Everything Was Possible

by Ted Chapin

  It was a matinee day. Celebrity sightings: Phil Silvers, who was about to open in a new comedy titled How the Other Half Loves at the Wilbur, was at the performance. Robert Goulet and Carol Lawrence attended the evening performance, along with Gene Kelly, who was there to cheer on his brother, Fred. Tharon Musser, her assistant Spencer Mosse, and Boris and Lisa Aronson were there, having been gone for several days. The matinee was pretty sluggish, the evening performance more spirited.

  In between shows, Hal wanted to hear Yvonne sing “I’m Here.” After everyone had cleared the stage, Hal Hastings climbed up to the onstage piano and played, while Yvonne, clinging to her lyric sheet, sang it twice. It was the first time I had heard the music all the way through. It was, as I had been told, in the style of a smoky Harold Arlen blues number, and the key change three-quarters of the way through was great. It felt like a big change but was actually only a half-step up. Yvonne didn’t have it mastered, but it sounded as if she would be able to deliver it well. Dorothy sneaked into the wings from her dressing room in her bathrobe to listen and gave Yvonne a comradely hug when she was done. Hal was apparently so pleased that he cried—at least that’s what Yvonne told members of the company, who were beginning to hear good things about the new song. She was concerned about when it would go into the show. Staging hadn’t even been contemplated. It was Wednesday, and although she didn’t know it, Hal and Michael wanted it in by the weekend.

  Steve was now deep into the new Follies number for Alexis that Michael had requested. This came out of nowhere, at least to us on the periphery. “Uptown, Downtown” was the second-to-last song finished, and it was going over well. But people were still worried about the audience making the connection between the main characters and all the Follies numbers, and Alexis’s song did seem to be the hardest for the audience to grasp. According to Hal Hastings, Steve had come up with some very funny ideas for the new song.

  Thursday, March 11

  “This is going to be a big day. There are lots of changes, seemingly small but they mean a lot of rearrangements, which will mean a lot of coordination,” Hal began, and then proceeded to do what he had been doing for days: make small changes to scenes, mostly to the same ones that had been worked over before. Big fixes were clearly not going to be made. Yvonne’s new number was being rehearsed, and everyone now knew Alexis was going to have a new Follies song. Michael was redoing the Prologue and was still intent on making “The Right Girl” a showstopper. The libretto was pretty much what it was going to be, and Jim continued to be the slightly aloof figure he had been from the beginning. He watched every performance, and made only slight changes. People treated him with kid gloves, but there was a growing feeling that he wasn’t holding up his end, that the changes being made were strictly cosmetic and, in some instances, less good than what they were replacing. Had he lost all perspective? Audiences were watched and paid attention to, but since there wasn’t a consistent response it was hard to take coherent direction from them. Work was taking place, but where was it all heading? Members of the company were confused—were they in a big, splashy musical comedy, or were they in an innovative, conceptual work the likes of which had never been seen before? When audiences were silent, were they listening or bored? Reaction varied from performance to performance, and reaction varied from friend to friend. No one seemed to have a clear notion as to whether the show would be a big hit or a big flop. Some audiences seemed to leave Follies enchanted; others seemed to leave disappointed. The emotions of everyone involved with the show swung similarly between two poles. We were right smack in the middle of the Boston run: there was a week and a half left, followed by a week and a half of previews in New York. Then opening.

  Even though the news of a new number for Alexis had made its way around the company only the day before, Steve brought it in today, finished. It paid homage to a song from Lady in the Dark, “The Saga of Jenny,” with its title “The Story of Lucy and Jessie.” It covered much the same territory as “Uptown, Downtown,” but in a more Cole Porter way—sassy, and at a bit of a clip. If audiences were unable to make the connection between Phyllis herself and the hypothetical “hyphenated Harriet” of “Uptown, Downtown,” perhaps they would make the connection with this new verse:

  Here’s a little story that should make you cry

  About two unhappy dames.

  Let us call them Lucy “X” and Jessie “Y,”

  Which are not their real names.

  When Michael got around to staging it, he even had Phyllis point to herself at the end of those four lines. As a big fan of “Uptown, Downtown,” I wasn’t wild about the new song, and my ear kind of balked at the idea of someone wanting to be “juicy,” even as I was fascinated by some of Steve’s wonderful rhymes:

  Lucy wants to be dressy,

  Jessie wants to be juicy,

  Lucy wants to be Jessie,

  And Jessie, Lucy.

  You see . . .

  Poor sad souls,

  Itching to be switching roles.

  Lucy wants to do what Jessie does,

  Jessie wants to be what Lucy was.

  Lucy’s a lassie

  Brush-up rehearsal in the men’s lounge, Colonial Theatre.

  Phil Fradkin at the piano, Hal Hastings in charge.

  You pat on the head.

  Jessie is classy

  But virtually dead.

  Lucy wants to be classy,

  Jessie wants to be Lassie . . .

  It was hard to fault the creative flow of this creative mind. Michael intended to stage it very much along the lines of “Uptown, Downtown,” although it was an entirely new song and needed an entirely new dance arrangement.

  Having now finished all the songs, Steve sat and watched the show for the first time in nine days. He was genuinely excited and came backstage and said to everybody, “I haven’t seen the show in over a week and I am absolutely thrilled.” That was meaningful praise, and it gave everyone a boost. As he went off to the dressing rooms to speak to the actors individually, Hal, relieved somewhat by Steve’s enthusiasm, sat on the stage with Jim Goldman. “Jim,” he said simply, “this is a wonderful show.” Company manager John Caruso wandered out on the stage to give Hal some good news: the remainder of the run in Boston was virtually sold out, with only a few balcony seats left for the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights. Hal was thrilled to hear that audiences were embracing the show.

  Michael and Bob Avian began taking Yvonne through some basic staging; they would resume working with her at the start of rehearsals on Friday.

  Friday, March 12

  Everyone felt that it was important to concentrate on “I’m Here,” get it staged, make whatever changes were necessary to the dialogue before and after it, and get it in the show. The goal was for it to go in at the Saturday matinee. Because it was a book song, the introduction had to be changed; “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” had some silly lines introducing it that were now completely inappropriate. Steve sat in the auditorium, watching the stage intently. When at one point Yvonne went up on a lyric, everyone turned to Steve, who was, himself, momentarily flummoxed. “I was so involved in the song that I forgot what the next line was,” he confessed.

  Hal took the rest of the company to the ladies’ lounge for notes. He characterized the day as “kind of a funny one” since it consisted primarily of making whatever adjustments needed to be made to accommodate “I’m Here.” But the new version of “The Right Girl” was going in tonight, and it needed stage time as well. Michael would have to turn his attention to “The Story of Lucy and Jessie,” since it was hoped that it, too, could go in the show soon.

  When time came to work through “I’m Here” onstage, Yvonne performed it for the rest of the company sitting out in the house. She messed up a few lyrics, but when she finished, they cheered. She was relieved. Fitting the song into the context of the show went quicker than anyone expected, and it was run without incident a couple of times.

  Michael began “Lucy an
d Jessie.” John Berkman and Paul Gemignani sat at the onstage piano and drum set. Michael climbed up to the platform as John played the song over and over. He was listening and marking his way through, thinking about how much of the choreography for “Uptown, Downtown” could be retained or adapted. When Alexis came out of her dressing room and heard what was going on, she said, “Well, his Lucy and Jessie are certainly faster than my Lucy and Jessie!” She liked the song, though, and mentioned somewhat sardonically that she was hoping she would be given enough rehearsal time before it went in. Michael came down on the stage, Bob Avian and George Martin on either side of him and the dancers behind, and began to work his way through the song. Steve watched, at one point reminding Michael of a step he had liked that had been discarded; Michael was grateful for the suggestion and promptly put it back in. John Berkman gave Michael the counts and the “feel” that he was asking for. The song seemed to please everyone; it seemed closer to the character of Phyllis, who, in Jim Goldman’s words, “was open and alive at twenty and is now closed and dead at fifty.” This new song established the two sides of her personality better.

  Hal had a new concern about “Too Many Mornings”: he wasn’t sure that Sally’s line “And my fears were wrong” was clear enough. He wasn’t sure whether the problem was in the performance or in the writing itself. Since Steve was nearby, he went over to Dorothy and talked her through the moment that was the musical climax of the song. The lyric was an expression of joy. He could zero in on any problem with precision and without hesitation.

  Hal had a new task for me. Word got to him that since they knew they wouldn’t be eligible in the “Best Musical” category, No, No, Nanette had requested a Special Tony at the awards ceremony, which was only a few weeks away, and that the people who ran the Tonys were seriously considering the request (this was before the Tonys had categories for revivals). He was livid, and dictated a letter that he wanted to send “to whom it may concern”: “Special awards should not be given to people simply because they ask for them. In the event that you should feel the desire to acquiesce, I will withdraw Company from the competition in all categories and, in order to be consistent, I shall withdraw all future shows of mine from the Tonys.” (Interestingly, the first draft of his letter also included a disparaging comment about their plan to honor Elliot Norton: he said it was “lunatic” to grant a special award to a critic—but they did.) As it happened, there was no special award for No, No, Nanette; still, it won four Tonys. Company had an unprecedented thirteen nominations and won seven awards.

  “The Right Girl” changes went into the performance—luckily, without a hitch. It was decidedly better, the audience responded in kind, and Gene felt a boost of pride. Now the challenge was to keep it up, since, as Michael had hoped, it pushed Gene’s skills right to the edge.

  After the performance I went out with two of my faculty supporters from Connecticut College. They were pleased for me that I had been able to pull off the independent study, and were determined to come see what it was I was so passionate about. They smiled the whole time, thrilled that I had hooked up with something obviously so exciting. As theatergoers, their take on the show was fascinating. They liked it, but when pressed, found it a little bleak, and didn’t like “Fox Trot” at all. I was able to explain that they had seen a bit of history, because they had just witnessed that number’s final performance. I told them the new number was looking very good, but that tomorrow would tell. I walked them back to their car, and again they said what a thrilling experience this was for me. And after the show opened and made it to the cover of Time, the whole administration took notice.

  Saturday, March 13

  The call was 11:30 Yvonne, noon the rest of the company. “I’m Here” was going in at the matinee. The orchestra was called early to run through the orchestration, which had been created and copied only days before. Jonathan Tunick and Mathilde Pincus were in the house, as usual, wandering back and forth along the orchestra rail, making certain all the players had their parts. Once through without the singer; everything seemed fine. Next, the company was brought out onstage and placed in their positions so it could be run with Yvonne. It went well, and when it was over the cast gave her a healthy ovation. As she was walking offstage, the applause started dying down, and she turned back to them, giggling: “No, don’t stop clapping!”

  Alexis had been nursing her cold all week and hadn’t missed a performance but hadn’t sung “Could I Leave You?” at any of the performances. She now felt her voice was back enough to try for the matinee, but wanted to go through it once with the orchestra first. She was fine, except for the high notes—“Sweetheart, I have to confess”—and she asked Steve if it was okay for her simply to punch the note. He said it was fine, under the circumstances. Dorothy and John went through a slight rearrangement of lines around “In Buddy’s Eyes.” Luckily, Dorothy’s “corpse” line in the mad scene had been excised before ever making it to rehearsal.

  Hal was called away for a phone call. The night before, David Burns had dropped dead onstage in Philadelphia during a performance of the Broadway-bound musical 70, Girls, 70. Not only was David Burns a beloved actor and one who had worked for Hal in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, but the show he was in was a new musical comedy that celebrated old people. 70, Girls, 70 had a very different tone from that of Follies; it celebrated life with older folks singing and dancing up a storm, and the cast included many old theater veterans. Apparently Burns had finished a song, stepped behind a bar on the set, and collapsed. At first, the audience laughed, thinking it was a part of the show. It was all too macabre to contemplate, and Hal knew it would have a devastating effect on the Follies company. After making arrangements to send flowers, he asked those of us who had heard the news not to spread it around. It was too late; Bob Avian had already mentioned it to some of the dancers, and everyone was soon aware. Hal then decided to speak with the lead actors personally. The older members of the company took the news especially hard.

  “I’m Here” went into the matinee as planned, and the reaction was very strong. It was a sold-out and enthusiastic house, and although Yvonne made a couple of nervous mistakes with the rhythms, on the whole she nailed the song. Even the candy lady from the lobby—a tough critic—who had sneaked into the back of the house because she’d heard a new song was going in, gave her approval.

  Alexis performed “Could I Leave You?” with enormous emotional conviction, and it reminded us all how good that song was and how well she performed it—and how much it had been missed.

  Larry Cohen and I were standing in the rear of the auditorium when a foppish English producer by the name of Peter Bridge came over to us. He had seen the very first performance, and, although he was a big fan of both Hal and Steve, he had left the theater thinking they had another Anyone Can Whistle on their hands. Then he came back for this matinee, performance number twenty-four, and was just amazed at the changes, every single one of which was decidedly for the better. “I’m Here” just blew him away; and he gasped when Gene did his swings around the poles in “The Right Girl.” The book seemed tighter, too, and he was just delirious.

  At dinner between shows, Yvonne was as high as a kite. She had a new song, and she knew all the words and all the staging. On top of that, pretty much everyone agreed that “I’m Here” was just what the show had needed. She was on, and she felt like a star.

  The evening performance was very strong, although this audience particularly loved anything that remotely smacked of double entendre. They were a Saturday-night crowd with one thing on their minds. I realized that audiences were now liking the show with more consistency; very few people left at intermission, and “bravos” had become commonplace at the curtain call, if not always for the same people. The biggest hands went, consistently, to Ethel Shutta, Yvonne, Alexis, and Dorothy. The men were treated respectfully, but Boston seemed to go for the gals. And whether the loudest applause was for Dorothy or Alexis changed at each performance.
The box office was virtually clean for the rest of the run. There was no reason not to be pleased by the status of the show. There were still things to be tweaked, but there was reason to feel confident. In the week left in Boston, two revised numbers—the new Prologue and “The Story of Lucy and Jessie”—were to go in, and minor revisions were expected elsewhere. There were still sloppy moments at almost every performance: Yvonne messed up the end of “I’m Here,” although the audience still loved it; “The Right Girl” seemed tired, but then it had been an exhausting week for Gene; a piece of a yellow feather boa ripped off one of the “Buddy’s Blues” girls, which prompted George Martin to run out onstage to grab it before Alexis made her entrance for “Uptown, Downtown.” But at this Saturday-night performance, the show felt awfully good.

  Alexis’s new dress for “Lucy and Jessie” was somewhere in the ether. It was promised, but no one knew its status. Clearly, she had made her feeling about the Marlene Dietrich dress known to her confidantes, one of whom was now Joe Tubens, the hair and wig designer. Tubens had a good sense of fun, and he decided to play a joke on her. He went to a Goodwill thrift shop and bought an awful red dress, to which he had attached every odd piece of fringe and every stray bead he could find. Then he found a box from Matera’s, some fresh tissue paper, and wrapped it all up so it looked like “the new dress.” Tubens roped Michael Bennett into the scheme, since he knew that Michael, too, hated the Dietrich dress, and at intermission, Michael came across the stage saying, “Alexis, your new dress has arrived from Barbara Matera.” She opened the box and shrieked with laughter. She was game—she went in and put it on and paraded around the stage. It actually fit pretty well, so Michael suggested she wear it for the first technical rehearsal in New York at which time he would tell Flossie, “Okay, Alexis has decided to wear the fringe dress.”