by Barbara Cook
Now, this is where my training with Bob Kobin came in very handy. Bob always insisted that all his students had to learn arias, no matter what kind of music they intended to sing. I resisted like crazy: “Why do I have to learn this stuff. I’m not gonna be an opera singer. All that ah-ah-aaaaaah stuff is too hard. I don’t want to do it.” He persisted, however, and finally he played an aria that I thought was so beautiful I was willing to give it a try.
The first aria I worked on was “Non mi dir” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Not right for my voice in the least, but he was happy that I was willing to try something, no matter how ill suited. I went on to learn arias by Puccini, Verdi—all the greats—never thinking that they might be useful one day. In the process of these lessons I learned that I had all these high notes I hadn’t even known about. I didn’t really take it seriously. To me it was like I was pretending to be an opera singer. I could hit a high C, sure. But I wasn’t going to be singing at the Met. Little did I know . . .
At any rate, Ethel and I made a date for me to come in and sing, but on the appointed day I had a bad stomach virus and had to cancel. I didn’t hear anything back from her for a couple of months, and I just forgot about it. Then, out of the blue, she called back and we made another date. This time I was going to sing for Leonard Bernstein, who had written the score. By then he was already a well-known conductor, had written film scores, several Broadway shows, and quite a few very impressive classical pieces. He was already LEONARD BERNSTEIN, so I was, as usual, nervous as hell.
When I arrived on time at Ms. Reiner’s office the maestro had yet to appear, so she said, “While you’re waiting, perhaps you’d like to take a look at this aria written for the role of Cunegonde.” This was the first time I heard the name of the role I was up for, and also the first time I saw the music for “Glitter and Be Gay.” It was twelve pages long. Holy Hannah!
I looked at the music and saw all those lines above the staff. I didn’t, and don’t, read music but I sure as hell knew what all those extra lines above the treble clef meant. In other words, this was a killer piece of music and certainly something I would never be hired to do. (During rehearsals I counted the high notes in the score for Cunegonde—four E-flats above high C, six D-flats above high C, sixteen B-flats, and twenty-one high C’s.) Funny thing, it seemed so out of reach that instead of making me more nervous, looking at the music calmed me down, because I felt certain that I would never be hired to sing this thing. I thought, “Okay, I get to meet Leonard Bernstein, it’s a nice day, I’ll sing, go home, and have a nice life.”
Suddenly—pow! Leonard Bernstein swept into the room, and when I say swept I aint kiddin’. He was wearing a rather long, green, loden cape lined in red satin that swirled around him, an outfit finished off by black patent-leather loafers. Wow!
Sam Krachmalnick, the man who was to conduct the show, arrived with the maestro. We went into a small room with a piano and I sang the song I usually auditioned with, Arthur Schwartz and Dorothy Fields’s “Make the Man Love Me” from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. When I finished, the maestro looked at me and said, “Very nice—what else do you have?” Because I knew they wanted to hear my high notes, I told him I planned to sing “You Are Love,” complete with a high C ending. He very quickly said, “Don’t sing ‘You Are Love.’ I know exactly how you’d sing ‘You Are Love.’ ”
That hit me hard. I hadn’t planned anything else. I knew I had to come up with something else, but what? Twenty seconds passed—three years in audition time. Then an idea popped into my head—what about all those arias Bob had insisted on my learning? And then before I knew what I was doing, I found myself saying to LEONARD BERNSTEIN, “I guess I could sing Madame Butterfly’s entrance music for you, but I don’t have the music.” “That’s okay,” he said, “I know it.” At which point he sat down at the piano . . . omigod!
I started the aria just as Bob had taught me, but Bernstein was in a different place. Finally we realized that for some reason Bob hadn’t taught me the very beginning of the aria, when Butterfly sings offstage as she’s climbing up the little hill to her house. I was starting at the point when she actually appears onstage for the first time.
We worked all that out and I sang that gorgeous Puccini music. Puccini wrote a high alternate ending for the aria that many people don’t sing, but I thought, what the hell, if ever there was a time to try that high note this was it. So . . . I sang the bejeezus out of that high D-flat. Bernstein was thrilled. I was shocked that I had actually done it. I’d never sung this music outside of my teacher’s studio. Mr. Bernstein said, “You have great musical courage.” I said, “You mean I got a lotta guts.” He asked where I had gone to school, and I was so naïve that I almost answered “Girl’s High.” Thank God at the last instant I realized he meant music school, and I explained that I had no formal training of that sort. It was decided that I would have a few sessions with Sam to work on “Glitter and Be Gay” so we could all see if I could really sing this thing.
I also began working again with Bob Kobin, who was great, as always. When we started to really examine the piece, he looked at me and said, “Of course you can do this. You have that high E-flat. Don’t worry about it.”
During one of my sessions with Sam Krachmalnick, he mentioned to me, as if in passing, “Lenny’s going to come by today to see how we’re doing.” By this time I could sing the piece all the way through, and although he didn’t tell me, I should have known that Bernstein would make his mind up that day whether it made sense to continue with me or not.
I sang for Bernstein, and it went well, but passing that preliminary test is not what I remember most clearly from that day. Instead, it’s that I suggested to LEONARD BERNSTEIN what I thought would prove to be a better way to end one of his musical phrases. Amazing! How did I ever have the nerve to say such a thing? Well, it just seemed obvious to me, and, even more surprisingly, Bernstein agreed with me and changed the phrase.
Here’s the phrase in question:
Born to higher things,
Here I droop my wings . . .
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah
That “aaaaah” is a high C. Very hard for me to sing and cut off cleanly, as it was written. So—I suggested doing a portamento down from the high C to a lower note at the end of the “aaaaaah.” It made perfect sense to me. Cunegonde was talking about drooping her wings, so why not “droop” the note?
When I think about this scenario now, I shake my head in disbelief at the confidence I had. I suppose a better word to describe my action would be “clueless.” This was only the second time I had been in the same room with the composer, and this was not just any composer. This was Maestro Leonard Bernstein. I’d never sung this kind of song in public. I was a musical-comedy actress with a mere two Broadway shows under my belt, and I was now telling this genius how to improve his aria? It was like rehearsing Flahooley and telling the conductor that I wasn’t going to change my singing—they’d have to change the orchestration. Where the hell I got that chutzpah from I have absolutely no idea.
I suggested the change, and Bernstein smiled and said, “You’re absolutely right. Why didn’t I think of that?” It was a portent of things to come: from the start of rehearsals through to closing night, Lenny made me feel that I could do anything.
I had passed this preliminary test with Bernstein, but as auditions continued I was asked to come to the Mark Hellinger Theatre to not only sing again for the maestro, but also to meet Lillian Hellman, who was writing the book for the show.
I admired Lillian greatly. During the time of Senator McCarthy’s terrible witch hunt for Communists, when the House Un-American Activities Committee was doing its dreadful work, everyone lived in fear, and careers were lost. Lillian, however, was not cowed. One of the reasons she suggested Candide to Lenny as a possible musical piece was because there is a scene in Voltaire’s original—an auto-da-fé in Lisbon—which was very reminiscent of what was happening in our country. All the name-calling. All the accu
sations. Friend against friend. Candide provided these artists with a means of standing tall and publicly showing their disapproval of McCarthyism and HUAC.
That very first afternoon at the Mark Hellinger, Lillian asked me: “Do you think you can play a young European girl?” At that point in my life I had been to Niagara Falls and Tijuana, end of story, but of course I said yes. I wasn’t going to lose this role, dammit, even though I didn’t know if I really could play a European.
That same afternoon in the theater, Bernstein had me sing phrases in 5/4 time, then in 7/4 time, really pushing me. Three days later I was told the role was mine.
Fortunately there were still several weeks before rehearsals officially began, which gave me a lot of time to learn the score. Bob Kobin helped me find an opera coach—Wolfgang (can’t remember his last name)—a wonderful man who taught me a lot. I worked with him on all of the music and learned a great deal of plain old technical musical know-how.
I had great teachers, no question, but as rehearsals began, I was beside myself with fear. Holy shit! I had one thought: What have I agreed to do? If I messed up it wasn’t like the mistake wouldn’t be noticed—this was Leonard Bernstein and Lillian Hellman. The public was going to pay attention.
I talked about my fears constantly to anybody I came across, an action that infuriated David. He felt that if he told me I could do it, then his reassurance ought to be all I needed to hear. I didn’t mean to upset him, but when I’m concerned about something I need to air it, again and again. I couldn’t help talking about my fear, because in the very beginning I couldn’t even finish “Glitter and Be Gay.” Literally.
The muscles just wouldn’t do it. It was like trying to carry heavy groceries home and coming to that moment when you just have to set them down. The muscles just give out and you have to rest. The same thing is true for the voice, and with “Glitter and Be Gay” I couldn’t cross the finish line. So—I had Wolfgang record the accompaniment for me and every day when I came home from rehearsal, before I started to relax too much, I would sing through the aria twice without stopping. It was just like training for a sporting event.
We had a fine cast and a famous English director, Tyrone Guthrie. The costumes were designed by Irene Sharaff, and the set by Oliver Smith. These were the premiere designers in all of theater, and Irene always insisted on the absolute best in our costumes. In the “I Am Easily Assimilated” number, the men wore very beautiful Spanish costumes—made in Spain, of course. I once asked her about a slip under one of my dresses which had a ten-inch border of handmade French lace. “Why this expensive lace, Irene? Nobody will see it.” Irene simply stated: “But you will know it’s there.”
I loved working with Irene, and she’s the only designer I worked with in all those years who gave me a beautiful watercolor sketch of one of my costumes. It was a sketch she knew I would treasure forever, that of the gorgeous dress I wore for “Glitter and Be Gay.”
The lyrics to Candide were written by so many different people: Lillian wrote the beautiful words for “El Dorado.” John Latouche and Dorothy Parker contributed as well, and I believe that Ms. Parker wrote many, if not all of the words for “Glitter and Be Gay.” Lenny supplied the words for the contralto Irra Petina’s big number, “I Am Easily Assimilated”; in that song he wrote the lyric “My father came from Rovna Gubernya,” utilizing that strange name because his father had been born in Rovna Gubernya. The poet Richard Wilbur wrote several lyrics, including our beautiful finale, “Make Our Garden Grow.” Imagine five different lyricists, all of them incredibly talented in their fields. Well, there never was another show like it.
All of us in the cast knew it was a one-of-a-kind show, and while we didn’t have big discussions about the show’s political resonance, we were all quite aware of it. The creators were trying to make a statement without losing sight of the entertainment value, and all of their ideas were floating around Bernstein’s score. This show felt entirely different and new. It was exciting to be around the day-to-day process, and my lack of formal musical training didn’t faze Lenny in the least. One day in the midst of the constant craziness that is part of rehearsing a big musical, he asked me: “Can you trill?” I said, “No, but I can fake it.” He laughed. “Go ahead and try. Everybody fakes it anyway.”
Our Candide was Robert Rounseville, who was perfectly cast. He was difficult, but not intentionally so. He was just kind of absentminded. I was often barefoot in the show, and he’d be kneeling down next to me onstage, and sometimes he would kneel right on my toes. Let me tell you—when somebody puts all their weight on your toes it hurts like hell. I’d say, “Bob, please be careful.” And then he’d do it again—he didn’t mean to, he was just in another world. I think he had a little drinking problem, too, but he sang like an angel.
The “Governor,” William Olvis, had a beautiful baritone voice, although he was a little nuts, but the capper was Irra Petina who played “The Old Lady.” She was the embodiment of every bad joke you’ve ever heard about an opera diva. She was absolutely paranoid—convinced I was trying to steal every moment from her. If I came up with a piece of business, she would repeat it right after me. When we all lined up for our final bows, she always, and I mean always, put her hand in front of my face. I had my little ivory fan with me, and when I gently whacked her hand she always looked surprised, as if she had no idea what she had done. A few days before we opened on Broadway, Tyrone Guthrie called a rehearsal and gave us all notes. We were sitting in a circle on the stage. Irra happened to be next to me, and Dr. Guthrie spoke to me first. He said, “Barbara, what you’re doing is fine—it just needs to be bigger. You need to make bigger gestures.” Then he said to Irra: “The opposite is true for you. I need for you to tone it down.” Irra looked at Tyrone Guthrie and immediately replied: “Well, if Barbara would do it bigger, then my performance wouldn’t look so big.”
The stage manager had it even worse with Irra. When he went to her dressing room to give her a performance note she smacked him! What a piece of work she was. When I look back on her behavior now, it seems laughable, but at the time I found her to be a complete pain in the ass.
Most of the cast, with the exception of the character actors and Max Adrian, our “Dr. Pangloss,” were all opera singers. It was very intimidating, not only for me but also for Max. He was upset because he had told Bernstein the absolute limits of his vocal range and then Lenny had written beyond it in the “Gavotte.” As a result, Max was struggling with the number and was a bit miffed, but he also happened to be an island of common sense. My favorite gem of his: “When in rehearsal never stand if you can sit, and never sit if you can lie down.” Oh, what a nice man Max was.
We began rehearsals and I’d continually find myself looking around the room at Leonard Bernstein, Lillian Hellman, Tyrone Guthrie, Irene Sharaff, Richard Wilbur, and—who? Me? Barbara Cook? That’s not false modesty. It’s really how I felt then.
As rehearsals progressed, every time we got to the place where I should be singing “Glitter,” they skipped over it, to save my voice, I suppose. They may have been trying to save my voice, but it was also not helping me at all. My fear grew. The company had all heard of this difficult aria written for Cunegonde and certainly were aware of the fact that I was not an opera singer. Barbara Cook, Miss Musical Comedy of 1956, was going to sing this showpiece, so they were all very curious about the aria.
Again and again at rehearsal we would skip over the song until finally, knowing that I would eventually have to sing it in front of the entire company, I hatched a plan with one of the rehearsal pianists. I explained the situation to him and suggested that one day, as the cast straggled back from lunch, I would be singing the aria, pretending to have come back early so I could rehearse with the pianist. The plan worked. When the cast listened, they were excited for me. I had made it through! I wanted and needed my fellow cast members’ approval, and when the song went over, I gained a little bit of confidence.
We went to Boston for our
out-of-town tryouts, and I have a distinct memory of Lillian from that time, and of her extraordinary wardrobe. She was such a lady, and possessed great style; when we boarded the train for Boston she arrived with a dozen hatboxes and two huge wardrobe trunks.
We arrived in Boston and I was a wreck, but even so, we all had a hilarious moment on the night of the first preview. It was some sort of benefit and Guthrie went out to address the audience before we started: “The lighting may not all be focused. . . . Some of the actors don’t have all of their costumes, and the scenery that is here may not work as it should—so just keep your peckers up.” He was so British and of course that phrase does not mean quite the same there as it does here in the U.S. We were listening to him behind the curtain and we screamed with laughter. The fact that we were in “proper” Boston made it even funnier!
But that light moment didn’t last. The night of that first preview, and at each succeeding performance, I’d hear the first few notes from the oboe at the start of “Glitter and Be Gay” and I would just freeze, frightened to death. I could only plant my feet, clasp my hands together, and pray I could get through the song one more time. The emotional fear was much more draining than any physical exertion—I couldn’t work past the feeling that I was going to fall off the cliff. I was so miserable that I was seriously contemplating trying to leave the show—leaving a Leonard Bernstein musical when all I had wanted for most of my life was to be in Broadway musicals. I was one scared and confused young woman, and the creators knew I wasn’t delivering properly. I was not having any fun, not acting it at all. I was still on the page, not on the stage. I didn’t know what the hell to do, and it got to the point where I hated the idea of going to the theater, hated facing the terror that awaited me every night. An emotional impasse had developed, a barrier between me and the music. I was singing it but not feeling it at all.
