Then and Now (11 page)

Now, sixty years later, I retain a very clear memory of going home on that opening night, and as I was opening the door of our apartment, my husband stopped me and said: “Wait a minute, do you realize what's happened? You're a hit in a hit.” And of course I was thrilled. Then my next thought was, “Oh my God—now I have to do this for how long?!”

Actually, I think if you want to, you can learn a great deal from a long run. I know I did, because I had a sold-out audience of 1,600 people waiting for me every single night, and to keep myself interested I would give myself tasks. The purity of my singing—the vocal quality and simplicity of emotion—these things have always mattered to me, and one of the tasks I set for myself in a song like “My White Knight” was to sing it as simply and purely as I could, without unnecessary gesture. I'd ask myself: “Do you have the courage to just stand there and not have to do something? Can you just be there for that song, at one with the audience? Can you do that?” It's still a task I set for myself.

Once you get into the swing of a long run, the routine becomes second nature. Every day around four-thirty or five I'd get very sleepy, so I'd take a little nap. Then I'd have a light dinner before going to the theater to get ready. It was the anticipation that was hardest, but once I got started, I gave it everything I had. Before I knew it I had done the show 373 times . . . It all lies in the approach, because if you try to get by at half-speed, not only does that make the performance seem endless to you, the actor, but it also cheats the audience. I understand how and why that can happen, but when I've seen it—Streisand walking through
Funny Girl
and Merman in
Gypsy
—it's so disappointing.

When Merman was “on,” however, she was electrifying. Filled with supreme confidence. For all of her bombast, she still made it seem real. She was nothing less than a thrilling force of nature. I saw
Gypsy
four or five times, both because my friend Julienne Marie replaced Sandra Church in the title role, and because that show thrilled from the start: the first thing you heard was one of the greatest overtures ever written, followed by a terrific book, the classic Styne and Sondheim score, and the great Ethel herself. When she charged down that aisle, trumpeting “Sing out, Louise!” you knew you were about to go on a great journey. What a night of theater.

And, boy, did Ethel have a mouth on her. One of her closest friends was Benay Venuta, who corroborated the following story. When Benay was Merman's understudy or standby, they would often have dinner together between shows. One day when Benay came to fetch her, Merman was putting on a turban and she was very carefully pulling out little curls all around the edge of the turban. Benay took one look and said, “Jesus Christ, Ethel, what's with the curls? Don't you know the whole point of wearing a turban is to get that sleek look?” Ethel replied, “Fuck you, Benay. It gives me softness.”

And then there's this one: a friend of mine played piano in the pit for one of her shows, and during the run, the cast and all the musicians were invited to a party at the very swanky apartment of one of the wealthy Park Avenue–type ladies. Ethel and my friend happened to be leaving together when he said to her, “How kind of Mrs. So-and-So to have a party for us.” Whereupon Miss Merman said, “That c--t, she's so cold you could tap-dance on her tits!”

To get back to long runs for a moment, I can't say I didn't have moments when my mind completely wandered. I can remember
standing onstage in the middle of a song and realizing I had no memory of having sung the beginning of the song—I was thinking about what I was going to have for dinner or the shopping I had to do. Panic would seize me because at that moment you instantly think, “Oh my God—let me get myself back here right now! This is scary!”

I had started to think of myself as an actress first and a singer second—a big step. I hadn't received any formal training as an actress, so I learned the lines, did what was written on the page, and then tried to develop the character, bit by bit, until she became a real person. David was an enormous help to me on all of my shows and helped me see the whole character of Marian Paroo, just as he had with that of Julie Jordan in
Carousel
. However, even in
Music Man
I was still learning and made some terrible mistakes. One time Bob Preston and I were on the footbridge and I came on with my big hat and accidentally dropped it on the stage in front of the footbridge. What I should have done was find a way to pick up the hat as I left, but I didn't—I did not clean up my own mess before I left the stage. Bob had to pick up my hat and carry it off—terrible of me.

We recorded the original cast album right after we opened. Back in the 1950s the recordings were made in one day, the second Sunday off after opening. It was a marathon recording session but well worth it. The album ranked at the top of the charts for twelve weeks, won the Grammy Award for Best Cast Album, and sold one million copies, while remaining on the charts for nearly five full years—245 weeks! We received two weeks' salary for recording the album but never a cent more.

I loved working with Bob Preston. He was such a good actor that it was very easy to work off of him. I felt safe with him onstage.
We had a really wonderful working relationship, and I'm glad it didn't turn into anything more than that, because he was prone to having affairs with his leading ladies. When he did the show
Ben Franklin in Paris
there were lots of headlines about his having an affair with his leading lady. His wife, Catherine, was a beautiful, sweet woman, but she sure didn't have it easy with Bob.

Bob and I had a truly great professional relationship, and Catherine was wonderful—she had a beautiful, motherly presence. There was something very calming about her. Occasionally David and I would go out with Bob and Catherine, but not very often. I have a funny memory of going with them to a wonderful Japanese restaurant Bob kept talking about. Sashimi was a relatively new thing—remember this is 1958—and my reaction was: “Raw fish? Are you kidding? You're going to eat raw fish?!” Bob insisted, “You've got to try this.” Off we went to the Saito Restaurant, which was really a kind of gourmet Japanese restaurant, complete with beautiful little private rooms. The food was superb, and during the ensuing years I grew to really love sushi and sashimi. In 1958, however, the thought of eating raw fish felt like visiting another planet.

Bob presented a very interesting dichotomy—very gregarious, seemingly open, but at the same time extremely private. Each night before the show began he would come into my dressing room and we'd talk about the day—politics, what was happening in the world, a great one-on-one conversation. And yet, after each of these encounters, he would leave and I felt as if I didn't really know him at all.

Our conversation would end, Bob would go onstage, and wow! He was sensational—funny and touching: The audience just didn't expect this staggering star turn from him. He had played sidekick to Gary Cooper in
Beau Geste
and been a second-tier Hollywood
guy in films like
The Macomber Affair
. There really wasn't a lot of sexuality in his films, but onstage—whoa! Very sexy.

Bob was a great team leader because those preshow talks weren't just for me. He really did spark the company. Bob would get on the loudspeaker backstage and talk to us before the show started; it wasn't an “Okay, let's win one for the Gipper”–type speech, but rather a joke or something fun. The company adored him and he was very, very easy to get along with. When it comes from the top like that it helps the cast pull together, and as a result we had a very good company. I think Hugh Jackman was like that on
The Boy from Oz
.

Bob had it written into his contract that he and I each were allowed two-week vacations and that we could take our vacations at the same time. He said he didn't want to play the show with anybody else, and I never did play it with anyone else, except for that one performance with Larry Douglas in Philadelphia and a very few performances in New York when Bob fell ill.

And then there was David Burns, who played Mayor Shinn. He was a wonderful actor who went on to play the male lead in
Hello, Dolly!
with Carol Channing, but he was also a very raunchy kind of guy. When I think about his shenanigans now it all seems funny as hell, but at the time I got all prissy about it. Maybe it came from my husband—he didn't even like me to say “damn.” God forbid I'd say “shit.” At the time, I just thought, “I'm a lady, and, Davey, you don't
do
that in front of me.” Miss Priss of 1957. Here's what Davey was like: Christian Dior died while we were in rehearsal; and, though I didn't actually see this firsthand, I was told that when David heard the news he tied a black ribbon around his penis and would say to the guys: “Isn't it a shame about Christian Dior?” Very funny.

When the show became such a big hit, Eddie Hodges and I sang on television's
Your Hit Parade
, which meant we were reaching millions of people across the country. And, at the same time, I also appeared on many television game shows. They were a lot of fun, and very lucrative. You did two days of work where you'd tape five shows, for which you received $1,000. That was very good money in 1958, and it's not bad these days, either.

Our show became the destination Broadway must-see for celebrities in town, and boy did I meet some fascinating people. Former President Truman came backstage with his wife, Bess, daughter Margaret, and Margaret's husband, Clifton Daniel. Bess was very motherly, and made sure everyone got to shake the president's hand. I felt the same way about Barbara Bush when I sang at the White House; they were both very warm, maternal women.

For a movie-mad youngster like myself it was a dream come true to meet my childhood idols when they stopped backstage. Dorothy Lamour turned up one night, and, ever suave, I blurted out: “You're Dorothy Lamour!” Without missing a beat she wisecracked, “Yeah, what's left of me, honey!” Best of all was Gary Cooper—the divine Gary Cooper. One night during our preshow chat Bob casually mentioned to me: “Coop's out front.”

“Who?” I stammered.

“Coop. Gary Cooper is in the house tonight, Barbara.”

Very calmly I said to Bob, “If I don't get to meet Gary Cooper your life isn't going to be worth a plugged nickel.”

Well, the show ended, and as I was removing my makeup there was a knock at my door, and there in all his glory stood the incredibly handsome Gary Cooper.

“Oh—Mr. Cooper—I'm so happy to meet you.”

His reply? “Gosh.”

I was performing eight shows a week and somehow still had time to perform in a television production of
Hansel and Gretel
. I had a lot of energy in those days! The show had a score by William Engvick and Alec Wilder, and Red Buttons was my costar. If I was a little old at age thirty to be playing Gretel, Red was really stretching things as a thirty-nine-year-old Hansel! Directed by Paul Bogart, the show also featured Hans Conried, Stubby Kaye, and the wonderful opera singer Risë Stevens as the mother. With Rudy Vallee playing our father, we were definitely an eclectic cast.

Hansel and Gretel
was telecast in April 1958, the same month as the Tony Awards, which were held in the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The show would have been telecast in New York, although not nationally, but there was a labor strike at that time, so there was no television broadcast of any sort. As it turned out, we were sitting at the same table as everyone from
Look Homeward
,
Angel
, a group that included Jo Van Fleet. She had sent that nice telegram to Bob Preston in Philadelphia, but she was an edgy woman. Just before my category was announced, she said to me, “I've heard that you won.” That is definitely not what anyone wants to hear before their award is announced. What if it weren't true? And if I were going to win, why did she take it upon herself to be the one delivering the news? Well, she was a tough cookie. I once ran into Pat Hingle when he was in a play with Jo and I said, “How is working with Jo Van Fleet?” Pat, a very sweet man, looked at me and said, “Ever been onstage with an anteater?”

They called out my name as the winner of Best Featured Actress in a Musical, and the funny thing is that while I have absolutely no recollection of what my salary was for
The Music Man
, I definitely remember what I wore to those Tony Awards. It was a beautiful, very simple dress with a flaired chiffon skirt, and a top
that was all gold—very fancy and really pretty. I liked it so much that I also wore it to the opening-night party for
She Loves Me
five years later. I was very nervous when I scurried up to receive the award, and didn't actually say much except “Thank you.” I suspect it was one of the shortest Tony acceptance speeches in history, but I was very pleased to have won, especially after the disappointment of not being nominated for
Candide
.

The night got even better because I wasn't the only winner from
Music Man
: Bob Preston, David Burns, and our conductor Herbert Greene all won, and the show won the biggest prize of all, Best Musical.

The big competition that year was between
The Music Man
and
West Side Story
. Of course I went to see
West Side Story
and thought the dancing was out of this world; for some reason I remember thinking that the book didn't work—I don't remember why, because I certainly don't feel that way when I see the show now.
West Side Story
was groundbreaking, no question about it. It's a brilliant show, with that incredible Bernstein music, Steve Sondheim's lyrics, the Jerome Robbins staging—wow.

People spoke about a “rivalry” between the two shows, and in the face of all that groundbreaking work on
West Side Story
, it's easy to forget how brilliantly constructed
Music Man
really is. The rhythmic sing/speak that Meredith came up with makes the show flow from the very first scene on. Interestingly enough, Meredith had actually started working with that form even before
Music Man
, back on a radio program called
The Big Show
. That show, which went on the air in November of 1950, was hosted by Tallulah Bankhead and may well have been the last big radio show before the demise of radio and rise of television. Meredith was the music director and conductor of the show, and instead of having commer
cials read, he came up with the idea of having a male chorus speak/sing the commercial—“Buy Camel cigarettes”—in rhythm. It was like rap—but a little cleaner.