Everything Was Possible

by Ted Chapin

  Tuesday’s performance, completely sold out, went extremely well. Gene gave a fine performance, and at the end there were more than the usual bravos, and most of the audience was on its feet. As soon as the final curtain came down, Hal walked out onstage and addressed the company. By now word had filtered through the company about Gene’s son, so they were expecting some kind of announcement. He explained the situation and told them: “Some of the most important critics are coming to tomorrow’s matinee and evening, and to the performances on Friday and Saturday and Sunday. So we are really having six openings over the next six performances. I wanted to tell you all this now so you could go home tonight and rest up.”

  Wednesday was a threshold day for Follies. Hal tried to be vague about which critics were coming when, but word began to spread that the Times would be at the matinee. Even the most experienced performers can panic when they know the Grand Pooh-Bah is coming, and experience had already shown that some of the performers, Yvonne and Gene heading the list, could be inconsistent, even sloppy, under pressure. And despite the good word of mouth and the interest shown by the press, a positive review in the Times was still the undeniable key to box office success. Without it, a show could conceivably survive, but with a ringing endorsement from New York’s newspaper of record, a show had all-but-assured hit status. The sense was that Follies really needed the Times. But there was a problem: Clive Barnes hadn’t liked Company. On the other hand, in Boston, the critics who hadn’t liked Company loved Follies, and vice versa. And Barnes hadn’t been the only New York critic who didn’t like Company. It had won critics’ prizes, and walked off with seven all-important Tony Awards. No one knew whether Barnes had felt like an odd man out, but some of the more astute members of the Follies crew had sensed trouble. There had been that crack about James Goldman in his review of Abelard and Heloise, and since then, in an essay, Barnes had made a general comment against the whole notion of nostalgia. All Follies could do was hope for the best.

  Clive Barnes arrived shortly before the matinee began. I had never seen the man before, and he certainly didn’t look like what I’d imagined New York’s most powerful critic to look like. Short, somewhat overweight, sloppily dressed, with long and untidy-looking hair, he held his head slightly cocked to one side. Once he sat down, he buried his head in his program. He had been informed of the situation with Gene’s son, and looked to see if there were any inserts in the Playbill. He didn’t look particularly happy to be there; throughout the performance, he didn’t pay attention to much that was happening onstage, nor did he take any notes. I sat in one of the side boxes, charting his every move and expression. I noted a slight smile when Ethel Shutta made her way down the rubble steps in “Beautiful Girls”; a more focused look at the stage at the end of “Who’s That Woman?”; a bigger smile during one of Dorothy’s scenes. He fanned himself with his program during “I’m Still Here” and his attention seemed to wander during many of the book scenes. I observed big yawns during “Too Many Mornings,” “In Buddy’s Eyes,” and several during “Losing My Mind.” There was no discernible difference in his expression when “Loveland” began, but he appeared attentive again during “Lucy and Jessie” through “Live, Laugh, Love” and into the chaos. As soon as the curtain fell, he was up and out of the theater. Larry Cohen, who was standing at the back and saw him leave, reported that he didn’t look very happy. Later I was told Mary Bryant phoned his office to inquire if he wanted to use any of the seats set aside for him at other previews and the opening. The response was to release all seats except the opening, that he wasn’t sure but might want to attend. Barnes then got on the phone himself to ask how Gene’s son was doing, and asked who would go on if he had to leave. He then asked, “Aren’t a lot of the dances that Gene does his own? I mean, they aren’t dances that Michael Bennett choreographed, are they?” Mary couldn’t figure out whether this indicated a bias against Michael, a nod in favor of Gene Nelson, or what. It was a mighty odd comment. As it turned out, Barnes did come back for the opening night performance, but arrived late.

  The performance itself had been a bit ragged, with some bad habits reappearing due, no doubt, to nerves. Yvonne dropped whole lines—“I’ve stood on bread lines . . . ,” and “Top billing Monday . . .” It’s hard to say what kind of audience a critic should see a show with. There were groups at all the previews (theater parties are the backbone of the Broadway advance-sale business), and many of the groups are benefits. A large enough benefit audience can make for a dull crowd—one that includes too many people attending purely out of obligation to a charity or a fraternal organization. Both of Wednesday’s performances were full of such groups, and they weren’t all that responsive. Other critics, including those from Time and Newsweek, came to the Wednesday evening performance, which was marginally better than the afternoon’s, although now Yvonne did the song perfectly and messed up whole stretches of dialogue. Mary Bryant walked out of the theater in the middle of one of her botched scenes shaking her head and muttering, “I don’t believe that.”

  The leads settled into what would become their individual matinee-day routines between shows. Alexis took a nap, Dorothy stayed quietly in her room, Yvonne went to Gallagher’s and ate steak. Now that Barnes had come, and knowing that we would all have to wait five days to learn what he thought, everyone was feeling helpless and uncertain. Flossie Klotz, waiting patiently for a man’s costume that was late arriving from Eaves, said to me, “Don’t go into show business. You surely have other ways of making a living, and this business really isn’t worth it.” Dorothy had a blowup with Alexis, who she felt was being bossy during one of Hal’s note sessions. Near half-hour, Sheila Smith was going up and down the halls checking to see if the women she understudied had made it back. Although there was a sign-in sheet by the stage door that every member of the cast was supposed to initial upon entry, many was the time that someone forgot. Then the stage managers would have to call on the intercom. Sheila obviously felt the old-fashioned method of peering into doors was the best, and most fail-safe, way. The one good piece of news was that Gene’s son’s condition had stabilized, and it looked as if Gene wouldn’t be leaving.

  In addition to two critics’ performances, on Wednesday, after the evening performance, there was a joint photo shoot for Time and Newsweek, both of which were planning to do big stories. Gathering the company on the stage following a performance with full costumes and lighting is an expensive undertaking, necessitating overtime for virtually everyone, and the magazines were picking up the tab because they needed their own posed color shots. They couldn’t have held the shoot during the day, because Hal and Michael guarded their daytime rehearsal time jealously and weren’t willing to give over valuable work time for publicity. And the magazines wouldn’t accept the color shots that had already been taken by the show’s official photographers, Martha Swope and Van Williams, or by any of the other publications that had dispatched their own photographers. In addition, now that Alexis’s Follies dress had arrived, this was the first opportunity to do a photo call with the entire company in their final costumes. Martha Swope and Van Williams came again, but since it was the magazines that were paying for the call, Mary Bryant and her staff made it very clear that they got priority. Before the call began, Fritz asked me to stand by the stage door and greet Elaine Stritch who was coming over following her performance in Company. When she arrived, I stuck out my hand, introduced myself, and said that Fritz had asked me to greet her. These were her drinking days, and she looked at me and said, “I don’t give a fuck who you are.” I simply escorted her in through the pass door and out into the house. Never mind.

  Whenever a weekly newsmagazine decides to do a story about Broadway, the entire street is thrilled. To have both of the biggies focus on Follies was extraordinary. And there was a rumor going around that Time’s might be a cover story. For that, they would need a special shot. Their photographer assembled several poses as potential covers. He posed Suzanne Briggs in her large b
utterfly showgirl costume on one of the higher stage levels, with Alexis and Dorothy seated below in their Follies dresses, and between them Yvonne, in her one and only costume. The Newsweek crew designed some poses of their own, one with Alexis standing among the Dresden showgirls from “Loveland,” and another with six of the “black-and-white” showgirls grouped around the five principals, all in their party clothes. Many other posed color shots were taken that night, some of which did indeed end up in various publications: Ethel Shutta with a couple of showgirls behind her, Yvonne dancing around, showing her legs. Many of the numbers as well as the entire Loveland sequence were run, in costume but to piano accompaniment (the orchestra was released after the performance), which provided good opportunities for color shots. Time went ahead with its story, and it made the cover. But to the consternation of some, they decided to use a solo shot of Alexis in her fringe dress kicking up her heels, with the caption: “That Old Magic Relights Broadway.” Newsweek, it turned out, had also been planning a cover story, although they were keeping very quiet about it. Their planned cover was also a solo shot of Alexis, standing amid the showgirls of “Loveland.” In the end, however, they canceled their story entirely. “We didn’t do the story for a variety of reasons—far too complicated to explain in a letter,” is how Osborn Elliott, editor-in-chief of Newsweek and an old friend of my father’s, explained in a letter when he sent me a copy of the cover that they had prepared for the story. Many of the Newsweek shots taken that night ended up in an article in Show magazine that summer, including another version of the shot of Alexis and the showgirls. Even the cover of Show had a shot of Alexis, this one with the dancers from “Lucy and Jessie.”

  Thursday was a true day off for everyone. Gene Nelson’s son continued to improve, and it looked as if he was out of all immediate danger. But Gene had twisted his ankle, and Virginia Sandifur was coming down with a cold. At the theater, some adjustments continued to be made on the technical side, and the stage managers used the day to organize themselves and prepare for the routine of running the show once opening night was out of the way. It had been a busy week for the stage managers.

  On Friday and Saturday, Michael and Hal continued to give notes and tinker with lines and steps. Hal Hastings went on polishing the music. Gene and Michael figured out some cuts that could be made in the dance for “The Right Girl” to accommodate his sore ankle. They came up with a shorter version of the number, which played for three weeks until his doctors gave him the okay to do the full dance. Other numbers were drilled for precision. At one point, the ensemble was sitting around on the stage waiting for rehearsal to begin. Michael Bennett said to them all, casually, “Someday I’m going to do a show about dancers, and you’re all going to be in it.”

  Basically, the show was now frozen. There would be no more changes; the show that was now playing would be Follies from now on. This was the moment that prompted Ethel Merman’s famous comment, “Boys, as of right now I am Miss Birds Eye. I am frozen!” Luckily, the performances on Friday and Saturday went well, and there were critics at all of them. But the big wait was for Sunday, our official opening night on Broadway.

  12 “In a Great Big Broadway Show!”

  OPENING NIGHT, APRIL 4, 1971

  Validation for a Broadway opening is having an Al Hirschfeld drawing in the Arts & Leisure Section of the Sunday New York Times—“above the fold.” Follies had one, and it took up almost the entire top half of the front page. It was annotated “Boston,” which meant that Hirschfeld had been up there, although I couldn’t say when. He had clearly been inspired by “Beautiful Girls,” for several of the leading ladies were depicted lined up on the geometrically shaped playing area. Front and center was Alexis, captured in a posture with an odd twist she made with her body and arms as she crossed downstage. I hadn’t noticed it, but it was one of those character quirks that Hirschfeld captured so uniquely. Every time I saw the cross from then on, I thought about the drawing. (Even Alexis was amused.) Standing behind her, up on the platform, were Dorothy and Yvonne, as well as Ethel, Fifi, and Mary McCarty. There were no men anywhere. The other women’s poses and bodies were also nicely done—best was Ethel, whose stance, pointed finger, and facial expressions were unmistakably her. Hirschfeld included the ghost figures by lining up six females at the rear, corresponding to the six women down front, but with different postures. (There were seven “Nina’s,” all well disguised in the feathers, fringe, and architectural details.)

  Hirschfeld’s drawing from the New York Times: Fifi D’Orsay, Ethel Shutta,

  Alexis Smith, Dorothy Collins, Mary McCarty, Yvonne De Carlo.

  A joint profile of Alexis, Dorothy, and Yvonne accompanied the drawing, under the headline, “Three Show-Biz Girls and How They Grew.” A few characteristic quotes—Alexis: “I haven’t pursued a career seriously for ages, and I’m not pursuing one seriously now.” Dorothy: “Believe me, it’s wonderful being in Follies, but that’s just the icing on the cake. It’s Ron [husband Ron Holgate] who has brought such joy into my life.” Yvonne: “I’m too dumb to be nervous about New York.”

  The company was called for two P.M. This was a Hal Prince tradition, to assemble the company on the afternoon of the opening and walk through the entire show. It gave the actors something to focus on during the day, and brought them into the by now familiar surroundings so they could be as relaxed as possible for opening night. Although many influential critics had already seen the show, an opening was an opening; tonight was still a big deal. There would be a lot of press attention. There would be celebrities and family and friends. The better things went, the better the chances for a long and happy run.

  Of course, before the cast could get to the stage they had to make their way through the heaps of flowers and gifts strewn all over backstage, up the stairs, in the hallways, and in everyone’s room. Deliveries continued all afternoon. Gifts were passed around among the members of the company. Steve gave each of the principal actresses one of their costume sketches, framed, and to Jim he gave the original Hirschfeld drawing. Jim had sterling-silver stars engraved with “FOLLIES” for the principals; for the rest of the company, myself included, he had the cover of the New York Playbill made into a plaque. My note read: “Dear Ted, With gratitude for a lot of coffee and a lot of good will.” Yvonne gave champagne; Dorothy wrote lovely notes to everyone (to me: “For all the teas—root beers—sandwiches—and my beautiful ‘revised’ script, my thanks—and my love—Always, Dorothy”). Alexis gave Brooks Atkinson’s book Broadway to her fellow performers. Hal had copies of the Hirschfeld drawing made. Ruthie gave everyone a large glass mug with “FOLLIES” etched in the front. To me she wrote: “To Ted from Ruth with thanks for being a great ‘go for’ (as I was once).” Sheila Smith gave each of the women a bottle of champagne with a hanging tag dated the same year as the reunion banner they wore during “Beautiful Girls.” She also made cards with small round mirror chips glued to them, onto which she had etched, for each person individually, the name of the show, the date, and the person’s name—all in reverse (“Just a little remembrance of Follies and the ‘Mirror’ number”). Ethel Barrymore Colt gave me a medallion of St. Genesius (“Patron Saint of actors. Let him guide you well”). By rough estimate, Dorothy got the largest number of flower arrangements. Fifi said she would be taking all her flowers to a sick woman staying in her hotel. Ethel Shutta was pained by each successive arrangement of flowers, appalled at how much they must have cost.

  When I was at the office on Friday, Annette had asked me if I could take something and not open it until Sunday. Then she handed me a box about the size of a shirt, but heavier, wrapped in silver foil. It was Hal’s opening night gift to me; it was one of the photographs that Martha Swope had taken of Hal and me standing at the back of the theater earlier in the week, in an 8” x 10” Cartier silver frame engraved: “FOLLIES—April 4, 1971.” His card said simply: “Thanks, Ted! Yours, Hal.” I was floored. And moved. To this day, that frame has stayed with me, though I�
�ll confess that I’ve never displayed it with the original photograph.