Everything Was Possible

by Ted Chapin

  I sat in the balcony, way to the side. Watching the stage from that high up revealed patterns of movement that weren’t readily apparent from the main floor, especially in the dances. Then I noticed something late in the show that floored me. It was a subtle shift in the scenery during “Could I Leave You?” While Alexis sat on the middle platform delivering the song in what now seemed like almost a catatonic state, tight spotlights focused in on her. John McMartin stood in the shadows on the side, and the overall lighting was very dim. At some point in the song, my attention was caught by the most solid piece of hanging scenery, the one that looked like a broken-off piece of a proscenium arch. Slowly—very slowly—it was being raised up into the flies and out of sight. The audience was completely unaware of this; I had been watching the show for the past couple of weeks and hadn’t seen it. But now that I did take notice, I understood what was happening: while all the focus was directed to one spot and one performer, every bit of atmospheric goods hanging from above was taken out, so that when the lights came back up for the confrontation scene before “Loveland,” the stage would seem strangely bigger, emptier, and more filled with shadows. That was because it actually was bigger and emptier. Doing this also cleaned up the top of the set so that when the Follies drops flew in, nothing would be hanging in their way. This was so subtle, and yet so brilliant. (It was so subtle that years later neither Lisa Aronson nor Frank Rich noticed that one shot in a sequence of photographs detailing this very transition into “Loveland,” in their book The Theatre Art of Boris Aronson, was from some other moment in the show: all the hanging pieces were still in place.)

  Sunday, March 14

  The cast wasn’t called on this day off, but the production team gathered to discuss strategy. Steve said he had been “zonked” by the show on Thursday night when he sat and watched. He was overwhelmed within the first forty-five minutes, and just stayed with it right to the end. His work was finally done, so now he was casting a careful eye over the whole show, looking for ways to make more connections between the characters and the events. One of his ideas was to have the four leads perform their Follies numbers in their street clothes rather than in their Follies costumes. They would watch “Loveland” from the edge of the stage, and then simply step up into the scene when their song came along. Steve suspected that might clarify the connection between the characters and the songs. And he thought that taking those four costumes out would make the show less “rich,” which he felt would be beneficial. He was also interested in exploring the possibility of shifting the order of “I’m Here” and “One More Kiss,” which would move Carlotta’s song to the “eleven o’clock” position.

  I had dinner with Hal Hastings, who was worried about how long the show could run in New York. He said the critics have influence only for the first three months after the opening; from then on, it’s all word of mouth. He was worried in the realistic way of someone who had been there through countless triumphs and failures. He noted that Clive Barnes, the chief drama critic for the New York Times, had taken a swat at Jim Goldman in a recent review of Abelard and Heloise, a modern English play based on a twelfth-century story. Barnes had written that the writing was “often effective, particularly in that slickly anachronistic way characteristic of James Goldman’s The Lion in Winter.” Few in the company had seen it, and Hastings wasn’t about to spread it around. Hal Prince knew of it but chose to ignore it.

  Monday, March 15

  The dance music for “Lucy and Jessie” was pretty much finished, and clustered around the piano were John Berkman, Jonathan Tunick, Hal Hastings, Michael Bennett, and Paul Gemignani. Berkman played it while Michael marked his way through. Before passing it on to Jonathan to orchestrate, Michael wanted to go through it with his dancers. It looked wonderful—reminiscent of “Uptown, Downtown,” but more spirited and edgy. At one point Michael stood in the aisle of the theater, doing Alexis’s steps while listening to the arrangement. Because the number was faster than its predecessor, the dancers complained that their top hats were unsteady; they had been measured for hats with their own natural hair, but because they were now all wearing wigs, the hats were small and would probably fall off doing this new, faster choreography. The number definitely had shape, and everyone signed off on it. The plan was to put it in the show on Thursday night; that meant three days to get the music orchestrated and copied.

  Hal told the principals about having them perform their Follies songs in the costumes from the rest of the show. They were not pleased. Alexis was the most unwilling, but Hal asked her to put on her red pantsuit and go through the staging of “Uptown, Downtown” with the dancers. She did, but not happily. All four performed in their street clothes—dispiritedly—for the next few performances, but none of them could believe that this change would stand, and they prayed to get their beautiful colorful clothes back.

  Michael took everyone onstage to do more work on the new Prologue. He had been making small changes throughout the Boston run whenever he had a moment with his dancers, but now that every other number seemed pretty much mapped out, he wanted to focus on completing this new version, which was going to be more atmospheric, using bits of songs long ago cut from The Girls Upstairs, starting with “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” (When he had Steve play him all the material cut from the show, this is the song he pounced on.) The ghostlike announcements weren’t going to be used anymore; instead, the Prologue was going to be turned over completely to the world of the ghosts, who would evoke the general world of the Follies in slow motion. The principals entering the party would be the first hint of the present. Michael turned to Steve and asked him to give the dancers the words to “All Things Bright and Beautiful” so they could mouth them while dancing; Steve said they were mostly words of one syllable and would therefore probably not give Michael the effect he was looking for. Michael tried using the words of “Who’s That Woman?” slowed down to fit the music of “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” That seemed to work. An entirely new Prologue struck some in the company as a bit mad, but Michael was focused—there were only a few days left in Boston to make changes.

  Everyone knew this was the crunch week. The adventure of being out of town was wearing thin, and everyone longed to be home. Hal had expected this, so he threw a party for the company following the performance on Tuesday night. He announced we would “keep it sloppy—some drink and food and entertainment—but know that we all have a matinee on Wednesday.”

  Tuesday, March 16

  Monday’s performance had gone uneventfully, but Hal wanted to tinker with “I’m Here.” He had plugged it roughly into the staging for “Fox Trot” and now he was having second thoughts. Was it right for Yvonne to stand surrounded by partygoers on one of the stage-left units as it rolled downstage? Would she sing this new song to the same group that had been interested in “Fox Trot”? He was wondering whether the new song demanded a less showy staging and suggested she just come downstage, but he wasn’t sure whether that would solve the problem. He tried cutting her opening monologue so she would just start by singing. That didn’t work so he left it alone. He agreed to think about the staging, saying that he’d leave it alone for a day or so. Steve decided to change the title of the song from “I’m Here” to “I’m Still Here.”

  The pre-party performance was fine. Afterward, everyone headed over to the Statler Hilton. The room had a sunken dance floor with a small stage area at one end. A piano and microphone stood waiting for any impromptu performance. The open bar was well attended all night, and tables sorted themselves out in the usual groupings. I sat with Alexis, Craig Stevens, Suzanne Rogers, Michael Misita, Larry Cohen, and the entire entourage of hair and makeup: Ted Azar, Charles La France, Michael Gottfried, and Joe Tubens (in red hot pants). For some reason I never quite understood, Tubens and Alexis had struck up a friendship that would continue through the run of the show. Ruthie, who had obviously done the planning, urged me to play the piano. I don’t know who had told her I played, and althoug
h I wasn’t very good, I felt the path of least resistance was simply to sit down and get it over with, so I played through a couple of the short piano pieces I remembered from grade school. Dorothy came over, followed by Ethel Barrymore Colt, both surprised to see that I could play. And as soon as I could, I left the keyboard to others. When it seemed that everyone was finally present, Hal called for attention, pointed to the food, and quoted a Dimitri Weismann line from the show: “Are there any hungry actors in the house?” It was a nice gesture for an exhausted company that needed a little fun. Alexis regaled our table with stories about Ann Miller and other Hollywood dames, assuming the role of hostess with delight. After a fair amount of eating and drinking, various members of the company were coaxed to the microphone. Some needed no coaxing. Mary McCarty did a brief nightclub routine that went over pretty well, and Ethel Shutta brought down the house with some old dirty songs. Fifi was unusually quiet, choosing not to perform. Elaine Stritch was visiting from New York, and after several people had made their way to the mike, shouts of “Elaine! Elaine!” were heard. She finally agreed, reluctantly, and grabbed Steve Sondheim to accompany her. After making a few jokes at Hal’s expense—“He never likes to rehearse, you know”—she started singing some old nightclub number of little consequence whose lyrics she warned us she’d never be able to remember. Sure enough, she forgot some, but Steve calmly threw her the words. This was exactly the sort of situation Steve had said was an inspiration for “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” All in all, it was a very happy, lighthearted evening.

  Wednesday, March 17

  Dick Jones arrived for the matinee. He was the producer of the cast album, which was to be recorded on the Sunday after the opening in New York. He would stay for the rest of the run in Boston to see the show several times, take timings, and plan the recording. For him, the matinee was “to see the show for emotion’s sake.” Since he was an old family friend, he invited me to dinner between shows at the Ritz, where he was staying.

  His observations were interesting. “You really have quite a show there,” he started, “as much of a theatrical experience as Cabaret.” He said he could tell that a lot of research had gone into the showgirl costumes; he thought he recognized some as exact copies of Ziegfeld originals. A lot of the show hit home with him, since it reflected the period he grew up in. He loved the opening image. He thought the score was remarkably good. He then went on to detail some of his concerns. He didn’t like “One More Kiss”; he thought it was the one song that added nothing to the plot, and he felt that having it come right before “Could I Leave You?” was a mistake, since that put two songs in three-quarter time back to back. He found Ben’s line “I haven’t cried since childhood” too stiff, even for Ben. “People just don’t talk like that,” he said. He had already come up with an idea for the end of the album—a bit of the cacophony dissolving away to Phyllis saying, “Ben, I’m here.” He was still upset about Capitol’s decision to force it on to one LP, worried about what would have to be cut, and hopeful that his bosses might still change their collective minds, but he wasn’t optimistic. The album jacket was already designed—the Byrd poster, the top half on the front of the album and the bottom half on the back. It would not be a gatefold-opening album—again, a decision from the marketing department—but would include a six-page insert with photographs and production notes. (The insert ended up a mere single folded sheet.)

  Follies would be Jones’s last cast album before retiring. For decades he had been the senior cast-album producer for Capitol, and as such had made many much-loved albums of musicals of the 1950s and sixties: The Music Man, No Strings, Funny Girl, Fiorello! among others. For Hal Prince, he had made Forum and Zorbá. He was erudite and elegant, and he had great stories to tell. One of the early experiences he often spoke of was teaching the score of Porgy and Bess to the Harlem instrumentalists Gershwin had hired for the original band, none of whom could read music. He was most eager to meet the company, and asked if I would make the introductions. A student of musical theater history, he wondered whether Justine Johnston could possibly be the same actress who had appeared in Jerome Kern’s Oh, Boy in 1917 (the answer was no—that was an actress named Justine Johnstone); and he was looking forward to meeting Michael Bartlett and Ethel Shutta, both of whose work he had admired through the years.

  The company was ready to get home. Morale was sagging. Boston audiences were generally positive about the show, but most every performance had its naysayers—and it would be those people whose comments would sting, and whose comments would end up being passed around the company. Harvey Evans described being out of town with Sondheim’s innovative Anyone Can Whistle, when everyone kept saying, “They’re not getting it here, but wait until we get to New York. This is really a New York show.” It came to New York and ran for nine performances. There was also a general flop feeling going around Boston: Prettybelle was on the way out as Follies pulled into town; then it died, and now Lolita, My Love was coming to the same theater, having already closed in Philadelphia and gone back into rehearsal. Word was bad on that one as well. As Follies was assured of a New York opening, some members of the company were joking that they should consider themselves lucky because it looked as if their show would at least get out of town alive. (Lolita, My Love closed forever four days after opening in Boston.)

  The end of a very long day—a few notes before calling it quits for the night.

  Thursday, March 18

  The dancers were starting to get testy about “Lucy and Jessie.” It was going in tonight, and no one felt prepared. Alexis was especially nervous—she had a lot of tongue-twisting lyrics to spit out in addition to having to adjust to a new dance that was similar to the old, yet different. She had performed “Uptown, Downtown” for the last time the night before, and was feeling under-rehearsed and tense. Dick Latessa mentioned that the dancers would look great in white gloves to go with their red tailcoats. The idea took hold, so I was given fifty bucks and sent out to two local department stores, Filene’s and Jordan Marsh, to find gloves.

  Michael had the stage most of the afternoon for “Lucy and Jessie” and the new Prologue. He was determined to put the Prologue in for the final performance in Boston on Saturday night, and that meant a lot more work—and fast. John Berkman was keeping up with him, helping him find places to insert as many of the cut songs as possible. Michael liked them—to him they were new—and loved their ghostlike atmosphere. He had already taken “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” and was now working with “That Old Piano Roll,” and “Can That Boy Fox Trot!” now a reject. Some of the songs still in the show—like “Broadway Baby” and “Rain on the Roof”—would be used as well.

  Hal was working with Yvonne in the men’s lounge on “I’m Still Here.” He was determined to make it work even better; he wanted to place it in its own unique time frame, not quite in the present, not quite in the past. Yvonne was somewhat freaked out about having to try different staging, and the more she and Hal went over it, the more worried she became. She started to sing lyrics wrong and, at one point, she just went totally blank. She couldn’t remember anything. A five-minute break was called, and she pulled herself together. Dorothy, who had become something of a confidante, was very worried about Yvonne, who, she felt, was more fragile than people realized. At the end of the afternoon, as Dorothy left to go back to the hotel, she took me aside and said that I should call her if I thought Yvonne needed a pal.

  Gingerly Hal put Yvonne through her paces on the stage. The new staging went like this: She begins the song sitting on the platform, which is already in place instead of traveling down with her on it. Partygoers, mostly men, surround her. She starts almost conversationally, aiming it at the people around her, but not looking at them. Then on the line “I met a big financier, and I’m here” she stands up and comes slightly downstage. She wanders around a bit, as the partygoers, many of whom have been sitting, rise and follow her downstage, their attention still fixed on her. The lights then fade slowly o
n them, and they begin to wander into the shadows. By the time she gets to “I’ve been through Reno, I’ve been through Beverly Hills,” it has practically become a soliloquy to the audience. By the end of the song, she will be standing alone, isolated in three follow spots, from the front and both sides. Hal knew he would be giving the song emotional depth by shaping it into a real solo moment for the character of Carlotta, who could now make a direct connection with the audience. He was excited; Yvonne was nervous. Hal insisted on trying out the new staging that night.

  Michael gathered the Montage group, whose performances had become quite peculiar, and he told them: “I saw the show last night, and I did not like it one bit. I will try to be nice in the way I say this, but I may not be able to.” He then laced into them all—Fifi for her constantly fluttering hands, Charles and Marcie for never being able to sing on key, and Ethel for all the shtick she’d added, including a ferocious stomping ending. I sensed that as so much attention was being paid to others over the past couple of weeks, these actors had begun to feel neglected. They were terrified of Michael, and slightly resentful of his harshness, but they listened carefully and promised to make the corrections. As Ethel was leaving the stage, she remarked to me in a strangely offhand way that her son had called to say that his father, George Olsen, had died. “My ex passed away,” she said and kept walking.

  There was an orchestra call before the performance for “Lucy and Jessie.” The orchestration was jazzy and very cool. Everyone liked it. The dancers came out onstage to listen, and even they smiled. There were a few errors found in the orchestral parts—this one had been done in record time—and they were quickly corrected by Mathilde or Jonathan. Because the adjustments made to “The Right Girl” had sounded unsteady earlier in the week, that orchestration was played as well for safety’s sake.