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by Julie Andrews

  The first reading was truly exciting. I was introduced to Richard Burton, and was immediately enthralled, as was everyone present, by his charm. He was simply one of those charismatic people who attracted the attention of every man, woman, child, or animal the moment he walked into a room. Richard was King Arthur—his voice a magnificent instrument, mellifluous enough to make any woman swoon. It was a major part of his unique appeal. That, and his piercing gray-green eyes and full, beautiful mouth.

  Alan and Fritz performed their lovely songs that day. The melodies were regal and evocative, and I marveled at Fritz’s ability to write for any genre: Brigadoon (Scottish), Paint Your Wagon (Western), My Fair Lady (English/cockney), and now, with Camelot, a sense of the Age of Chivalry. Alan’s lyrics were, as always, superbly crafted, with meticulous attention to the “voice” of each character.

  Moss, ever warm, funny, and welcoming, presided over the event as if it were a party. And it was a party, in a way. Everyone was happy to be present.

  Tony attended the read-through and loved what he heard, as did Richard’s wife, Sybil. She was an attractive, petite Welsh woman with a lovely countenance, her chin tilted high. She had an easy, outgoing air. Roddy knew just about everyone present, and it was exciting to see him again. Robert Goulet, devastatingly good-looking, was probably as nervous as I that first day, but he was instantly friendly.

  We all knew we had monumental work ahead of us, for the musical was a hugely ambitious piece. Camelot is a tragic three-way love story; Arthur, Guenevere, and Lancelot care deeply for each other. The king hopes to use his power, his sword, and his intellect to create a better world for mankind. “Might for Right” is how he describes it, and Lancelot and Guenevere support his vision. Arthur is aware of his wife’s and Lancelot’s mutual attraction, and though pained by it, he tries to turn a blind eye, since he loves them both so much. All three friends do their utmost to remain steadfast, but the presence of Arthur’s illegitimate son, Mordred, who wants the throne for himself, is their undoing. He contrives to bring their idyllic world to an end. By the finale of the play, Guenevere is to enter a nunnery, Lancelot is banished, and Arthur is left on the battlefield to pass on his dream to a young page named Thomas Mallory, who will one day write the great book of Arthurian legends. He exhorts the young man to run, run as fast as he can, away from the conflict, saying, “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief, shining moment, that was known as Camelot.” It was grand theater stuff, and for those of us who remember, the theme was adored by John F. Kennedy, and it came to symbolize his presidency.

  That first reading of the musical ran far too long, but we all felt its enchanting potential.

  Like an exquisite tapestry that captures the heart of anyone who gazes upon it, Camelot cast its mantle over us all, binding and enfolding craftsmen, actors, musicians, technicians. There was an indefinable, yet indelible, aura about the show that sprang from the book and its important themes of chivalry, honor, love, idealism, and hope.

  We were to be tested many times as the weeks passed, and we gave of ourselves over and over again.

  What was obvious as rehearsals continued was the marked difference between Act I and Act II. The play begins so lightly. The first scene is a mini-play in itself, and is beautifully constructed. There is a joyous romantic feeling to the first act, but the second act descends into darkness as it tells of the disintegration of the Round Table, and the show’s ending is heart-wrenchingly sad. This is what Tim’s extraordinary book is all about, but there was a concern that audiences might not like being led down one path, only to find themselves on another.

  In the original work, Guenevere was not chaste. She and Lancelot had a passionate love affair—though they were guilty and miserable about deceiving Arthur. During the five weeks that we rehearsed, it became obvious that Richard (Arthur) was so damned attractive that Julie (Guenevere) was going to be roundly despised by all if she transgressed. This was not helped by my virginal, squeaky-clean image. Robert Goulet was undeniably attractive as Lancelot, but there was no doubt that the piece was not going to work unless Guenevere remained faithful to Arthur despite her passion for Lancelot.

  The script was therefore revised, and oddly, it served to make the outcome of the play stronger and even more tragic. The evil Mordred schemes and plots against the three friends, and in spite of their attempts to remain faithful and hold everything together, he still manages to entrap the would-be lovers and bring about the downfall of Arthur’s kingdom.

  One day during rehearsals, Moss approached me.

  “You’re a bit quiet, Julie,” he said. “Are you planning to sing that softly all the time?” I knew what he meant. I had been gently easing my voice back into a daily routine.

  “No, Moss,” I replied. “I think the effort of Fair Lady was so huge that I became neurotic about my voice. I’m just testing the waters and making sure it’s there for me. I know it will strengthen in time.” Mercifully, it did.

  Richard was having no such problems. His singing was a revelation; those warm Welsh tones, honed by years of Shakespeare, gave him an enviable vocal ease. The first time I heard him sing Alan’s beautiful ballad, “How to Handle a Woman,” I simply melted, and there was hardly a night during the run when I didn’t pause to enjoy his rendering of the gentle phrases and lovely melody.

  SVETLANA CAME TO New York with the Royal Ballet, and Sudi was with her. They attended the last run-through before we departed for Toronto, which was where we were to begin our out-of-town tryout. Afterward, a happy, four-part letter went off to Tim White:

  Saturday 24th September 1960

  EXULTATION. We had the unique privilege of attending Julie’s run through of CAMELOT this afternoon. In order of preferences, after we had gloated in the glorious lightness and abundance of Julie, the contained weightiness of Burton’s Arthur, and exulted joyously and tearfully in the subtle aestheticism and emotion of Camelot, we suddenly recovered our wits and recollected the mammoth human who is the real father and mother of it all—TIM JEE. (Sudi)

  Thumbs up! There will be never a dry eye or a louder cheer than on the first night of CAMELOT for which after we have congratulated and thanked Julie and Burton and all concerned, we must once again thank you. (Svetlana)

  …The run through today felt quite good—and although we need to cut at least one hour from the show—it means that (with luck) the three hours left will be really something! Tons of love. (Julie)

  …They wrote this last night while I was at the theater. I was absent due to VALMOUTH lighting…We open officially October 6th. I’ve just seen my heavenly Julie off for Toronto. SO IT BEGINS. And how tense and exciting it all seems. (Tony)

  As Tony indicates in the letter, he was recreating his lovely Valmouth designs for a New York production, so he was unable to travel with me to Canada.

  Camelot was to inaugurate a brand-new theater in Toronto called the O’Keefe Centre, and this posed its own set of unique problems. The theater had an enormous auditorium, the stage seemed vast, the acoustics had yet to be tested, the orchestra felt miles away, and the audience somewhere beyond that. Everything smelled of sawdust and fresh paint, and workmen were constantly hammering, drilling, installing seats, carpets, and lights—doing all the last-minute things in the rush to be ready for our opening.

  To complement Oliver Smith’s glorious scenery, Abe Feder decided to use airport floodlights in order to throw enough illumination onto the stage to create the brilliance of the ancient Book of Hours. Abe’s lights were banked in tiers between the flats on either side of the stage, and when one walked onto the set, and was blasted by an additional barrage of light from the front, the result was a visual blackout. We simply couldn’t see a thing; there was such a blur of brightness that we literally had to look at our feet to get our bearings, and had to be careful where we were going. We got used to it over time.

  I occasionally went to sit in the front of the theater during the odd moments I wasn’t needed
. The combination of Oliver’s sets and Adrian’s costumes, superbly lit by Feder, was so breathtakingly radiant, I felt, and still believe, that I was seeing one of the most beautifully designed musicals ever.

  Richard had a personal dresser on the show, who was a good friend and had worked with him before. His name was Bob Wilson. He was a stunning looking man, tall, quiet, tactful, decent. He knew all Richard’s idiosyncrasies. Bob’s wife, Sally, was a dresser also, and since I, too, needed someone to help me in the theater, it made great sense to all concerned that she come aboard and work for me. Sally was a godsend, a calming presence who kept my life sane.

  Tony managed to fly up to Toronto for the last tech rehearsal, and the opening night. But, alas, he had to leave again immediately, to return to his own opening of Valmouth in New York City. He then flew to London, where he had designed a sequel to the revue Pieces of Eight, this one entitled One Over the Eight, again starring Kenneth Williams.

  Moss made several attempts to cut our show before we opened, but even so, the first performance of Camelot ran almost four and a half hours. The audience was exhausted, and so were we. Tim’s huge book was proving more difficult to condense than anyone thought. The following day, Moss, Alan, and Fritz made even deeper cuts.

  Hanya Holm had created a superb ballet in the second half, a dance of the animals in the forest scene. Tony Duquette had designed the costumes for this, and he had chosen mostly earth tones, mustards and oranges, and the radiance of the show was suddenly diminished by the drab colors. Moss ended up cutting the ballet altogether, but even that did not lessen our running time by much, and we continued to play overlong.

  Our press in Toronto was not overly enthusiastic, but most seemed to agree that the show looked and sounded grand and had potential, and that Burton was perfect as King Arthur.

  People flew up from New York to see us, and word soon spread that our musical was more than a little top-heavy, but our company still felt optimistic. A show out of town is a work in progress, and we knew that we had something very special to offer.

  A young lady by the name of Joyce Haber came from Time magazine to do a cover feature article on Lerner and Loewe. This was their first stage musical since My Fair Lady, though they had brilliantly conceived the film musical Gigi in the meantime. There was acute interest as to whether they would strike gold again.

  Joyce Haber was friendly. She wanted interviews with all the principals, which she got, and she stayed with us for the better part of two weeks to observe and note every detail of the out-of-town process. Led first and foremost by Richard, we opened our hearts and welcomed her into the company.

  Moss extended an invitation to Richard and me, Roddy, Mel Dowd, and Robert Coote, to come to his hotel suite one evening after the show. He explained that he had been writing his autobiography, and asked if we would indulge him and listen to a couple of chapters. Would we!

  I remember sitting on the floor in his suite, my back propped against a sofa, listening to Moss, who was perched stiffly on a dining chair in front of us all, reading the first chapters of his wonderful memoir, Act One. I marveled at his writing style and his ability to capture the spirit of the thirties on Broadway, about which I knew relatively nothing.

  On subsequent rereadings of his book, it occurs to me that what he read that night was almost identical to the version that was eventually published. He hardly changed a word.

  WE CONTINUED TO work hard in Toronto, rehearsing and adapting to Moss’s cuts almost daily, as well as performing our regular eight shows a week. Franz Allers drilled the orchestra and chorus mercilessly, and the results showed. We all continued to shape our characters and tried to help the potentially lovely musical fall into an easy rhythm and a seamless whole.

  Then disaster struck.

  Alan was suddenly hospitalized for internal bleeding from a perforated ulcer. It is surprising that none of us was aware of his problems at the time, though Moss must have known. We were all so preoccupied and busy with the show.

  We later learned that Alan had been suffering a great deal of stress, due to the failure of his fourth marriage and the fact that his wife had taken his beloved young son, Michael, to Europe. There was the added strain of working at all hours on Camelot, and because of the necessity to keep going at all costs, Alan had taken medication for depression and anxiety, and the results had wreaked havoc with his intestines. He was in the hospital for ten days.

  Moss held the fort in Alan’s absence, and announced to the press that our opening on Broadway would be delayed by two weeks, due to Alan’s indisposition. Moss was always an inspiring presence, but I remember that he, too, did not appear to be his usual creative and ebullient self.

  On the day Alan was discharged, he was standing by the hospital elevator and saw a patient on a gurney being wheeled into the room he had just vacated. To his horror, he was told that it was Moss, and that he had just suffered a heart attack. It was devastating.

  This was not Moss’s first attack. He’d had one several years earlier. Now it was likely he was going to be in the hospital for quite a while. The company was not made fully aware of just how sick Moss was. We were told that he was in the hospital, and I believe we thought he had a serious case of the flu. We hoped he would be well enough to join us again by the time we arrived in Boston.

  Moss sent a message to Alan, asking him to take over the reins of the production. Alan spoke to Fritz, who felt that a new director should be brought in immediately, thus freeing Alan to proceed with the necessary rewrites.

  Alan spoke to Richard, and then to me. Richard and I both felt that Alan was the appropriate person to take the helm until Moss was better. Having just come out of the hospital himself, Alan was on the horns of a dreadful dilemma. He wanted to honor Moss’s request. He felt fragile, and knew how much work the production needed. How could he continue to rewrite and direct as well?

  Fritz kept pushing him to consider bringing in an outsider. I’m sure he, too, was feeling a little fragile.

  We had one more week to play in Toronto, and Alan wisely decided to give himself and the company some breathing space. He let us play the long version of Camelot for the rest of its engagement in the city, and vowed to continue work on it once we were in Boston. Meanwhile, the search began for a director who might understand our immediate problems, but ultimately the idea proved to be impractical, since the hope was that Moss would soon be well enough to return to us.

  The Camelot company was heroic. Spearheaded by Richard and his amazing charisma, and helped, I hope, by my own demeanor and optimism, plus Roddy’s professionalism and Robert’s enthusiasm, we all struggled and forged ahead without complaining through the last difficult week. We were tired and frazzled; we were worried about Moss; we supported whatever Alan thought best. We wanted our production to win out in the long run. There was an incredible bond within the company; everyone had such a decent heart and believed in the message of Tim’s wonderful book.

  The production closed in Toronto, and we moved on to Boston. We had a few days’ rest while our huge sets were trucked down and stuffed into the smaller space of the Shubert Theater there. The principals were mostly lodging in the Ritz Hotel, at the edge of the Common. Richard held a party in his suite nearly every evening. I think he had problems being alone, and there were several regulars within the company only too ready to bolster him and to drink with him every night, and sometimes into the wee hours. Plus, of course, a lady or two to dote on him, and hang on his every word.

  I’m grateful that Richard remained professional with me, and didn’t press his luck until much later in the run. In all honesty, had he turned his considerable charms on me early in rehearsals, I do not know what my reaction would have been. He was that attractive.

  FORTY-FIVE

  AFTER THE IMMENSE size of Toronto’s O’Keefe Centre, Boston’s Shubert seemed very small. We began rehearsals again, working in the lobby of the theater, or in the bar downstairs while the setup and technical work cont
inued onstage. Alan gave us more cuts, and his assistant, Bud Widney, rehearsed with us when Alan had to write. We did not see much of Fritz, and I understood later that a nasty rift was developing between him and Alan. Luckily, we were all so busy with the show that we weren’t aware of it.

  How difficult it must have been—first for Moss (not to mention his distraught wife, Kitty) and then for Alan, who had to withhold so much information in order to keep optimism high in the very large company.

  Tony was due to return to New York from London with Tim White. I’d been talking about Tim to the company for such a long time, and everyone was excited that he was coming to visit. I knew that he would be royally welcomed and spoiled. It was understood that Tim would not see the show until it was in proper shape, perhaps not until our formal opening night at the Majestic in New York. But, by an absolute fluke, Tony and Tim’s plane was diverted to Boston’s Logan Airport because of bad weather on the very day we opened there. Tony called to give me a heads-up, since, obviously, he and Tim would be in town overnight.

  I phoned Alan. He very kindly understood the situation and suggested they come see the show that evening. With all that was going on, we seemed destined to fail in Boston, but an amazing thing happened. Because we had spent so many weeks projecting into the vast auditorium of the O’Keefe, our performance at the Shubert was strong and vibrant, and the show dazzled everyone.

  We received favorable notices, which gave us all a much-needed lift. The company made a great fuss over Tim. He was very generous about the show and was in his element, stomping about backstage with all the pretty ladies of the chorus loving him up.

  Alan had forewarned Tim that converting his beautiful and evocative tome to a two-and-a-half-hour show was “less a matter of dramatizing incidents than capturing the spirit.” Tim was very supportive and gave Alan permission to do whatever he thought best. The following day, Tim and Tony set off for New York. I would be joining them in fairly short order.