Everything Was Possible

by Ted Chapin

  As soon as the applause died down, Hal Hastings moved to the piano bench, replacing the rehearsal pianist, and began to play a slow four-bar introduction. Dorothy walked to center stage, turned slightly, looked up and out, let her arms fall straight down at her sides, and sang:

  The sun comes up,

  I think about you.

  The coffee cup,

  I think about you.

  I want you so,

  It’s like I’m losing my mind.

  The morning ends,

  I think about you.

  I talk to friends,

  I think about you.

  And do they know?

  It’s like I’m losing my mind.

  All afternoon,

  Doing every little chore,

  The thought of you stays bright.

  Sometimes I stand

  In the middle of the floor,

  Not going left,

  Not going right.

  I dim the lights

  And think about you,

  Spend sleepless nights

  To think about you.

  You said you loved me,

  Or were you just being kind?

  Or am I losing my mind? . . .

  She turned and moved very slightly as the music went on. Then she repeated the last chorus, finishing quietly. Hal Hastings played the final two bars and ended on one slow arpeggiated chord. He let the notes die out slowly. There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the entire place burst out in prolonged cheers, applause, and cat whistles. Dorothy shyly broke character and smiled, then turned on her heels and began to blush. She laughed her nervous laugh, looking embarrassed, and wandered over to where Hal and Michael were sitting. They got up and hugged her. So did Bob Avian, who, it turned out, had done the staging for the number. Everyone was smiling. It had to do with a combination of circumstances—the mounting pressures, the realization that Boston was upon us, the growing recognition within the company of tensions among the creative staff, and just plain exhaustion after four hard weeks of rehearsal—but the release was overwhelming.

  As soon as the applause died down, every member of the company went over to Dorothy individually to give her a hug, pat her on the back, and tell her how moved they were. Several told her that her singing “Losing My Mind” would be the glorious culmination of a glorious evening. This happy moment meant the world to Dorothy, because earlier in the day Mrs. Pete Feller had, with impeccably bad timing, sidled up to her to confess how dull and boring she thought the whole show was. Dorothy hadn’t told anybody about that conversation, but with this triumph she got a new burst of energy. She knew that Follies was a great opportunity for her, the best she had had in a long time and probably the best she would ever have again, and she had been very patient over the past several weeks, waiting for a decision to be made about her song. If what Lynn Feller said had shaken her confidence—in the show, or in her own abilities—delivering the song so successfully restored it. She was as happy at this moment as she was ever going to be on the show. She had conquered.

  Pleased and smiling, Steve Sondheim.

  I drove Steve home from rehearsal and took the opportunity to ask him how he thought the show was progressing. He was concerned that there hadn’t been enough run-throughs but admitted that that was partly because so much of the score was late. And he acknowledged that part of the reason was his procrastination, but he also complained that it had taken so long for the creative staff to come to agreement about the Follies sequence. He said Hal may appear to hate rehearsals, but he told me to wait until Boston, when he would kick into action as soon as the show was put in front of an audience. He expressed concern about the tone of the show, which he said was still somewhat up for grabs. I asked if the show was still a labor of love for him, and he said his guts weren’t in it anymore, that it was definitely more theatrical but he wasn’t sure he liked it as much as The Girls Upstairs. He liked most of the staging, but wasn’t happy with “the way Ben runs around in ‘The Girls Upstairs.’ ” But he said he would stand behind the show wholeheartedly, and even in the state it was in six months ago, it was better than much of what’s out there on Broadway. He asked me what I thought, and I didn’t really know what to say. Okay, I was intimidated.

  The next day I volunteered to play chauffeur for Steve and Judy Prince, who were off to The House of Blue Leaves. The two of them had been friends for years, and their banter was comfortable and witty. As Judy climbed into the backseat, she asked Steve how things were going. He said that he was in the middle of writing Alexis’s number for the Follies sequence and had found himself in “a fit of rhyming fun” of which he was proud. He then proceeded to recite the following lines. The song, designed for a woman unable to reconcile the bohemian life she once led as a Follies girl with the conservative, sophisticated life she has ended up living, was called “Uptown, Downtown.”

  She sits at the Ritz

  With her splits

  Of Mumm’s

  And starts to pine

  For a stein

  With her Village chums,

  But with the Schlitz

  In her mitts

  Down in Fitzroy’s Bar,

  She thinks of the Ritz—oh,

  It’s so

  Schizo.

  (This lyric did end up in “Uptown, Downtown,” but the song was replaced in Boston.)

  When I got home, I decided to write down my feelings, directly, for the first time. Here is an excerpt:

  I am now sitting here thinking about today, what it was like, what the show was like, where my head is at, and what I really think about both the show and my life. Monday’s run-through brought out all the bad things in the show. I was convinced the book was a total bore, that there was no human warmth on stage, and that if any critics in Boston say anything positive about the show they would be crazy. Well, tonight that run-through took on a perspective, since today made me realize there is a hell of a lot about the show that is really great. The staging is brilliant—no arguments. There is some humor in the book, but as Steve said, Jim’s brand of humor is very subtle and not joke-oriented at all. But it’s hard for me to differentiate what I am really feeling from what is merely a conglomeration of what I’ve heard expressed by others, what I have been told, and what I’ve been influenced by. How do you keep perspective when you’re so close to something?

  So what is my opinion of Follies at this point, one week before going to Boston? I really don’t know. I guess I think I fear the show will be brilliant, funny, witty, full of adroit observant things, and yet cold. Will it appeal to those who adore Steve’s work? Is that too small a group? Is the show, and the theater in general, a place for a small group of elitists to go to be amused or entertained? Can you try to teach things, even unpleasant things, to audiences who only want to be entertained? Will they accept it? The few isolated examples of successful “serious” musicals have been able to reach audiences by playing directly on their emotions. What of Steve Sondheim’s and Jim Goldman’s genuine emotions come through in this work? I don’t know. I firmly believe that the best way for theater to teach is through humor. An audience will cry a lot more if it comes out of laughter than if it comes out of being told to cry. The whole idea of people’s relationships with their past is intriguing, but is it as insane-making as the creators of Follies seem sometimes to believe? As written, Follies says that 1) man’s inability to deal with his past eventually leads him into some form of breakdown, and 2) his past is terrifying when he looks back on it, sees how he behaved, and realizes how little he knew. I would like to see the show deal with the feeling that 1) coming to terms with the past will eventually leave you better equipped to deal with the present, 2) there is an innate loveliness in the innocence of youth, and 3) delving into the past makes one understand that we never stop growing. My beliefs tend to side with a basic hope in people, in the mind and heart to pull us through life, if you will. Follies is an important show, and I frankly hope it will run longer than any of Ste
ve’s other shows, but for that to happen I think the four main characters must be better off for having lived through the experience of the show. I am not talking about cheapening it for New York audiences. I am talking about being careful not to be indulgent. What got me to feel as I do this evening, and to write this all down, inarticulate though it feels, is because “Losing My Mind” moved me more than anything else has over these past several weeks.

  Thursday was the company’s final day on the set at Feller’s. The last few rehearsal days in New York would be back in Manhattan, at the American Theater Lab. Before driving up, I was sent to buy a slew of Styrofoam boaters for the chorus in both “Live, Laugh, Love” and the nearly finished number for Alexis, which we now knew was called “Uptown, Downtown.” Michael spread the chorus out across the stage and tried out a lot of different old hat-and-cane steps. He was playing around with every clichéd step he could think of. Michael knew that both numbers would have top hats and canes, and therefore would be somewhat related choreographically. He knew the shape of “Uptown, Downtown.” Alexis had been given most of the lyrics. Fritz was anxious for me to get them typed out so he could insert them in his stage managers’ script, and since Alexis seemed to have the only copy, I had to peer over her shoulder to get them. She gave me a quizzical glance. Fritz also wanted me to make sure all the new script pages generated over the past few weeks were organized and in one place so they could travel with the stage managers’ desk to Boston. I had kept one clean copy of every page that was changed during the rehearsal period, each one dated. I was prepared for the request.

  The final New York run-through on the set took place Thursday at seven P.M. Judy Prince and John Guare were on hand, as well as Steve’s respected agent, Flora Roberts. Martha Swope came with a small crew and many cameras. The creative staff was in place. I asked Jim Goldman how he was doing. “I’m going to be fine, no matter what.” Guare, who had not been to any previous run-throughs, sat with a permanent half-smile on his face, and when it was over he could only shake his head and repeat “Fantastic . . .” over and over. Ethel Shutta was out; her return on Tuesday had proven to be too hasty. (She missed Wednesday’s run-through as well.) Buddy’s car had been painted blue. One truckload of scenery was already gone, so the studio was beginning to thin out. And as soon as the rehearsal finished, the crew would begin to take the side units and the stage itself apart. Because very lit-tle could fold up, it would take a total of seven trucks to get the entire physical production to Boston.

  Working out preliminary staging for “Live, Laugh, Love”

  upstairs at Feller’s. Paul Gemignani at the percussion, John Berkman

  at the piano, Graciela Daniele, Michael Bennett, Bob Avian.

  By Friday morning, Steve had finished “Uptown, Downtown.” Mathilde sent her sister to Steve’s to fetch the manuscript at nine A.M. At 11:30 I was sent to pick up the hastily copied piano/vocal copy, which I was to take immediately down to Nineteenth Street. Hal Hastings grabbed it and went into the small room by himself to play it through. Mary Jane Houdina and Bob Avian were taking the dancers through some movements, including experimenting with hand clapping for the dance section. Michael and Bob had done some quick research on 1940s dance steps and were teaching them to the fourteen members of the dancing ensemble; and once Michael heard the song played through a couple of times, he grabbed a Styrofoam boater from one of the dancers and jumped right in. Alexis went into the music room with Hal Hastings to learn the song. When she felt confident enough to join in with the dancers, they went into the large room. With John Berkman at the piano and Paul Gemignani at the trap set, Michael worked through some ideas. It was a group effort as ideas were tossed back and forth among Bob Avian, Mary Jane, and Graciela. After a little while, Michael announced loudly to the room that he was ready to begin on the staging, which he acknowledged he was making up as he went along. He had the chorus keep their backs to the audience all the way through, allowing Alexis to be framed in the center, facing front. He was also experimenting with having them each remain in one place for the entire number. Soon he asked the stage managers to postpone John McMartin’s call, as he’d decided to spend the whole day working with Alexis and the dancers. The more they all worked on the number, the more the steps involved removing and tipping the stiff-brimmed hats, and the more little pieces of Styrofoam brim began breaking off and flying around the room. By the end of the day, the shape of the number was blocked out completely, and the hats were all but destroyed.

  Hal Hastings had a rare moment of respite and we had a chance to talk. At this point in the process, the “musicality” of his job seemed to include a lot more hand-holding and cajoling than actual music-making. He felt slightly overwhelmed by the enormity of the show, which was long on songs, long on dance music, and included an onstage band that was playing almost all the time the pit orchestra wasn’t. Every cast has its own personality, he said, and this group was certainly growing into its own. He admired Gene Nelson, who was still having trouble remembering his lyrics and staging but who worked continuously and tirelessly, even on his days off. “He has a good voice, but it’s not inside a great actor.” Yvonne was having some of the same problems, although she wasn’t inclined to work outside of rehearsal; she preferred to take her chances and just do as well as she could. Victoria Mallory had had her wisdom teeth removed, and he was concerned that that might have an adverse effect on her singing. Of Dorothy Collins he said that underneath that bouncy, cheerful exterior lurks a rather sad and somewhat neurotic woman. He explained that her first husband, Raymond Scott, hadn’t treated her well, but that she was now happily married to Ron Holgate.

  On Friday evening at seven P.M. there was a session to record the background for the new Prologue. All the fragments of specific characters’ songs had been orchestrated; some were to be only flashes of memory, others were to be longer and more prominent. All the announcements were to be recorded as well, so they were “in memory” —a change from the last version of the Prologue, in which the Major-Domo at the party announced each guest. To be used were “Bring On the Girls,” the original opening song, in a Rudy Vallee-like crooning voice provided by Kurt Peterson; “Broadway Baby,” sung by Mary Jane Houdina; and fragments of several others, sometimes with speaking over them. I got all the orchestral parts from Mathilde, picked up Jonathan Tunick, and went down to a small recording studio in the West Fifties.

  This was the first time any of the Follies songs would be heard with an orchestra of any size. For this purpose, the orchestra was only fifteen strong, with Paul Gemignani front and center at the drums and dance arranger John Berkman at the keyboard. Hal Hastings conducted, with Steve, Michael, and Bob Avian in the booth. The first song “played down” was “Bring On the Girls.” The orchestration was pure 1930s dance band—saxophones, clarinets, and one syrupy violin, giving a kind of Tommy Dorsey sound. The orchestra, made up of first-rate New York musicians, many of whom would be in the pit when the show got to the Winter Garden, got the style on the first take. “Who needs rock-and-roll?” quipped Jonathan, after winning praise from everyone in the booth. Steve complained that one note was wrong, but quickly conceded that he was more concerned for the copy of the tape that would go into his personal archives. (Interestingly, the orchestration to “Bring On the Girls” was very similar to the one Jonathan did several years later for the film Stavisky, in which this tune was used in a dance-hall scene.) Once the orchestral portions were done, the musicians were sent home and the voices were laid down. Michael, perhaps seeking revenge for the amount of time Yvonne was taking in rehearsal, stepped up to the mike first to play the choreographer: “and... a one two three four—Carlotta, you’re on the wrong foot, get on the other foot. Now you’re behind the beat. Come on, Carlotta, catch up! Carlotta!” Dick Latessa did several of the announcements, including “the whistling Whitmans,” complete with two tracks of whistling. Everyone thought it would be fun to get into the act, so Hal Hastings announced “the girl of your dre
ams, Miss Stella Deems,” and Jonathan Tunick and Bob Avian each did one. Michael and Steve discussed the importance of determining what each recording was: an actual performance from before (“Bring On the Girls”); an old shellac 78 recording (“Broadway Baby”). They also wanted to make certain the audience didn’t think the recorded orchestra actually was the orchestra in the theater. The engineer played around with some echo, differentiating between the various segments, paralleling the mood and state of mind of the characters whose memories they were. Hal Hastings, John Berkman, Bob Avian, and Michael stayed until five A.M., editing the finished tape.

  There were only three days left before the company moved to Boston. Alexis arrived early at the studio on Saturday morning, in her red knickers, ready to work through “Uptown, Downtown.” In one week she would be performing it before the first preview audience. She worked on Friday, so by rights she had Saturday off, but she wasn’t about to rest; she needed to master her number. This was her chance to shine. Michael spent most of the day working with her.

  Hal began Sunday’s rehearsal with notes from Thursday night’s run-through. He was going to make a few changes before leaving for Boston, he said, including new monologues for Ben and Phyllis in the opening scene that Jim had just completed (in response to Michael’s particular beef), a new version of the final scene, and a restaging of Ben’s “The Road You Didn’t Take.” In addition, Hal knew that he needed to see how “Live, Laugh, Love” was going to look before staging the hallucinatory scene that followed.