Then and Now (8 page)

I actually have stronger memories of my February 1956 appearance in a television production of
Bloomer Girl
, but not for the right reasons. The director, Alex Segal, was difficult and for unfathomable reasons chose to make life miserable for the terrific character actor Paul Ford, who was playing my father. The length of the show had to be cut to fit the TV time format, and for some reason Segal chose to cut every scene where I was wearing bloomers. And the title of the show was . . . ?

We had terrific choreography by Agnes de Mille, and I enjoyed singing that beautiful Harold Arlen/Yip Harburg score, including “Right as the Rain,” but when I saw a tape of the show recently at the New York Paley Center for Media I found it nothing so much as embarrassing. There I was in my Shirley Temple curls, turning in a less-than-award-winning acting performance.

Plain and Fancy
was a good experience for me, but when I remember that time I always find myself thinking about the difficult political climate. Stefan Schnabel, a wonderful character actor, played my uncle, and one day when I mentioned that I was going to an Actors' Equity meeting, he advised me that I would be better off not going. He said people would be writing down everything that was said, taking notes on any suspicious Communist-sounding talk, so I didn't attend. Given my liberal leanings, I now think that if I had been older and less naïve I probably would have been blacklisted. Senator Joe McCarthy had only been censured by the Senate one month before we opened. President Eisenhower
had not even spoken out against the accusations McCarthy lodged against his friend General George Marshall, until he deemed it safe to do so. When I think about the fact that General Marshall devised “the Marshall Plan” to help feed starving people in Europe after the war, yet was accused of Communist sympathies, it boggles my mind. It was a tough, tough time in this country.

I HAD A
good time in
Plain and Fancy
, and it was icing on the cake when I received a Theatre World Award for my performance. After the show closed on Broadway I did a summer-stock production of the show in Pittsburgh, in which Elaine Stritch played Ruth, the Shirl Conway role. I had also performed the show with Bea Arthur when she went on for Shirl in New York, and even then both Elaine and Bea were formidable women. Bea's performance, although wonderful, was so different from Shirl's that it threw me, because I didn't yet have the acting experience to deal with such a big change onstage. I was also offered the London production of the show at the Drury Lane Theatre, but I decided against that because I would have had to stay with the London company for at least six months, which I felt was too long a time to be away from David.

So, future unknown, I auditioned for Frank Loesser's
The Most Happy Fella
. Oh, I wanted to do that show so badly. It's such a beautiful score: “Somebody Somewhere,” “Warm All Over”—those songs are as good as it gets. But, disappointed as I was not to land the show, if I had I would not have been free to take on my next musical. As is so often the case, it all started out very innocently . . .

Just as
Plain and Fancy
was winding down its run in 1956, the
phone rang very early one morning. David answered and passed the phone over to me. It was Ethel Reiner, one of the producers of a new show called
Candide
. I had vaguely heard about it—it was going to be some kind of opera/operetta/musical written by Leonard Bernstein and Lillian Hellman. I hadn't paid much attention because I felt certain that it was not something I would be considered for, so I was surprised to get the call. Ethel wanted to know if I could sing a high C. I told her yes, though I didn't add that I had never sung a high C, or any other note even remotely that high, in public. That little G right over the top of the staff was it, as far as my public performances were concerned.

Now, this is where my training with Bob Kobin came in very handy. Bob always insisted that all his students had to learn arias, no matter what kind of music they intended to sing. I resisted like crazy: “Why do I have to learn this stuff. I'm not gonna be an opera singer. All that
ah-ah-aaaaaah
stuff is too hard. I don't want to do it.” He persisted, however, and finally he played an aria that I thought was so beautiful I was willing to give it a try.

The first aria I worked on was “
Non mi dir
” from Mozart's
Don Giovanni
. Not right for my voice in the least, but he was happy that I was willing to try something, no matter how ill suited. I went on to learn arias by Puccini, Verdi—all the greats—never thinking that they might be useful one day. In the process of these lessons I learned that I had all these high notes I hadn't even known about. I didn't really take it seriously. To me it was like I was pretending to be an opera singer. I could hit a high C, sure. But I wasn't going to be singing at the Met. Little did I know . . .

At any rate, Ethel and I made a date for me to come in and sing, but on the appointed day I had a bad stomach virus and had to cancel. I didn't hear anything back from her for a couple of months,
and I just forgot about it. Then, out of the blue, she called back and we made another date. This time I was going to sing for Leonard Bernstein, who had written the score. By then he was already a well-known conductor, had written film scores, several Broadway shows, and quite a few very impressive classical pieces. He was already LEONARD BERNSTEIN, so I was, as usual, nervous as hell.

When I arrived on time at Ms. Reiner's office the maestro had yet to appear, so she said, “While you're waiting, perhaps you'd like to take a look at this aria written for the role of Cunegonde.” This was the first time I heard the name of the role I was up for, and also the first time I saw the music for “Glitter and Be Gay.” It was twelve pages long. Holy Hannah!

I looked at the music and saw all those lines above the staff. I didn't, and don't, read music but I sure as hell knew what all those extra lines above the treble clef meant. In other words, this was a killer piece of music and certainly something I would never be hired to do. (During rehearsals I counted the high notes in the score for Cunegonde—four E-flats above high C, six D-flats above high C, sixteen B-flats, and twenty-one high C's.) Funny thing, it seemed so out of reach that instead of making me more nervous, looking at the music calmed me down, because I felt certain that I would never be hired to sing this thing. I thought, “Okay, I get to meet Leonard Bernstein, it's a nice day, I'll sing, go home, and have a nice life.”

Suddenly—pow! Leonard Bernstein swept into the room, and when I say swept I aint kiddin'. He was wearing a rather long, green, loden cape lined in red satin that swirled around him, an outfit finished off by black patent-leather loafers. Wow!

Sam Krachmalnick, the man who was to conduct the show, ar
rived with the maestro. We went into a small room with a piano and I sang the song I usually auditioned with, Arthur Schwartz and Dorothy Fields's “Make the Man Love Me” from
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
. When I finished, the maestro looked at me and said, “Very nice—what else do you have?” Because I knew they wanted to hear my high notes, I told him I planned to sing “You Are Love,” complete with a high C ending. He very quickly said, “Don't sing ‘You Are Love.' I know exactly how you'd sing ‘You Are Love.'
”

That hit me hard. I hadn't planned anything else. I knew I had to come up with something else, but what? Twenty seconds passed—three years in audition time. Then an idea popped into my head—what about all those arias Bob had insisted on my learning? And then before I knew what I was doing, I found myself saying to LEONARD BERNSTEIN, “I guess I could sing Madame Butterfly's entrance music for you, but I don't have the music.” “That's okay,” he said, “I know it.” At which point he sat down at the piano . . . omigod!

I started the aria just as Bob had taught me, but Bernstein was in a different place. Finally we realized that for some reason Bob hadn't taught me the very beginning of the aria, when Butterfly sings offstage as she's climbing up the little hill to her house. I was starting at the point when she actually appears onstage for the first time.

We worked all that out and I sang that gorgeous Puccini music. Puccini wrote a high alternate ending for the aria that many people don't sing, but I thought, what the hell, if ever there was a time to try that high note this was it. So . . . I sang the bejeezus out of that high D-flat. Bernstein was thrilled. I was shocked that I had actually done it. I'd never sung this music outside of my teacher's studio. Mr. Bernstein said, “You have great musical courage.” I said, “You mean I got a lotta guts.” He asked where I had gone to
school, and I was so naïve that I almost answered “Girl's High.” Thank God at the last instant I realized he meant music school, and I explained that I had no formal training of that sort. It was decided that I would have a few sessions with Sam to work on “Glitter and Be Gay” so we could all see if I could really sing this thing.

I also began working again with Bob Kobin, who was great, as always. When we started to really examine the piece, he looked at me and said, “Of course you can do this. You have that high E-flat. Don't worry about it.”

During one of my sessions with Sam Krachmalnick, he mentioned to me, as if in passing, “Lenny's going to come by today to see how we're doing.” By this time I could sing the piece all the way through, and although he didn't tell me, I should have known that Bernstein would make his mind up that day whether it made sense to continue with me or not.

I sang for Bernstein, and it went well, but passing that preliminary test is not what I remember most clearly from that day. Instead, it's that I suggested to LEONARD BERNSTEIN what I thought would prove to be a better way to end one of his musical phrases. Amazing! How did I ever have the nerve to say such a thing? Well, it just seemed obvious to me, and, even more surprisingly, Bernstein agreed with me and changed the phrase.

Here's the phrase in question:

                           
Born to higher things,

                           
Here I droop my wings . . .

                           
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah

That “aaaaah” is a high C. Very hard for me to sing and cut off cleanly, as it was written. So—I suggested doing a portamento
down from the high C to a lower note at the end of the “aaaaaah.” It made perfect sense to me. Cunegonde was talking about drooping her wings, so why not “droop” the note?

When I think about this scenario now, I shake my head in disbelief at the confidence I had. I suppose a better word to describe my action would be “clueless.” This was only the second time I had been in the same room with the composer, and this was not just any composer. This was Maestro Leonard Bernstein. I'd never sung this kind of song in public. I was a musical-comedy actress with a mere two Broadway shows under my belt, and I was now telling this genius how to improve his aria? It was like rehearsing
Flahooley
and telling the conductor that I wasn't going to change my singing—they'd have to change the orchestration. Where the hell I got that chutzpah from I have absolutely no idea.

I suggested the change, and Bernstein smiled and said, “You're absolutely right. Why didn't I think of that?” It was a portent of things to come: from the start of rehearsals through to closing night, Lenny made me feel that I could do anything.

I had passed this preliminary test with Bernstein, but as auditions continued I was asked to come to the Mark Hellinger Theatre to not only sing again for the maestro, but also to meet Lillian Hellman, who was writing the book for the show.

I admired Lillian greatly. During the time of Senator McCarthy's terrible witch hunt for Communists, when the House Un-American Activities Committee was doing its dreadful work, everyone lived in fear, and careers were lost. Lillian, however, was not cowed. One of the reasons she suggested
Candide
to Lenny as a possible musical piece was because there is a scene in Voltaire's original—an auto-da-fé in Lisbon—which was very reminiscent of what was happening in our country. All the name-calling. All
the accusations. Friend against friend.
Candide
provided these artists with a means of standing tall and publicly showing their disapproval of McCarthyism and HUAC.

That very first afternoon at the Mark Hellinger, Lillian asked me: “Do you think you can play a young European girl?” At that point in my life I had been to Niagara Falls and Tijuana, end of story, but of course I said yes. I wasn't going to lose this role, dammit, even though I didn't know if I really could play a European.

That same afternoon in the theater, Bernstein had me sing phrases in 5/4 time, then in 7/4 time, really pushing me. Three days later I was told the role was mine.

Fortunately there were still several weeks before rehearsals officially began, which gave me a lot of time to learn the score. Bob Kobin helped me find an opera coach—Wolfgang (can't remember his last name)—a wonderful man who taught me a lot. I worked with him on all of the music and learned a great deal of plain old technical musical know-how.

I had great teachers, no question, but as rehearsals began, I was beside myself with fear. Holy shit! I had one thought: What have I agreed to do? If I messed up it wasn't like the mistake wouldn't be noticed—this was Leonard Bernstein and Lillian Hellman. The public was going to pay attention.

I talked about my fears constantly to anybody I came across, an action that infuriated David. He felt that if he told me I could do it, then his reassurance ought to be all I needed to hear. I didn't mean to upset him, but when I'm concerned about something I need to air it, again and again. I couldn't help talking about my fear, because in the very beginning I couldn't even finish “Glitter and Be Gay.” Literally.

The muscles just wouldn't do it. It was like trying to carry heavy groceries home and coming to that moment when you just have to set them down. The muscles just give out and you have to rest. The same thing is true for the voice, and with “Glitter and Be Gay” I couldn't cross the finish line. So—I had Wolfgang record the accompaniment for me and every day when I came home from rehearsal, before I started to relax too much, I would sing through the aria twice without stopping. It was just like training for a sporting event.

We had a fine cast and a famous English director, Tyrone Guthrie. The costumes were designed by Irene Sharaff, and the set by Oliver Smith. These were the premiere designers in all of theater, and Irene always insisted on the absolute best in our costumes. In the “I Am Easily Assimilated” number, the men wore very beautiful Spanish costumes—made in Spain, of course. I once asked her about a slip under one of my dresses which had a ten-inch border of handmade French lace. “Why this expensive lace, Irene? Nobody will see it.” Irene simply stated: “But you will know it's there.”

I loved working with Irene, and she's the only designer I worked with in all those years who gave me a beautiful watercolor sketch of one of my costumes. It was a sketch she knew I would treasure forever, that of the gorgeous dress I wore for “Glitter and Be Gay.”

The lyrics to
Candide
were written by so many different people: Lillian wrote the beautiful words for “El Dorado.” John Latouche and Dorothy Parker contributed as well, and I believe that Ms. Parker wrote many, if not all of the words for “Glitter and Be Gay.” Lenny supplied the words for the contralto Irra Petina's big number, “I Am Easily Assimilated”; in that song he wrote the lyric “My father came from Rovna Gubernya,” utilizing that strange name because his father had been born in Rovna Gubernya. The
poet Richard Wilbur wrote several lyrics, including our beautiful finale, “Make Our Garden Grow.” Imagine five different lyricists, all of them incredibly talented in their fields. Well, there never was another show like it.