The most difficult part for me was the transformation scene when Cinderella, clothed in rags at one moment, is wearing a beautiful ball gown the next. Since Ralph Nelson wasn’t using magical effects, this was achieved by a camera panning down to my foot to reveal my sparkling shoes. Then, while someone was furiously pinning a new hairpiece and crown on my head and draping a cape around my shoulders, the camera slowly panned back up. By the time it reached my face, the transformation was complete. It was risky, especially on live television. There were so many people working on me, and I was trying hard to stand still and accommodate them, yet make it work for the cameras so that it all looked appropriate and effortless.
The coach to the ball was actually half a coach, so that cameras could appear to be inside it. The whole contraption was rocked back and forth as Edie Adams and I bounced our way to the ball singing “Impossible.” It was one of the highlights of the show.
There were commercial breaks, which helped with some of the costume changes, but once on-air, it was a pretty hectic all-or-nothing exercise.
Two days before the airdate, we recorded a cast album with a twenty-eight-piece orchestra for Columbia Records, which was to be released the day after the telecast. I have no idea how the albums could have been pressed and made ready so quickly.
Robert Russell Bennett created the lovely musical arrangements, and it was thrilling to work once again with the man responsible not only for creating the arrangements for My Fair Lady, but also the great spacious sound so evident on many Rodgers and Hammerstein shows—Oklahoma, South Pacific, Carousel. The orchestra rehearsal was a total joy.
We filmed our two dress rehearsals as a backup in case of some disaster or major breakdown.
The night of the telecast, just before we aired, some “good friend” said to me, “You realize that possibly more people will see this show on one night than if you played in My Fair Lady for fifteen years.” It was not exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.
I was later told that more viewers watched Cinderella than any other show in television history. The evening went fairly smoothly, and we all did the best we possibly could, but for me, it felt a little lopsided: too rushed, and without the smooth polish we could have had if filmed and edited for a later date. It was an incredibly hard job, but a great learning experience. It took me years to realize the enormity of what we actually pulled off that night.
THIRTY-SEVEN
MY FINAL PERFORMANCE in My Fair Lady on Broadway was on February 1, 1958. Although my contract in New York was up, I had by this time agreed to play Eliza for another eighteen months in the London production. Rex and Stanley would be recreating their roles as well. We were to begin rehearsals on April 7.
Before I left New York, however, I did two more television guest spots in January and February: The Big Record hosted by Patti Page, and The Dinah Shore Show. Dinah was warm and welcoming. I did a number from Showboat called “Life Upon the Wicked Stage” with Dinah and Chita Rivera, who was also a guest.
We were choreographed by an endearing, energetic man called Tony Charmoli who, nearly twenty years later, choreographed my own television series, The Julie Andrews Hour. Crazy world!
SALLY ANN HOWES was to take over the role of Eliza on Broadway, and Anne Rogers, who had created the role of Polly in The Boy Friend in London, was scheduled to play Eliza with the American National Tour of My Fair Lady.
As my contract drew to a close, there was a big fuss from Actors’ Equity Association about Anne being granted a work visa in the United States. Tony and I knew Annie fairly well because of our shared paths in The Boy Friend. It transpired that one of the people creating the problem about Annie’s permit was a British actor—albeit a U.S. resident—playing a minor role in My Fair Lady.
The rumor flew around our company, and dislike for the perpetrator was pretty intense. If true, we couldn’t believe that someone so blessed to be in the U.S., and who was enjoying its wonders and those of My Fair Lady, could be so tough on a fellow performer. Happily the problem was resolved and Annie duly arrived.
She’s a North Country lass, wonderfully spunky and forthright. Tony and I embraced her immediately upon arrival, and she went into rehearsals and then out on the road with the touring company.
I was filled with mixed emotions during my last week on Broadway. I was saying good-bye to dear friends and to New York City. I had no idea when or if I would be back. I was relieved to be free of the tremendous pressure of eight performances a week. I was tearful yet grateful, exhausted yet exhilarated.
FOR TAX REASONS, Charlie Tucker advised that I not enter the United Kingdom until the first of April, when the new fiscal year would begin. Because I so badly needed a vacation, it was decided that I would spend six weeks traveling in Europe, beginning in Paris.
Packing up was chaotic. There was much to sort, clear, and organize, many shows to catch up on, farewell dinners, and the final departure from our odd little apartment. Two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, I flew to Paris.
Tony stayed behind, as he still had work to do, and he moved in with some friends for a few extra weeks. We planned to meet in Europe as soon as possible.
I could not believe the feeling of instant ease that Paris gave me. I felt as if my temples were being gently massaged, and that harmony and balance were being restored to my world. I remember asking Tony later, “What is it about Paris that is so soothing?”
His answer surprised me. “I think it’s to do with the proportion to your eye,” he said. “In New York, everything is above you—you’re in the canyons, so to speak. In Paris, you look out over rooftops—you can see your world, feel on top of it, be in control.”
The sense of his words resonated even more when, years later, I lived in Switzerland and, again, experienced the feeling of tranquility looking out over the chalet rooftops and watching the toy-like trains run up and down the mountains.
Paris certainly was the perfect city in which to recover from two years of hard work. I reveled in it, luxuriated in it.
Charlie Tucker met me there, bringing Mum and Pop with him. Donald had just joined the merchant navy, and Chris was still at school. We stayed at the small Hotel Castiglione on the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré. We went sightseeing and had long, elegant lunches and dinners. We took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and saw Versailles. Mum and I went to a Dior fashion show and had fun shopping on the boulevards.
One evening we went to see Edith Piaf in concert. She came onstage wearing a simple black dress and flat slippers, no makeup, frizzy hair. The moment she began to sing, she was mesmerizing.
Charlie Tucker and Pop departed, and Mum left a couple of days later, having had a lovely time. We got on famously, and her recent displeasure with Tony seemed to have vanished. I was sad to see her go. Dad and Win, Johnny, and Celia came over in her place. The English rugby team was on their flight and about to play a big international match with France. Dad was ecstatic—more thrilled to meet the team than he was to see me, I believe! He had struck up a conversation with the English captain, Eric Evans, and offered him house seats to My Fair Lady in London—already impossible to come by in the skirmish over the advance sales—in exchange for six tickets to the match. He had a deal!
Unfortunately, our tickets were in the French section of the Colombes Stadium, and we were rooting for the Brits. I was screaming my head off, yelling, “Go, England!” and Dad kept nudging me in the ribs because we were getting terrible glowers from the French supporters all around us.
The family and I climbed the 365 steps to the top of one of the towers at Notre Dame, where we had a spectacular view of the city. We got tickets to the Lido and saw a glittering revue. We strolled around the vast Louvre Museum. What a glorious holiday it was.
When they returned home, Pauline Grant arrived. She and I went to Zurich, then on to the tiny country of Lichtenstein, where we walked and rested.
Tony finally joined us, and we spent a few days in Arosa. Pauline returned
to London, and Tony and I journeyed on to Venice, seeing the famed city for the first time.
We stayed at the wonderful Hotel Danieli; took gondolas along the canals; explored the Basilico San Marco; visited the galleries, where we saw exquisite Canaletto and Guardi paintings; ate at Florian’s; and admired the gem of an opera house, the Teatro La Fenice. Venice could not have been more beautiful, and we marveled how, in the blustery March weather, it seemed to adjust its coloring—pink, terra-cotta, and white in the sun, and mauve, blue, and gray when it was overcast.
In that most romantic city, I developed a large fever blister on my lip, which dampened our ardor and ruined every photo Tony tried to take of me!
We ended our holiday in Klosters, Switzerland, where we met up with Tony’s family for one last week, returning to England on Easter Sunday, April 6.
The very next day, rehearsals for the English production of My Fair Lady began. We had about four weeks to pull the show into shape.
OUR PRODUCER, IN partnership with Herman Levin, was a gentleman called Hugh “Binkie” Beaumont, the head of H. M. Tennant. His shows always reflected style and class. He was sophisticated and witty, probably the most powerful producer in the West End, and his knowledge of theater was impressive.
Charlie Tucker felt that I could not commute every day from Walton-on-Thames, as it would have been too exhausting for me. So during the rehearsal period, I stayed at the Savoy Hotel, which was within walking distance of the famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in which My Fair Lady would be playing. I had a small, enchanting suite overlooking the Thames and the Houses of Parliament.
While there, I did an interview for a theater magazine with a bright and charming young man by the name of Leslie Bricusse. Today he is the award-winning composer and lyricist of such classics as Stop the World—I Want to Get Off, The Roar of the Greasepaint—the Smell of the Crowd, Doctor Dolittle, Goodbye, Mr. Chips…and of course Victor/Victoria, to mention but a few. Our professional and personal lives have continued to overlap throughout the years, and he and his beautiful wife, Evie, remain two of Blake’s and my closest friends to this day.
ONE OF THE first things I had to adjust to, once My Fair Lady was up on its feet, was a slightly different pitch in the sound of our orchestra.
“Pitch” is the perceived fundamental frequency of sound, and our musicians seemed to play the score of My Fair Lady with a slightly brighter, shinier resonance; not a different key, but a lifting of sound, perhaps to give it greater clarity. This could have been something to do with the acoustics in our theater, or perhaps our conductor, Cyril Ornadel, preferred that particular tonality.
I was actually told by Alan Lerner that I was singing a little flat, which really irritated me since I was proud of having a good ear and I believed I never sang off-key. In this case, though, the songs I had been singing for the past two years felt as if they had been transposed a whole tone higher. I had to really listen to myself, and the orchestra, and eventually I adjusted to the new frequency—but for the first couple of weeks, it was quite distracting.
If memory serves, rehearsals were at the Drury Lane Theatre itself, the very place where, seven years before, I had seen the production of South Pacific. The theater and the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, are two of London’s historic structures, and they lie almost within a stone’s throw of each other.
Strolling to work each day from the Savoy Hotel through the old Covent Garden market was a joy for me, seeing the sheds and the booths and the tall desks where the clerks stood to negotiate prices for their produce: fish, vegetables, flowers.
In those days, the market was a hive of industry, especially in the middle of the night when the growers sold to retailers, who then rushed the fresh goods to their own establishments in time for the morning shoppers. The entire wholesale market was relocated to Nine Elms in 1974, and Covent Garden is now a very upscale area.
When I walked there on a matinee day, there were always still a few barrow boys tidying up, wheeling their carts amid piles of debris left from the predawn selling. Sometimes they would recognize me and smile and wave, calling, “Welcome back, Julie” or “Hello, girl!” It felt good to be home.
Tony and I decided that, since I was probably going to be in the theater for the next eighteen months, we should make my spacious, high-ceilinged, and wainscoted dressing room as charming and comfortable as possible.
Charlie Tucker gave us a modest budget and we went shopping, purchasing a good dressing table and matching stool, a big, long couch, plus some George Moreland prints in gilt frames—which were much too expensive, but which looked lovely on the damask-covered walls.
There was a little mirrored alcove in the room that had been converted into a small bar, and in the months that followed, I delightedly watched my dad take charge of it, playing the grand squire—as if to the manner born—when his friends came to see the show.
The advance word on My Fair Lady was tremendous, and we all felt that we could not possibly live up to it. The press was talking about the musical as the biggest, best, and most extraordinary ever to hit London, and we worried we might be riding for a fall.
Moss, Alan, and I were walking away from the stage one day, after a rehearsal. I was a little ahead of the men, and Alan suddenly said, “I wonder what hidden depths lie within our Julie?”
I looked back at him. He was smiling at me, teasing, in a way. I think he was implying that though he knew me, he didn’t really know me. I supposed I still appeared a little glacial at times.
I managed a jokey reply, but inside, I was yearning to say something pertinent and truthful. I wanted to let him know, “I’m in here, Alan. Believe me, I hear you. I’m in here.”
Kitty Hart did not fly over to join us until rehearsals were well under way. Moss drove to the airport to meet her, with his brother, Bernie Hart, accompanying him.
Bernie told us later that the moment Moss and Kitty embraced, they just stood in the middle of the busy crush of people, oblivious to everyone, their heads together in silent communion. He thought it one of the most loving, tender moments he had ever seen.
Sadly, Fritz Loewe did not make it to London for the opening. He had suffered a severe heart attack a week prior to the commencement of rehearsals and was not fit enough to come. Fortunately, he who so loved life and all its delicious temptations, recovered well, and the setback did not cramp his style in any way.
Our preview performances were packed, and audiences responded enthusiastically.
The night before we opened, Tony and I exited the stage door at the end of the evening well after midnight and were surprised to see a long line of people going all the way around the theater, with bedding and chairs on the pavement.
I asked, “What’s happening here?”
“We’re queuing for the opening night gallery seats…,” “They go on sale in the morning!”, “We have to queue now if we want a good seat,” they replied.
Tony and I stood and chatted with them for a while, and as we departed, I called out that I hoped they would enjoy the show.
The following evening, April 30, my dressing room was so full of flowers, I could barely move. There was an extraordinary bouquet from Charlie Tucker that was the most magnificent azalea plant I have ever seen, but the most endearing gift of all was a simple wooden Covent Garden flat tray, filled to the brim with bunches of dewy, fresh, sweet-smelling English violets—Eliza’s flowers. My lucky flowers.
When I opened the card it simply said, “With love from the opening night gallery queue.” They had apparently made a collection among themselves and purchased the violets from a Covent Garden vendor. That gesture meant more to me than I can possibly say.
THIRTY-EIGHT
THE OPENING NIGHT of My Fair Lady in London was more restrained than the one on Broadway. The gallery crowd being an exception, the audience seemed a little staid by comparison. Noël Coward was there, along with many other celebrities, most of whom had seen the show in New York. Of course my fa
mily was there, too, except for Donald and Chris. Perhaps there were not enough available tickets.
It felt as though everyone in the audience was holding his or her breath, hoping that the show was as good as the advance word. We gave a solid performance, and received a grand ovation, but for me, the evening lacked a certain charge.
I returned to the Savoy with my family, phoned my brothers, and sat on the floor in my suite with my shoes off, tired and relieved that it was over and done with.
Win had been looking for a decent coat to complete her opening night ensemble, and she found just what she wanted in the Ockley Jumble Sale for sixpence. It suited her, and her budget, admirably. She had spent most of the previous night altering the sleeves and taking up the hem. Upon arrival at the theater, she deposited the coat in the cloakroom, and it cost her ninepence: more to hang it up than to buy it. We laughed a lot that night.
The reviews for the show were excellent, with just a few minor carps here and there. It may not be true, but I heard that the critic from the Daily Express panned us in the first edition of the newspaper, and that Lord Beaverbrook, who owned the Express and had loved the show, insisted the review be a rave. Indeed, by the second printing, it was.
Two nights later, there was a small private reception at the Savoy, and my mother informed me that my biological father would be present. He was going to see My Fair Lady and wanted to say hello to me. At the party, I received the slight impression that he hoped to “come aboard,” so to speak; to claim some sort of relationship. I didn’t like his attitude, and certainly didn’t like him horning in on something that should have been my dad’s province. So, though polite and, I hope, decent, I was a little distant with him. It was the last time I ever saw him.
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