Hello, Gorgeous: Becoming Barbra Streisand

by William J. Mann

  Bob saw the distressed look that crossed Barbra’s face, a look that only worsened as Elliott’s voice echoed through the dressing rooms.

  “Hey, Marilyn!” He called into Marilyn Cooper’s dressing room. “You want to head out together?”

  It was clear to Bob that Elliott was trying to make Barbra jealous, to get her back for her presumptuousness. He succeeded—though only Bob, having known Barbra longer than anyone else there, saw it. With carefully controlled actions and an utterly expressionless countenance, Barbra gathered her things and left the theater. Only much later did Elliott even realize that she had left.

  And then he was devastated. His devotion to Barbra was greater than his wounded ego; he feared his impulsive rage had lost her. Hurrying off into the chilly March night, he barricaded himself in a telephone booth and used up a pocketful of change calling Barbra’s flat. Each time she answered and he started to speak, she hung up. Finally, dejected, Elliott went back to his own place and fell into a restless sleep.

  Four o’clock that morning, his bell rang.

  Groggily, Elliott made his way to the intercom. It was Barbra, and he buzzed her in. When he opened his door, she stood there in the hallway looking “like a little orphan child, in her nightgown, tears streaming down her face.” Putting his long arms around her, Elliott brought her inside. Their first fight was over. It had lasted six hours at the most. They could only hope that subsequent ones would end as quickly and as well.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Spring 1962

  1.

  Laden down with trinkets and tchotchkes, Barbra and Cis climbed the stairs to the little railroad flat above Oscar’s Salt of the Sea restaurant at 1155 Third Avenue, just down from Sixty-seventh Street. The rank odor of greasy fried fish that filled up the narrow, windowless stairwell could turn back even strong men, but Barbra charged ahead with gusto, anxious to finish decorating the very first apartment she could call her own.

  With Wholesale still enjoying good box office, Barbra’s $150-a-week salary seemed stable. So Don Softness had finally said to her, “Barbra, you’re the toast of Broadway. Isn’t it time to move into a place of your own?” She agreed, and found the nineteenth-century tenement with four rooms, each about eight feet by five feet, one right after another in a line. Rent was sixty dollars a month. Given her salary, Barbra could have afforded more; she could have taken a larger—and less smelly—place. But she was being frugal; she’d been living hand-to-mouth not so long ago. Wholesale would eventually end, and who was to say she wouldn’t find herself bereft again? Better to take a cheaper place where she could save a bit of what she made. Besides, the apartment was right around the block from the DuMont Tele-Centre and PM East, and more than luxury, Barbra liked convenience.

  Her landlord, Oscar Karp, who ran the eponymous seafood restaurant beneath her, was a disagreeable man who dressed entirely in black and insulted his customers. His restaurant was popular, however, and there was often a long wait for tables. Lines regularly snaked out the door onto Third Avenue.

  With Cis following behind, Barbra hurried into her apartment, anxious to arrange the latest adornments she’d purchased for the place. To be sure, it needed some help. An ancient claw-foot bathtub sat in the kitchen because there wasn’t room in the bathroom. Barbra used the tub to both bathe and wash dishes, since there was no sink. A window looked out on a stark black brick wall, but at least it let in some air—though given the restaurant below, that wasn’t always a good thing. At the far end of the flat was the tiny bedroom, where a broken dumbwaiter from the last century went absolutely nowhere.

  Hardly the place one would imagine a Tony nominee calling home. That spring, all sorts of miraculous things were happening to her. When the Tony nominations were announced on April 3, there among them was the name Barbra Streisand—“the kid from nowhere who knew nobody,” she called herself to a friend—nominated along with Elizabeth Allan for The Gay Life, Barbara Harris for From the Second City, and Phyllis Newman, for David Merrick’s other show that season, Subways Are for Sleeping. The morning after the nominees were announced, a slightly dazed Barbra had risen well before dawn to appear on the Today Show, where she sang “Right as the Rain” and was quizzed by host John Chancellor about whether she was made of songs. No, she told him, wincing. “Flesh and bones.”

  It was certainly a busy period. With the rest of the Wholesale company, she’d trooped up to the Columbia Records studio on Seventh Avenue to record the cast album. Spotting Goddard Lieberson in the corridor, she’d called him by his first name. If some found her approach brazen, the record exec didn’t seem disturbed by it. In fact, Lieberson had developed some affection for the nonconformist teenager since her last visit to the studio and was seen giving her some special coaching while she recorded “Miss Marmelstein.” Not long after this, she ran into Lieberson again at the DuMont Tele-Centre, when they both appeared on PM East. Another guest that night was Sammy Cahn, composer of “Day by Day,” one of the first songs Barbra ever sang in public—and the one she and Carl Esser had recorded in Barré’s apartment seemingly a lifetime ago.

  Barbra was soon back at Columbia cutting a second album, this one a twenty-five-year-anniversary tribute to another of Harold Rome’s scores, Pins and Needles. Despite Rome’s animosity toward Barbra, the composer had insisted she be a part of the project, no doubt because he knew the buzz surrounding her performance in Wholesale would guarantee some extra record sales. Barbra sang four numbers; the best, some reviewers thought, was “Doing the Reactionary.” But the most image-building in terms of the way the public saw her was “Nobody Makes a Pass at Me,” yet another homely-girl-looking-for-love lament that could have been the flipside of “Miss Marmelstein.” For help in practicing it, Barbra had actually rung Barré, who’d changed the spelling of his name to the more prosaic “Barry” after one too many casting directors had expressed confusion over his gender while perusing his résumé. The practice session had gone well, and Barbra had thanked her ex warmly. Barry hoped they could see each other more often, and Barbra was open to the idea. The relationship with Elliott seemed to have finally healed that old wound.

  With all that rehearsing and recording, it was no small wonder that Barbra was exhausted. That didn’t mean she sat around being lazy, however. Far from it. With Cis, Barbra had embarked upon several buying sprees, scouring the thrift shops and antique stores along Third Avenue to finish transforming her new place into a home she could call her own. Watching Barbra defy the flat’s limitations had left Cis amazed. Barbra’s mother had visited and recoiled from the place, telling her daughter she should move back to Brooklyn immediately. But Cis, as always, stepped in when Diana disappointed. When Barbra hung an empty gilt picture frame on the wall and arranged old beaded bags around it, Cis declared the composition “beautiful.” When Barbra discovered an antique desk and lugged it upstairs as a centerpiece for the living room, Cis marveled at her friend’s unerring eye. “Who knew what antiques meant [at such a young age]?” Cis asked. Barbra’s decorating skills left her in awe.

  Barbra had managed to make the cramped, awkward apartment eminently livable, at least according to her standards. She hung screens, arranged lacquered chests, and filled a rusted old dentist’s cabinet with antique shoe buckles. Those four tiny rooms proved Barry’s influence still hovered: Tiffany lamps stood on tables; and feather boas, old fedoras, and movie posters adorned the walls. There was even what looked like a World War II oxygen mask, likely picked up at an Army Navy store.

  What made the experience so satisfying for Barbra was that she had paid for all of it herself. No friend, no manager, no publicist had helped her out financially. Shopping with Cis, Barbra had eagerly snapped up “things [she] could never afford before,” even if she could have afforded quite a bit more—more, at least, than trinkets and empty picture frames. But she’d quickly learned “the more money you make, the more money you spend,” so she’d reeled in her impulse to buy up the store. Her frugality hadn’t disap
peared just because her paychecks had gotten larger. All that mattered was that her place had style, and that every last scrap, every single idea, had come from her. With deep contentment, Barbra flopped into a chair to survey her domain.

  That was when Cis announced she was heading home. It had been a long day, and she was tired. It was time to unwind with Harvey and her family, maybe watch some television, or read a book, or have a glass of wine.

  Barbra looked at her friend. The reality of how different their lives had become suddenly hit her. “What is this?” she thought. “There’s something very strange here.”

  At the end of a long day, there was no rest for Barbra, no relaxed evening with family or friends, no glass of wine. Instead, she had to traipse across town to the theater, slather on all that makeup, wriggle into that outrageous costume, and play Miss Marmelstein for what was now going on the sixtieth time. Every night the same lines. Every night the same movements. And there was no end in sight. She often showed up at the theater at the very last possible moment, right before the curtain, infuriating the stage manager and her fellow players.

  To those hordes of actors who would have severed a limb for a part in a successful Broadway show, Barbra’s attitude must have seemed the height of ingratitude. But she’d discovered that with a certain measure of success comes a corresponding loss of more simple pleasures, like the leisure to sit around her new apartment with friends. Barbra would claim that what really made her happy wasn’t the show, but enjoying a good malted or getting flowers from Elliott. Indeed, part of her did love such simple things just as much as she loved success and affirmation. And when the success that she had achieved wasn’t quite what she had imagined it would be, the conflict became even more apparent.

  It was her old repugnance for doing the same thing twice. To combat mental fatigue, she tried playing her part a little differently each night, which, of course, threw her fellow cast members off when she wasn’t in her assigned position on stage or when she altered a line, even subtly. “What does it matter if I don’t stand in exactly the same spot?” Barbra bellyached. Scolded for being undisciplined, she called such criticism nonsense. “It’s just that I believe in being a person,” she told one reporter, defending her oscillating style.

  Consequently, some nights she was better than others, and she knew it—though her audiences never seemed to discern the difference. Every night, on cue, they erupted for Miss Marmelstein when she came rolling out on her casters. They’d been waiting for the moment; they’d been told by the critics that the kid playing the secretary was a big deal, and so no matter how Barbra performed, they screamed and applauded just the same. Walter Winchell, the doyen of Broadway columnists, had raved about Barbra’s “jolly-dollying,” calling her the “brightest femmtertainer in years.”

  That was all well and good, terrific publicity for the show, of course. But for Barbra, it was excellence that ultimately mattered, and if she was going to get applause, she wanted it to be because she really deserved it. And she was beginning to feel excellence was something she’d never really attain playing this stock character in a musical that really wasn’t, despite Arthur Laurents’s best efforts, all that great.

  What irked her most, however, was the claim made by some reporters that she had “hit the big time.” Yes, she had been nominated for a Tony, but as far as Barbra was concerned, Miss Marmelstein was miles away from the big time. Certainly she wanted to win the award—very much—but she was never going to be satisfied with “featured performer” status; she wanted the “best actress” prize, the possibility of which was still too far in the future for her liking. So when columnists claimed she had received “lots of offers” for more work, Barbra slammed the stories as “a big lie.” True, her new agent at Associated Booking, Joe Sully, who also handled Louis Armstrong, had gotten her a new gig at the Bon Soir, and there was talk about appearing on some television shows. But those kinds of things didn’t count. When someone asked her to play Medea, then they could talk about hitting the big time.

  To one reporter, Barbra carefully explained that she wasn’t yet a success because she wasn’t really famous. Just the other day, she had gone shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and couldn’t get anyone to wait on her. “If I was famous,” she said, “they would have waited on me. But I looked too young, I guess, and too—I don’t know, like I couldn’t afford to shop there.” Then she laid down the parameters for success as she saw it. “I’ll be a success when I’m famous enough to get waited on at Bergdorf Goodman.”

  2.

  At long last, Barbra was no longer a teenager. On April 24, Barbra’s twentieth birthday, the producers of PM East presented her with a cake during the taping of the show, which was scheduled to air later that night. Diana and eleven-year-old Rosalind had come in from Brooklyn for a cute, on-air birthday celebration. Even Mike Wallace joined in as the cast and crew sang “Happy Birthday” to Barbra.

  But there was more important business to attend to on this particular show, and Don Softness kept his fingers crossed that it would all work out. Marty had asked him to come up with a “gimmick” to get Barbra noticed by the producers—David Merrick included—who were planning the Fanny Brice musical. So Softness had rung his old pal George Q. Lewis, the legendary comedy writer and workshop teacher who’d helped Milton Berle, Henny Youngman, Jack Benny, and others polish their gags. Lewis had established a mostly phony organization called the National Association of Gag Writers that could be used for promotional purposes—which was just what Softness had in mind. He asked Lewis if the association would give Barbra their annual “Fanny Brice Award.”

  “But we don’t have a Fanny Brice Award,” Lewis replied.

  “You do now,” Softness told him.

  So, on the air that night, Barbra was presented with more than a birthday cake. Out came a fancy framed certificate from the National Association of Gag Writers, signed by Lewis. Mike Wallace read from the statement prepared by Softness, telling the audience that the “annual award” was being presented to Miss Streisand because “the pathos of her comedy epitomizes the devotion to her art reminiscent of the late, great Fanny Brice.” Barbra acted suitably surprised and impressed as she accepted the certificate. Everyone involved knew it was both the first and the last annual Fanny Brice Award.

  In the meantime, Softness had reached out to another colleague, Richard Falk, a fast-talking, stunt-loving publicity man who’d started out as an assistant to Claude Greneker, the press agent for the Ziegfeld Follies in the 1930s. Falk was known as “the Mayor of Forty-second Street” for all his connections up and down the Great White Way, as well as for such PR gambits as checking a trained flea into the Waldorf-Astoria. If anyone could get Barbra noticed, Softness reasoned that it was Falk.

  One of the first things Falk suggested was to ratchet up the kook business. If landing the part of Fanny Brice was the goal, kookiness was definitely the way to go, as Brice was known for her quirks and whims. Keep playing up the thrift shops and vintage clothes, Falk advised. Barbra had been making references to “Second Hand Rose,” one of Brice’s best-known songs, at least as far back as her Detroit days, so they were on the right track. Meanwhile, the new publicist began issuing regular bulletins to all the columnists, most of whom he knew personally. Within days, Leonard Lyons was reporting that showman Billy Rose, Brice’s third husband, had been “reading all the casting reports on the musical about the late Fanny Brice,” and “of all the comediennes he’s seen, the one whose comic qualities most closely approach Miss Brice’s is Barbra Streisand of I Can Get It for You Wholesale.” Rose, of course, was one of Falk’s cronies. It was all part of the plan.

  But the Brice show was just one of many possible targets. The best way to secure the parts Barbra wanted, Falk understood, was to get enough people interested in her and talking about her that offers would start flowing in. To that end, he arranged some appearances for her on the Joe Franklin Show, a morning New York television talk show on WABC, and set up some intervie
ws for her with a handful of his reporter pals. The result was a flurry of syndicated articles that spring about “the twenty-year-old comedienne sensation.” One was by Dick Kleiner, a popular Broadway writer whose profiles and reviews were syndicated through the Newspaper Enterprise Association, which meant he was read in hundreds of papers across the country. In Kleiner’s piece, Barbra the Kook came through loud and clear. He called her a “character,” and to illustrate that, he had her tell the story of dyeing her hair in school and wearing “strange color lipstick and eye-shadow.”

  More of the same followed. Some reporters clued in to the fact that Barbra wasn’t playing entirely straight with them, that she had a mission, and that no matter what the journalist asked, she wasn’t going to stray from the grand design that she and her publicists had laid out. “Instead of giving me an honest answer to my questions,” Edward Robb Ellis, a reporter for the New York World-Telegram, recorded in his diary after meeting her, “she lied to me, toyed with me, tried to manipulate me.” Since Barbra told him nothing authentic about herself, Ellis decided to focus his entire piece on the character of Miss Marmelstein. She was as real, it seemed, as the woman he’d just interviewed.

  In a major coup, Barbra’s publicity team secured a brief profile in The New Yorker, and more than anything else, this piece established the tone of the budding star’s subsequent coverage. The unnamed “Talk of the Town” writer, clearly playing up Barbra’s kooky reputation, chose to string everything she said closely together, as if she never paused for breath and spoke in one long stream of consciousness: “I used to baby-sit for a Chinese couple in Brooklyn; they had a restaurant and taught me to enjoy Chinese dishes. I often go to Chinatown to eat late at night. You get wonderful white hot breads with the center filled with shrimp at the little coffee shops there. Only ten cents! I love food. I look forward to it all day. My body responds to it. Everything else seems so nebulous.”