by Ted Chapin
And so I became part of the Follies family. For the most part, I was made to feel welcome. Any new show in rehearsal becomes a family, if a forced one, and the Follies family was pretty good. Some reached out to me more than others did, but I never felt like an intruder or an outsider. Some in the company knew that I was making notes and keeping a journal, others did not. Justine Johnston, elected the Equity deputy, asked me early on if I was writing a novel. One of the actors, Fred Kelly, brother of Gene Kelly, offered observations from time to time for “that journal of yours.” But for the most part, I was just the gofer to everyone. Conversation was spirited and gossipy in some quarters, while in others discretion was strictly maintained. I tended to be more interested in the creative staff and the principal actors, but that was at least partly because the chorus tended to stick together.
What I wrote in my journal was only what I actually saw and heard. Some of what went on behind closed doors filtered out to the rest of us; some of it will never be known. My adventures took me away from rehearsals a fair amount, but there was always something to learn from the task at hand. I loved the experience of watching the show as it grew, changed, and emerged. Whenever I didn’t have a specific task, I would sit in on rehearsals. There were usually three different ones happening simultaneously—dance, music, and dialogue—and I couldn’t be in three places at one time. I had to choose. I grew to love the show and came to have my own opinions about the changes that were being made. Sometimes I questioned a choice, and, confused, would jump to the conclusion that someone didn’t know what he or she was doing. Perspective is hard to come by when you are in the trenches. I grew to respect some of the artists more than others. Some people were kind; some were downright mean. Some observed strict hierarchical lines and wouldn’t speak to those they deemed on a level below theirs. Mostly, everyone was extremely professional. Obvious tensions caused some appalling behavior. I watched people become totally stymied. I overheard conversations I thought were insulting, and yet I believed they were all in the interests of saving time and cutting through to the best idea. I watched collaboration at work, and wondered whether there were any fixed rules to the process. I saw good work being done; I saw some work I thought embarrassing. The constant was the show and getting every element coordinated to be ready for the curtain to rise for the first paying audience on Saturday, February 20, 1971, in Boston. That is, of course, one of the magic aspects of the theater—hate or love your collaborators, no one can avoid the fact that everything and everybody must be ready at the same time. That curtain will go up, no matter what. By the time the show opened in New York, I wasn’t sure whether Follies was brilliant or flawed, or both. I knew elements were brilliant—of that there was no doubt. And I was hooked. I was also having the most magical experience of my life. “Goddamnedest hours that I ever spent,” as one lyric goes.
The summer following my Follies semester I ended up in San Francisco working on a doomed production of Leonard Bernstein’s Candide. Several of us in the company rented a large house in San Rafael. One of the game rooms had a table large enough for me to spread out all my notes and attempt to fashion my report for the English Department at Connecticut College. It took the better part of the summer, and even after about 120 typed pages I still hadn’t quite made it to opening night on Broadway. I had never before attempted any piece of writing that long, and nothing in my schooling had taught me to make the choices needed to fashion a working journal into readable form. It was a daunting task. I took my best guesses as to how much background information and opinion to include. My paper was titled “Bargains, Buddy,” from a line spoken by Phyllis, the acerbic and sophisticated character played by Alexis Smith. It seemed a good assessment of the collaborative process I had observed. Luckily, I was granted the course credit I needed and did graduate on time.
My experience would have been a whole lot less interesting had the show not become Follies. Follies is now considered a legend, a cult, and a landmark. At the time, we were all just hoping for a good old-fashioned smash hit. My guess is that Hal Prince was counting on the show-business grandeur of a production linked even tangentially with the Follies of old to appeal to a larger audience than he had been able to find with Company. The initial publicity was extensive; in addition to the usual preopening interviews with cast members, articles and color photo spreads appeared in publications ranging from fashion magazines to technical theater journals. Both Time and Newsweek were planning to do cover stories on the show. Because of the surprise success of a revival of the 1920S musical No, No, Nanette, starring Ruby Keeler, the press looked at Follies as further proof that nostalgia was the theme of the 1970–71 Broadway season.
When the show opened, both out of town and in New York, the reviews were split down the middle. Passions were in full force on both ends of the spectrum. Those who didn’t like it were cruel and dismissive. Those who liked it used words like “thrilling,” “sumptuous,” “groundbreaking,” and “dazzling”—its champions have been loud from the very beginning. Those who loved the show went back to see it time and time again. Early on, fans kept up vigils of letter-writing and commentaries in the press. New York magazine even featured it in one of its literary competitions: readers were instructed to come up with an alternate origin for the famous Dickens quote “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The winning entry was, “And what did you think of Follies?”
Maybe part of its enduring interest is precisely that it can’t be pinned down. At its core it is about something that keeps changing in each of us. Reconciling who we thought we were then, who we are now, what we hoped for then and what we’re stuck with now are not simple matters. They begin to tell us what Follies is all about. Sondheim, Prince, Bennett, and Jim Goldman were at high points in their careers. In fact, all members of the creative staff, including the designers, arrangers, and orchestrator, were at the peak of their talents. Follies solidified the Prince-Sondheim collaboration and they became recognized as two of this country’s great theater artists.
So why this book now? First, I think there is a great story to tell. The putting together of a new American musical is something that remains intriguing. As people have grilled me about specifics over the years, I realized there is an abiding fascination with this particular show. Frank Rich, who figures in this story later on, asked about the number of performances in which Alexis Smith omitted singing her character’s signature song “Could I Leave You?” during the Boston run. Others have asked what specific members of the company were like. There have even been some persistent myths that I’ve been happy to help debunk.
Second, having observed what it was like to be a collaborative artist, I have nothing but admiration for the artists who created Follies in 1971. I discovered they were all people with foibles—which shouldn’t have been a surprise, though to a wide-eyed potential groupie, it was. Watching them work hard to create something a little different from anything that had come before was seductive. At every stage there was someone on the creative staff who was miserable. Hal Prince hated the early rehearsals before everybody knew their lines. James Goldman hated going out of town. Steve Sondheim had so much to do that he seemed to be in a perpetual state of distress. And there was tension built into the team: Michael Bennett and Harold Prince were billed as codirectors, something neither of them relished but which both realized was the right thing for this particular show. Each man knew that he needed the other, although I think they were reluctant to admit it. In addition, everybody hated opening nights.
Third, once I decided to give this book a try, I was struck by something I hadn’t realized. While reviewing my daily notes and diaries, I found many direct quotes. In addition to the notes I kept during the day, I also sat down at home each night and typed out three or four expanded pages of what I had seen and heard. There were many actual quotes that I had culled from the day’s activities. To discover Michael Bennett’s fear of growing old expressed in a comment in which he all but predicted
that he would be dead by the time he was forty-five was chilling. Stephen Sondheim’s precise instructions to performers about how to deliver his material were illuminating. Hal Prince’s energized comments provided almost a running commentary on the proceedings. James Goldman was decidedly taciturn, but his few comments were choice. And many members of the cast made wonderfully appropriate wisecracks and observations. All direct quotes come from my notes.
One final thought. In some ways, writing this book now is betraying confidences. I wasn’t just “a fly on the wall”—I had tasks to perform and had conversations with people that weren’t meant for publication. Sometimes when I contemplated this book I wondered if there wasn’t something a little voyeuristic about the whole exercise. But I kept coming back to the idea that I had witnessed something unique and important. I saw the agony of artists at work. I saw a lot of disparate, almost warring, elements merge together to become a show. Everyone wanted Follies to succeed, whatever the cost. That, I realized, is what putting a musical together is all about.
1 “... Walking Off My Tired Feet”
THE WEEK BEFORE REHEARSALS BEGIN,
JANUARY 3–8
Over the New Year’s weekend (1971) I got a phone call from production stage manager Fritz Holt. He asked whether I could show up at the studio at ten A.M. on Sunday, January 3rd. I didn’t think rehearsals were to begin for another week, but since I was just hanging around at home, I agreed. The show was rehearsing at the American Theater Lab, which filled the entire second floor of a two-story building on West Nineteenth Street, just off Seventh Avenue, above a tire shop. It had been created for Jerome Robbins, one of America’s most talented choreographers and directors, who wanted to experiment with a European-style workshop. The experiment didn’t work, but it left a workable space in which Harold Prince liked to rehearse his shows. The quarters were spare, but more than adequate: one large rehearsal room big enough to represent an entire Broadway stage; a second room half its size, large enough for dance rehearsals; and a third one even smaller, for music. Support facilities included a couple of offices in the front, changing rooms in the back, and a commons room with some slightly ratty sofas and chairs.
Few people were around when I arrived. As I came up the stairs I heard a piano and a number of feet thumping a steady rhythm. I reported to the first open door I came to—the production stage managers’ office, where Fritz Holt greeted me as “our production assistant.” First day, first defeat—or so I thought. “Production assistant” is the theater euphemism for “gofer,” and that’s not what this experience was supposed to be. Sure, I had done it twice before, and enjoyed it both times. But this was to be different; even though I had agreed to be a general assistant to Ruth Mitchell, this time I simply wanted to observe the process. That’s also how I had sold it to Connecticut College, which was giving me credit for observing a show being assembled. I hadn’t proposed an independent study of fetching coffee and sandwiches. The journal I agreed to keep would show an observer’s objective eye, not the musings of an errand boy, so when I heard myself referred to as the “production assistant,” my heart sank. But in short order I realized I was wrong. While I still had plenty of time to observe, being the gofer gave me a real position, albeit a minor one, within the company. It also, frankly, gave me things to do, and as the weeks went on, I ended up with some pretty responsible tasks, including maintaining up-to-date scripts with all the constantly changing dialogue and lyrics. I was made to feel a part of the experience, and felt accepted by the company in a way I might not have been had I just been watching. And being the gofer gave me license to wander into rehearsals without people feeling as if a stranger were in their midst. It provided a great position from which to observe the goings-on.
Fritz introduced me to the two other stage managers: first assistant and dance captain George Martin, a lithe and tidy, well-groomed gray-haired dancer who seemed a model of efficiency and discretion; and second assistant John Grigas, an ex-dancer, somewhat older, stern faced, and with a caustic quip for every situation. Clearly not a man to cross. His first words to me were: “We want you to go out and get us some coffee.” So I pulled out my pad, took the orders, and out I went. If a job is worth doing, I figured, it’s worth doing well—and I had learned during my first gofer experience that in New York, “regular” coffee means coffee with milk and sugar, not “regular” as in plain. There is no such thing as plain—black means black, regular means regular, and those who prefer regular are sorely disappointed to open a cardboard cup and find black liquid inside. I’d made that mistake.
A musical as large as Follies needed its three stage managers. Fritz Holt, as production stage manager, was ultimately the boss of the stage and everything behind the curtain. It was his responsibility to schedule the overall rehearsal period and to coordinate all technical aspects of the production. He was also the liaison with the shops—costume, props, scenery—and with all the other support personnel who were contributing to the show. During the rehearsals, he would stay with Hal in the large room whenever possible, marking down the blocking and scene shifts in his master script. It would become the map by which the show would be run once in the theater, and since he would be responsible for all understudy and brush-up rehearsals, his script needed to be up to date and accurate. George Martin, as dance captain, would stay with Michael, and he would notate the dances, both as a reminder of what had happened in prior rehearsals and to create a choreographic map for the whole show. John Grigas was stationed in the office, and so became the conduit for company problems and concerns. He was also assigned the small acting role of a chauffeur. Once the show got assembled onstage, Fritz would call the show from the stage managers’ desk on stage right, George would man his desk on stage left, and John would float backstage and assist any performer who needed guidance or a helping hand.
During rehearsals, the stage managers were clearly in charge of logistics. Schedules were their responsibility, not only of who would be using which room, but who would be needed for what rehearsal. As I was shown around, each room’s use was described to me. Today the midsized rehearsal room was Michael Bennett’s domain, as evidenced by the sounds of dance rehearsals already in progress. The music room was empty, with only a piano and a couple of chairs placed about. When we got to the large rehearsal room, John said, “. . . and this is where Mr. Prince will be working, so always check first with Fritz before coming in here.” I was shown where I should park myself in the common hallway while waiting for tasks, always making myself available, never in anyone’s way, but near the bulletin board and the pay phone. “Get yourself a clipboard and always be poised for action,” he said. The whole place looked organized, and the stage managers’ office was most organized of all—desk, typewriter, phone, cups of pens and pencils, stacks of current scripts, neat piles of music, etc. There was also a two-drawer filing cabinet. “This is where Mr. Prince keeps his stuff,” John said, and then, pointing to the lower drawer, “. . . and this is where he keeps his Courvoisier.” (It wasn’t Courvoisier; it was Fernet-Branca, a digestif that had been recommended to Hal as a cure for his anxiety-prone gut, or what he referred to as “JBS—Jewish Boy Stomach.” Once he found out it contained alcohol, he stopped having it around.)
Through the wall I heard a piano playing one particular section of one song over and over while several voices sang, repeatedly: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the saddest gal in town?” The dancers were working with Michael Bennett and his longtime assistant Bob Avian. John Berkman, the dance-music arranger, was at the keyboard. Paul Gemignani, the show’s percussionist, was at the trap set. “Who’s That Woman?” was being created. More on that later.
Harold Prince arrived at noon. He greeted me warmly and said that the day before, he had turned to his ever-present associate Ruth Mitchell—called Ruthie by one and all—and said: “Where’s Ted? Get him down here now, for God’s sake. We can always keep him busy!” The place seemed far too empty for Hal; he was anxious to get re
hearsals going. He wandered around, trying to find things to do. Walking into the empty large rehearsal room, the one I had been told would be his, he said, “I just want to start! Give me some actors, please!” Outlines of the intricately tiered set had been taped out on the floor; it passed his inspection. By week’s end there would be movable platforms approximating the levels of the set, but for now the traditional masking tape would have to do. Back in the stage managers’ office, he pulled out a transparency of the poster for the show and proudly taped it to the window, declaring it to be “the best poster I have ever had.” Colorful and striking, it had been created by David Byrd, a longhaired young artist whose distinctive style was first noticed in his psychedelic posters for the Fillmore East—sometimes called “nouveau art nouveau.” He had submitted a sketch, gratis, and Hal liked his idea best. However, Byrd was asked to alter the standing figure to add “big tits—lotsa cleavage” and blond flowing hair. After begrudgingly attempting to make her more Dolly Parton-like, he came across a photo of Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express. It provided inspiration, out went the standing figure, and the new poster was completed in a couple of hours. Its focal point was a face, bold, austere, and stony, with droopy eyelids, looking up and out, wearing the rest of the poster, including the title, as a headdress. Running from her lower right cheek, across her face and continuing up past her left eye up through the “E” of “FOLLIES” was a long, widening crack. Something was clearly amiss in the image of this American icon. The colors were very strong, with shades of orange in the space below where all the credits would ultimately go, a border of orange, pink, blue, and midnight blue at the top with nighttime stars shining through. It seemed appropriate, yet very strong. (A few months later, the producer of Godspell looked out his office window at the Winter Garden marquee and told David Byrd, “Make me a poster like that,” which he did. Byrd’s Godspell poster was stylistically similar.)
