Backstage Pass To Broadway

by Susan L. Schulman

  STATE FAIR struggled along for one more month after I was fired. Natalie hired a press agent who had not handled a Broadway show in more than 10 years. Someone said he had represented a Merrick show in the 1980s.

  Despite statements to the press that the Merricks planned to run STATE FAIR indefinitely, one Tuesday the closing notice was abruptly posted backstage, setting the closing for that Saturday night. The rumor was that Merrick’s ex-wife, Etan, as part of their on-going legal battle, was using Merrick’s continued financial support of an unprofitable Broadway production as evidence that he was not of sound mind. The abrupt closing, without posting the normal two weeks notice required by the various theatrical unions, made no financial sense. All the actors, stagehands, musicians and other union employees HAD to be paid for those two final weeks (whether formal notice was posted or not) but closing early meant there was no possibility of any income from ticket sales during that final week.

  When I was fired from STATE FAIR, Natalie forbade me from entering the Music Box Theatre. Despite Natalie’s edict, I felt entitled to be at the closing performance, so the house manager of the Music Box met me after the curtain went up and seated me in the balcony.

  The final curtain call turned out to be the bizarre cherry on top of the STATE FAIR cake. During the calls, John Davidson stepped forward, stopped the applause and grandly announced “Mr. David Merrick.” Merrick staggered out to applause, supported by Natalie and the original Des Moines co-producer, Gordon Smith. Merrick clutched some papers in his gloved hand. He shrugged off his supporters and struggled to stand alone and speak. John walked over to help, trying to read along with him from Merrick’s notes. Merrick shook him off. Merrick mumbled and rambled on unintelligibly. It was painful and embarrassing to watch.

  Finally, John decided to end the awkward situation. He stepped forward, smiled at the audience and led the cast and audience in the singing of the traditional closing night song, ‘Happy Trails to You.’ The curtain came down on STATE FAIR for the last time on Broadway. Banned from going backstage to see my friends, I stood across the street from the stage door on West 45th Street. As the cast members came out, they crossed the street to hug me and thank me for my support and hard work. Together we had survived a remarkable, if painful, experience.

  Getting the $10K for handling the Merricks’ law suit against The League brought my relationship with the Merricks to a whole new level. For one year after STATE FAIR closed, I asked Natalie to honor the contract she had signed with me. She did not reply. I contacted her accountants. No response. I finally sued David Merrick, representing myself pro se with the assistance of an attorney, filing papers and writing briefs.

  To my horror, the Merricks counter-sued me, charging I’d somehow caused the show to close prematurely. (As I’d been fired more than a month before the musical closed, I’m not sure how I managed to do that!) I was in way over my head. After a lot of legal paperwork back and forth, the hearing was scheduled in Civil Court of The City of New York. The Merricks sent a slick, pony-tailed attorney from Washington, DC to appear on their behalf. I went to court alone. They were spending far more than $10,000 to avoid paying me the $10,000 I was contractually owed. It was nuts.

  I rehearsed my presentation over and over: how to respond when the clerk asked if I was ready; how to present my case; which details to include; how to make my presentation clear and concise. I was extremely nervous. I was finally taking on the Merricks in court. As I waited for my case to be called, I feared I was going to be sick in the courtroom. A friendly attorney seated next to me, awaiting her own hearing, noticed my shaky condition and asked if I was OK. I told her what I was about to do and her advice was “Get mad.” That was easy. I WAS mad.

  When I finally spoke before the Judge, I presented the facts in chronological order, showed copies of the signed contract, solid proof of my work, and mentioned David Merrick’s history of frivolous law suits, with all the pent-up passion and frustration of the past year. To my surprise, my nervousness disappeared. I felt amazingly calm and spoke clearly and intelligently. I knew the facts of the case inside and out because I had lived it. The Merricks’ attorney was ill prepared and the Judge caught him in several mistakes and discrepancies. Natalie had failed to give him all the facts and the Judge noticed. I felt I’d done my best, but had no idea how it would turn out. I was just relieved it was over. I regretted ever starting the legal process but I’d given it my best shot and could move on with my life. I had closure even before the case was decided.

  Several weeks later, I received the court’s decision — the Judge had ruled in my favor, and issued a judgment against the Merricks. He also dismissed their suit against me, and ordered them to pay me. I’d won. I’d actually beaten the great David Merrick. My attorney/advisor naturally expected the Merricks to pay up, in light of the judgment against him, but he still didn’t understand we were dealing with irrational people. Natalie simply ignored the judgment. Had I really won?

  Now I had to hire a Sheriff to get the money. I learned that the Merricks had an account in the Chemical Bank branch on West 44th Street, so the Sheriff was able to file a lien against the Merricks’ bank account. It was a stroke of good luck after a lousy year of fighting this theatrical Goliath. Months passed before I finally got my money. Due to a legal technicality in the contract I’d originally drafted for Natalie, I didn’t get all of the money I was owed, but I got most of it, and was thrilled to be vindicated. To this day I believe I’m the only person to win a legal judgment against David Merrick and actually collect the money. I thought I was finally done with the Merricks.

  Howard Kissel detailed Merrick’s deviousness and secrecy throughout his long career. He reportedly flew all over the world carrying suitcases full of cash which he deposited in numbered bank accounts. After his stroke and inability to speak, some wondered if those accounts would ever be found.

  Merrick loved the drama and mystique of dissembling and half truths. One of his most famous stunts involved finding citizens with the same names as the major theatre critics who had just panned SUBWAYS ARE FOR SLEEPING. He wined and dined these ordinary folks and then got them to issue glowing quotes. Not only did he get the benefit of the full page ads, but also the fallout when the newspaper editors figured out the scam and reported extensively on that.

  Ad that ran in the New York Herald-Tribune on January 4, 1962, using photos and quotes from people with the same names as the major New York theatre critics.

  (New York Herald Tribune)

  Another of Merrick’s more painful stunts involved the opening night of 42ND STREET on Broadway. Merrick knew director Gower Champion had unexpectedly died earlier that day, but kept the news from the cast. He directed his press agent to tell the critics to remain in their seats during the curtain calls, something they rarely did as they normally rushed back to their papers to file their reviews. The critics were told Merrick said it would be ‘worth it’ to stay and so they did. Merrick appeared at the final curtain call, held up his hands to stop the rapturous applause, and solemnly announced that the creator of the evening they had just enjoyed, Gower Champion, was dead. At first the audience thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. Merrick accomplished a PR coup, because he had every major theatre writer plus TV news crews in the house for his shocking announcement. Many wished he had brought down the curtain before he made the announcement, to save the actors from being so publicly exposed in their grief. Presumably Merrick felt having the shocked and grief-stricken actors standing behind him on stage made it a better story.

  When rumors circulated that David Merrick had died in London in 2000, the press called The David Merrick Foundation for confirmation of his death, and to obtain funeral details. They were read the following statement: “We can neither confirm nor deny his death.” It was absolutely perfect. It seemed as if Merrick was trying to manipulate the media from the grave.

  Not getting any real info from The Merrick Foundation, hundreds of members of the press then called
me, assuming I’d have details of his death and burial. My response, “I don’t know if he is really dead but I’d like to kick the coffin just to be sure.” Cynthia Tornquist ran her footage of the Sardi’s interview on CNN with a tribute to Merrick’s long and distinguished career. There were newspaper reports of Merrick’s deathbed marriage to Natalie by proxy. Many wondered if she found those hidden bank accounts before he died.

  PAL JOEY

  If there was a Jeopardy category on theatrical trivia, a really tough answer would be Eleanor Parker and Edward Villella. The corresponding question would be “What former movie queen and which former ballet star were announced to star in the Circle in the Square’s 1976 revival of Rodgers and Hart’s dark musical PAL JOEY?”

  As press agent for The Circle in the Square, I was thrilled to learn that one of my girlhood heroes, New York City Ballet star Edward Villella (Eddie to his legions of adoring fans) would be playing Joey Evans opposite film star Eleanor Parker’s Vera Simpson. As a young ballet student, I’d idolized Eddie’s dark soulful eyes and street-smart charm as one of the stars of the New York City Ballet, and couldn’t wait for rehearsals to begin. The rest of the cast was interesting too: Dixie Carter (pre Designing Women fame) was playing Melba who sang ‘Zip,’ and a young dancer named Marilu Henner was in the chorus.

  But, by the end of the first week of rehearsals, I sensed we were in trouble. Eddie, who was friendly and easy-going off stage, was used to the rigid but single-minded discipline of ballet rehearsals. He was uncomfortable with the logistics of putting together a Broadway musical: an hour of music rehearsal with a pianist followed by a rushed costume fitting. Then an hour of dance rehearsal, work on book scenes, then back to a dance rehearsal with singing added. He was overwhelmed and miserable. He felt pulled in too many directions, unable to focus on learning the new skills he desperately needed for PAL JOEY. To make matters even more stressful, lead dancer Janie Sell, who played Gladys Bumps, had arrived at the first day of rehearsals on crutches, her leg in a full cast. She had failed to tell the producers of a recent accident but swore that she’d be fine by the first preview.

  Eddie had a pleasant singing voice — rough but on pitch. It was fine for the small time hustler who lucks out (briefly) when a rich society matron falls hard for him. He had swagger and that afore-mentioned charisma going for him. What he did not have was the ability to find his starting note. He could sing the songs well enough when the pianist would bang them out for him, but when he had to find his first note during a song’s intro, he was lost. They tried simplifying the musical intros to his songs like ‘If They Asked Me I Could Write A Book.’ No good. Sometimes he sang an entire song just one tone off which was impressive and quite painful to hear. Try it — it isn’t easy to sing just slightly off key. Meanwhile he kept adding ballet leaps and twirls to his dance numbers to cover his shortcomings as a singer — frills not particularly appropriate for the lady-killer Joey. But Villella was a ballet superstar and it was acceptable, if not exactly what the show’s choreographer had in mind.

  The day of the sitzprobe, disaster hit. A sitzprobe is the first time the score is played through by a full orchestra. In German it means “sitting rehearsal.” After weeks of rehearsing with a just a piano, it is thrilling for actors to hear the orchestrations played and to sing, for the first time, in front of a live orchestra. Eddie, however, panicked. Now he really couldn’t find his starting notes with all the musical instruments playing at once. He floundered and lost even more confidence. They tried different intros. They considered amplifying the violin while it played just his melody ... nothing worked. He felt like a fool, unprepared and exposed. If there had been more rehearsal time, I’m sure he would have been wonderful in the show. But after meeting with Paul Libin and Ted Mann (co-directors of The Circle in the Square Theatre), Eddie quit and was replaced by his understudy Chris Chadman, a talented song and dance man who had been in the cast of APPLAUSE. Chris slipped easily into the role although he didn’t have Eddie’s star quality or sex appeal. He later became a ‘Bob Fosse dancer’ and even choreographed the stirring patriotic finale of DANCIN’ under Fosse’s watchful supervision.

  While all of this was going on, the elegant Eleanor Parker looked fabulous but could not remember her lines. She would say her first line and forget the next one. The stage manager would give her that line and she’d forget the first one. We were in big trouble.

  Shortly after Eddie quit, Eleanor Parker followed suit, and was replaced by her understudy, Joan Copeland, a dependable character actress who had starred in Richard Rodgers’ TWO BY TWO, opposite Danny Kaye, but was (and still is) best known as Arthur Miller’s sister. Joan stepped into the role of Vera as if to the manor born, making it her own. She could sing and act and looked great in the costumes. Years later we learned that during PAL JOEY Ms. Parker had been in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.

  While working as a senior publicist at United Artists, I took Richard Chamberlain to Philadelphia to tape the popular Mike Douglas TV show. Richard was promoting a UA film called Lady Caroline Lamb in which he played Lord Byron. He was absolutely gorgeous. He also proved to be charming, low maintenance, funny, down to earth, and self-deprecating. As we chatted in the limo, I discovered Richard loved the theatre and yearned for a stage career, despite his recent Broadway debacle in BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S which producer David Merrick abruptly closed right before opening night. By the time we reached Philadelphia, we were pals, trading theatre gossip and he invited me to see the Broadway play MASS APPEAL with him the next night. After he taped the Douglas show, we both fell asleep in the limo on the drive back to New York City. I gleefully told everyone I’d slept with Richard Chamberlain. Absolutely no one believed me!!

  GEORGE C. SCOTT WAS A PUSSYCAT

  George C. Scott was a powerful actor and a troubled man. He spoke openly about problems with alcohol and women, including a well-publicized romance with Ava Gardner and twice marrying and divorcing the wonderful actress Colleen Dewhurst. His independent, outspoken attitude towards fame (refusing the Best Actor Oscar for Patton,) coupled with his strong, harsh features, made him someone to be feared. I approached the first day of rehearsal of DEATH OF A SALESMAN at the Circle in the Square Theatre with some trepidation. Scott was directing the Arthur Miller play as well as playing the leading role of Willy Loman. Instead, I found this tall, imposing man, with whom I ultimately did three plays, to be one of the kindest and sweetest actors I’d ever worked with. Sexy, too.

  “Big George,” as I soon began calling him, was incredibly gentle and supportive of the actors he’d cast to appear with him in SALESMAN. He hired Roy Poole, a well-known character actor, to be his ‘stand in’ as well as his ‘stand by,’ while Scott blocked the stage action. George encouraged Roy to ‘make the part his own’ rather than imitate Scott’s performance as Willy. He did not impose his interpretation on Roy and treated him with all the respect this veteran Broadway actor deserved. Scott also cast black actor Arthur French as Willy’s friend and neighbor, Charley. An unconventional choice for a play set in the ’40s, and one that playwright Arthur Miller initially opposed, but one that was a dealbreaker to Scott.

  We invited press to attend an early rehearsal to shoot video and still photos of the actors on stage performing a scene from SALESMAN. One bold TV cameraman went up onto the stage and actually stood between George, Harvey Keitel and James Farrentino (playing his sons Happy and Biff respectively) as they played a dramatic scene. Scott never faltered, despite this breach of the actors’ ‘space’ and the other actors followed his lead. His concentration was so intense that he was able to block out the intrusion of press in his rehearsal process.

  This towering actor’s ability to focus totally on the immediate problem also applied to his fascination with chess. A few years later, I was handling Larry Gelbart’s Broadway comedy, SLY FOX, directed by Arthur Penn, and starring Scott and his wife Trish Van Devere, Jack Gilford, Hector Elizondo and Gretchen Wyler. Scott loved chess, and
always had a chess board set up in the wings. When he came off stage, Scott would glare at the board intensely for a minute, make a chess move, and rush right back on stage. Usually his chess partner was his friend, and long-time bodyguard, who was said to ‘pack heat.’ Scott, who had a history of drunken brawls, presumably needed the bodyguard less for protection than to prevent Scott from causing a ruckus.

  Maureen Stapleton, who co-starred with Scott in Neil Simon’s comedy hit PLAZA SUITE, always referred to him as The Big Pussycat. She said acting with George was, “like ice skating with Nijinsky, if Nijinsky could ice skate.”

  George and his wife Trish, whom he later directed in the Circle in the Square’s production of Eugene O’Neill’s ALL GOD’S CHILLUN GOT WINGS, were extremely private people, preferring their own company to that of others. They lived in a stately home in nearby Greenwich, Connecticut and drove home every night instead of staying in the city during the run of SLY FOX. When they were at the theatre, they were warm and accessible, but calling them at home was taboo. If I needed to reach them, I either called Scott’s manager, Jane Deacy, or left a message with their caretaker in Connecticut, who walked over to the main house and left a note for them on the kitchen table. Sooner or later Trish would call back but it was not an easy or efficient way to communicate with the stars of a Broadway show. But then, George C. Scott was not a typical Broadway star.

  Despite his rebellious and hell-raising reputation, he seemed devoid of ego. There was a large ‘tab’ sign at the top of the Broadhurst Theatre which read: GEORGE C. SCOTT in SLY FOX in big red letters. When Scott was leaving the show at the end of his contract, I learned it would take a couple of days to paint over his name and replace it with that of his successor, Robert Preston. The producers wanted Preston’s name on the sign the day he began performances. We needed to ask George if we could remove his name a few days before he left the company. Everyone was afraid to approach him.