The Seven Year Itch
in the laugh sensation of two continents—Samuel Beckett's
Waiting for Godot
.

(By the time Myerberg brought his controversial property to New York he had learned how to sell it. He ran an ad in
The New York Times
asking for seventy thousand intellectuals to support the play and
warning audiences who wanted casual entertainment to stay away. His statement to the
Times
about going too far in giving “the play a popular base” is a ludicrous understatement.)