by Dudley Riggs
“Like what?” asked Bernie. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“Like a simple, polite ‘Please’ or perhaps ‘Yes.’” She was smiling as she warmed to the idea. “After all, who are we? We are, if I do say so myself, five nice decent people. We usually listen to each other, we don’t often quibble . . . much. We’re civilized, trusting friends with a common goal of creating and telling an original story to our audience. Simple courtesy should allowus to do that!” Marylyn gestured to the right—“Please let me in.” Then to the left—“Yes, of course.”
Was that it? Could it be that simple? We started over. “Please” and “Yes” would serve as passwords and replace the touch tag for cues.
I wrote on the board: “Friendly, courteous manners, attentive listening, and polite requests allow freely associated ideas/words to become dialogue.” That looked good, but too pretentiously academic and certainly not complete. I knew the definition of what we were trying to do would continue to grow. I suggested, “Don’t be shy, enter into the action verbally. The touch tag way of cueing just changes the focus to someone else. You can’t just pass it like a ball, you need to stop, and talk to each other, create a dialogue.”
Everyone said, “I know, I know.”
I’d had enough. I blew the whistle (circus talk). “I don’t like rules, but we need a traffic cop.” So I made some rules:
Don’t use “I know” as a comma.
Don’t hog the scene.
Be kind to each other. Always be courteous.
Please use “Please” as your password to enter a scene.
If you are the gatekeeper, please accept “Please” and let someone enter the scene.
The sometimes-shy Robin added “judgment,” “trust,” “respect” to the board. We made a circle again and started practicing quick word exchanges. Everyone was having fun, enjoying the process of spontaneously making up a scene. It was still confusing, but the flow got smoother, the words got smarter as we went to full sentences, some of which actually made sense.
Today, this all sounds a little too pat. I don’t remember it being quite that simple. But I do know that when we tried “Yes,” to acknowledge, and “Please,” to continue, something close to dialogue began to flow. Questions and interruptions with new information merged without stopping the scene. Word Jazz went from single-word exchanges to whole meaningful sentences and began to sound a lot like normal conversation.
After all of my overthinking, the key to Fliffus was common courtesy, even if the scene was raucous.
Sometimes you can see something only after you stop looking. Marylyn had taught us manners, and that changed attitudes. Mutual respect unlocked people’s talents. With the more relaxed, confident state of mind, the ensemble started to develop and the work got better. Slowly.
But still I did not want to give up the insurance provided by the sight gags. I was still the boss but was keeping that a secret.
The Fliffus evolved and grew other dimensions, and as it made more sense, it started to be fun. It went into the middle of our nightclub revue act, next to my newspaper bit. One by one, the sight gags were replaced with words. Surprise laughter from audience insight began to seem better than pratfalls.
Today, the process, the method, others might even say the religion, is practiced everywhere. Improvisation is studied and debated endlessly. For some it has become a way of life. For me, it was always a tool for entertainment.
But it didn’t work for everyone, and it didn’t work overnight. In fact, everything changed for us in the summer of 1953, not long after we had figured out the Fliffus.
What I remember as “The Fliffus Fuss” occurred when Marylyn Rice tried to teach Paul Bornjorno to simply say “yes.” I was surprised that saying “yes” to Marylyn could be a prob‑lem for anyone, but Paul did not want “some new untried idea” to corrupt our long-established family vaudeville act.
We had been getting a few good-paying Chicago club dates, but it was spotty work with no predictable cash flow. I had already spent my tuition money, reworking the act, trusting Tommy Sacco to come through on his promise of steady New York nightclub employment. Waiting for Sacco to book that work had made our nerves a little raw.
I knew we had to dump some bits that had been in the act forever. I wanted to add “The Fliffus” in the middle of our routine and transform our “sight act” into a “talk act.” After years of success doing pantomime comedy, Paul was not eager to change. “We have to keep what always works.” Doc thought that the sight gags should stay in the act. “You might need a pratfall to rescue the act if all your words fail you.”
I couldn’t know if he was just being loyal to tradition or to Paul.
Paul’s usually reliable energy had been replaced by a sour petulance. When I was hiring, I asked Paul what he thought of Marylyn. “She is way too smart for me.” Coming from a man known for his love of women, that didn’t quite jibe. I had also asked Marylyn what she thought of Bornjorno. “He always makes me think happy thoughts,” she said with a little giggle.
They seemed to get along, but there was something, an edge. Thanks to Bernie and his happy piano, I figured that the edge would fade away. I assumed that Marylyn, a woman with whom everyone falls in love, should be able to charm Paul into trying something new.
“With the Fliffus, we listen to each other to keep the idea moving. We set a mood and try to make it better. Always say ‘yes,’ when you receive a line, then add your own true idea to it.” Marylyn gingerly repeated the basic points of the method, stressing that the passwords, “please” and “yes,” be used to enable dialogue and replace the old gag-loaded monologues we grew up performing.
Paul was not going to be a willing student, so we had some unexpected drama. Doc said, “This may be more trouble than it’s worth, Son. They will either fall in love or murder each other; either way we lose them. And we can’t afford to lose Paul.”
I looked at him, face on, and said, “And what about Marylyn, Dad?”
Marylyn, always sunny and upbeat said, “Can you just try it? You might like it.”
Paul said, “NO, THANK YOU.”
“I thought we were all adults here. Why can’t you just say ‘yes’? You’re so great at saying ‘no.’ Why? Why can’t you men just say ‘yes’”?
Paul riled, “Because you women manage to always say ‘no’ to the men who say ‘yes.’”
She tried reasoning. “Every time you go for the joke, the scene stops.”
Paul sputtered, “I don’t need you to tell me what will get a laugh. What do you know about being funny for money?” he scorned. “Because ‘no’ is funny. ‘Yes’ is not funny!” He was gathering his stuff, getting ready to walk out. “All of this high-hat truth and courtesy crap is not getting us an act. You have to have a finish, a punch line to get off stage.”
Marylyn said, “A finish will evolve if you just let it happen.”
“Yes, but . . .” Paul was running out of negatives.
“When you say ‘Yes, but,’ it’s the same as ‘No.’ You reject the idea. Try to be positive, nix the negation,” said Marylyn.
(That set him off.)
“Comedy is based on negation!”
Bernie spoke up. “No. Comedy is based on truth.”
I said, “Comedy is based on timing,” trying to make peace.
“Laugh at me . . . but I was hoping that comedy could be based on cooperation. I thought we just might be smart enough to build on Word Jazz and create something new.”
Marylyn never gave up on Paul, but I had to. All that fuss during rehearsal remains in my memory as a kind of revelatory moment. A Riggs family pivot point. Family tradition gave way, and our variety sight act became a talk act. But Doc and Paul went back to indoor circus dates, taking The Mighty Magic Trunk with them.
After Paul and Doc left us in Chicago, we became more confident as a talk act but still held on to a few visual bits we thought the audience expected. The audience response to the first pratfall of the ev
ening provided an education about that evening’s crowd. We were transforming the act each time we played. “We have to teach the audience what to expect,” said Bernie.
Working the Kansas City clubs, we had learned to expect some rude, often raw participation from audiences that sometimes enjoyed their drinks more than our entertainment. “What kinda act is this?” a patron asked in a voice that confirmed what I could smell. Don, in his toughest voice, challenged the guy with, “Who do you hate?” That broke the ice with the audience, and they provided five or six names to work into the scene. (“Nixon” and “McCarthy” were offered at almost every show.) The talk part of the act always worked better at the early show, before the audience got too “tired.”
I knew we could manage the late shows by asking, “Who do you love?,” and I could also garner ideas from the sober part of the audience by quoting fresh news items from the newspaper and asking, “What do you think about that?”
My parents had introduced me to “Who do you love?” “Who do you hate?”—the stage technique they originated to control vaudeville hecklers and nightclub drunks. The Humanettes used audience suggestions as material for the always spontaneous set. My folks would never have said that their act was “improvisational theater,” but the act established a tradition of encouraging and valuing audience involvement.
In presenting Word Jazz, we were a lot like The Humanettes, captive to the stage and expected to perform something “interesting” on the spot. Don and Robin learned to grab the focus with their handshake gag, a distraction that allowed Marylyn a moment of thought, as she began Roundelay, tossing out the first word. That first word had to rotate back and be my last word to finish the set. Then Robin would step back in and reprise the opening sight gag.
The money was good. We were getting some work.
We were getting better at something, but I wasn’t sure that it was the right something. Certainly not the cool club act that I thought could headline at the Palmer House or Radio City. We headed to New York City for the Sacco bookings. We were ready. I hoped.
14
Instant Theater
“Somebody likes us!”
The day before Halloween, when our agent Tommy Sacco closed his New York office and went back to Chicago, he left us unexpectedly “at liberty.” Twenty-four weeks of East Coast bookings, which were to provide half our livelihood, were gone. There would be no paycheck until the circus opened again in April.
Overnight, our job security was shattered. The long-held, almost gospel belief that a talented vaudeville performer could enjoy endless employment was likewise shattered. Veteran performers who had built successful vaudeville careers working for the agency were in shock. We had been getting club work in Chicago and Kansas City, but now I wanted to succeed in New York again. I had invested my tuition money in developing the revue, but now the promised East Coast bookings had vanished.
Sacco had booked us for just one engagement before he folded. “That was a long drive for one gig,” Bernie said. With no cash flow, I knew that my plan for revue and TV was screeching to a halt, stranding everyone who had worked so hard to make the new act work.
Several other acts lingered in the hall outside Sacco’s office, unable to give up on the hope that the often playful Tommy would show up and say, “Just kidding, folks.” No one came, except a man who replaced the fancy gold leaf “Variety Agency” sign with cold black letters that said “Space Available.”
Robin said, “That’s us, available.”
I felt a sick, empty frustration, knowing that my big-shot plan had changed without my consent. Through the glass panel on Sacco’s abandoned door I could read the sign he had left behind. It said, “You are not in show business if you are laying off.” Sacco had used that sign as both a threat and a promise. No act wants to lay off; in my family, it would have been a disgrace to say, “I had to go on relief.” Besides, the unemployment office doesn’t list jobs for acrobats, jugglers, or clowns.
Everyone was talking all at once, working toward a collective group panic. The always happy-faced Bernie Sailor said, “What about doing some showcase shows? We can get the other agents in to see the acts, get us a few dates to tide us over. You know, an invited audition.” The very next day, Paul Bornjorno came out of the past and to the rescue. “Move your stuff over here. I’ve rented a rehearsal hall at 50th and Broadway. I’ve got Ken Murray coming to see us as soon as we have something to sell.” Paul was his old happy self, showing none of the stubborn sourness that got him eighty-sixed from our Chicago club act.
A week later, the Bernie Sailor Trio—piano, bass, and drums, with doubling on trumpet, sax, and trombone—played an overture at 8:30 p.m. sharp, and we did our first rag-a-tag showcase show to an audience of seven off-duty waiters.
Thankfully, there was applause to quell our “Why am I in show business?” blues. Some happy clapping was coming from the off-duty restaurant help, and through the open windows we could hear people on the sidewalk chattering about “something was going on” upstairs. Bernie’s sweet music glommed onto the passing pedestrians. Most New Yorkers walked on by, but some paused, stood, even applauded before going on their way. “It’s just like working the crowd in Union Square but without the tip jar,” said Robin.
Paul moved the stage area up tight to the windows and told us to “sell to the gawkers, and make it interesting!”
The few people watching from the sidewalk attracted a small crowd, which drew a larger crowd, and soon people were trying to enter the unmarked stairway door.
“Somebody likes us!” said Marylyn, waving out the window.
After being surprised and hurt by Sacco, we were starving for anything that might restore our confidence. Feeling wanted, even by people on the other side of the street, raised morale and made us feel like we were still in what Doc always called “the business of entertaining the show-going public.”
A coffee company restaurant chain was introducing instant coffee, a new product, on big posters and oilcloth banners. Paul swiped some of the banners and painted their trademark checkerboard background, leaving only the word Instant. The word Theater was then added in six-inch-high, bold Barnum letters that declared our rehearsal hall was now the Instant Theater, with performances at 8:30, tickets at the door.
The program changed at every show, an hour and a half of variety, utilizing unemployed acts: a vocal quartet, roller-skating acrobatics, ballroom dancing, a unicyclist, a magician, and us.
The highlight of the nightclub act we did at the Instant Theater used audience suggestions to create short comedy sketches on the spot, all based on “Who do you love? Who do you hate?” and my news items from the newspaper. Nobody expected a talk act in the middle of a slapstick acrobatic sight act. “In confusion, there may be profit,” I said hopefully. Bernie’s trio invented music under our made-up, on-the-spot lyrics and provided mood music to support the sketches. Bernie’s improvised jazz riffs were perfect to set up the bit we called “Word Jazz.” We were improvising comedy to improvised music in a live, unrehearsed theater production. Using audience-suggested words, Marylyn, Robin, Don, and I created short, usually, and, we hoped, funny sketches on the spot.
The clubs were hard work but predictable money. Now we were essentially busking in a rehearsal hall to unpredictable money, but we were having fun.
The Instant Theater was the first adult job I ever had that was free of the Riggs family banner and that was not dependent on sight gags and pantomime. Doc always said that he hated college towns because the audience was too smart for broad slapstick comedy. Now I found myself reworking a dumb-act show production in a smart-show town.
Paul Bornjorno made me a gift of the lease. “Don’t thank me. And don’t sue me if this thing flops,” he said when he and Doc left for Canada to join the circus. My father’s parting words were “Wire me if you need money.”
I was leaving circus and variety show business for satire, even though Fred Allen had long since declared “Satire is wha
t closes on Saturday night.” I wanted desperately to prove that he was wrong. I had convinced myself that the Instant Theater show would be a hit! And for a few days, it drew an audience that fed our hunger for applause. But there was no money to advertise, so the people who came attended almost by accident. The show got better, but smaller, as acts found other work and left. Then the landlord clued me in on the fact that the space was “not in legal compliance.” He kept taking rent, but I knew.
Robin suggested that we take the Instant Theater on tour. It seemed like the next great idea. Well, maybe not. Bernie introduced me to Thom Broadbent, his old concert agent, who was in the music-recording business. Broadbent said that the best audience for Word Jazz would be college students who buy novelty recordings. He offered fixed-fee concert contracts to campus bookers in Boston, Washington, Atlanta, Saint Louis, Chicago, and ending in Minneapolis. “A few college engagements will be a good way for me to test your act. See if it sells, and see if you have legs,” Broadbent said. (No one had noticed that these colleges would not start classes until after we had performed there.)
With seven people crowded into an unreliable station wagon, our Grand Tour took a loop down the East Coast and back up through Chicago, seven cities in twenty-one days. Bernie’s sidemen quit after Chicago.
When we got to Minneapolis, the agent had lost the contract, moved us into another venue, and all that running around forced a very late curtain and a restless audience.
But the show still worked. Losing two-thirds of the band may have been a blessing. Four actors plus piano (smaller than the advertised seven) actually worked better, was more portable, and felt more like a family. We were doing better, were more confident, had more intentional work. Onstage, my little, thrown-together troupe acted as if they had years of experience, happily enjoying performance and applause. Offstage, we rarely stopped rehearsing, constantly exercising, testing new ideas, and encouraging each other. Robin said, “All this warm trust and devotion reminds me of immersion Bible camp.”
