Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) (5 page)

Originally, the plan was that at the penultimate moment, the girls, led by Sally, would put together a realistic show for their husbands and the party guests. During rehearsals for their show, history would repeat itself as Sally and Ben would run off to Weissmann’s upstairs office together to relive a moment of youthful indiscretion, creating a scene in a slightly surreal time warp. This was in some ways the apotheosis of an idea that Sondheim had dealt with at the end of the first act of
Anyone Can Whistle
where reality and fantasy merged in the song “Simple.” As
Follies
transformed, the idea of the girls’ doing a show remained, but Hal liked the idea of making it surreal. A Follies, if you will, in which the entertainments resonated with the characters, where ghosts and present-day characters would break through time boundaries and turn on each other or comment on each other. It would be a reenactment of a Follies from days gone by—but with a twist. Whoever was to sing “Losing My Mind,” for example, would be doing just that. And each of the four lead characters would have a turn. This was clearly exciting and innovative, but one problem continued to haunt everyone: Once we’re in this surreal follies, how do we get out and get back to reality? No one yet had the answers, and as a result, several songs for the show, including most of those needed for this still-developing sequence, had yet to be written. In fact, the last page of the script that would be handed out on the first day of rehearsal read: STILL TO BE WRITTEN.

And the cast wasn’t complete. John McMartin had been cast just days before, since the original actor hired for the role of Ben, Jon Cypher, had backed out after participating in a reading of the script around a table in November. His performance had been lackluster, and something about the role troubled him. The role of his younger counterpart wasn’t filled either. And no one had been successful in finding an older ballroom-dancing couple to provide the modern-day versions of Vincent and Vanessa, a specialty couple whose bolero was to be a choreographic highlight of the show.

There were last-minute changes, additions, and deletions being made to the designs for scenery and costumes. All the designers were eager to hear what the Follies sequence would contain so that they could begin. For them, time was ticking away, as all new designs would have to be approved and budgeted before they could be handed over to the shops. The closer to opening night, the less time there is, the more overtime might be needed, and therefore the more things would cost. I also soon discovered that the whole production was way overbudget already. That at least partly explained why I was asked to be the gofer: the budget didn’t allow for a paid position, and I was free labor.

The dancing ensemble was already hard at work. It’s customary with a large musical for the dancers to begin ahead of the full company, so they had been called in on Saturday. When a break was called, the six men and eight women dancers emerged, and I was introduced. This was a friendly group—friendlier than other companies I had been around. When introduced to Michael, I reminded him that we had met a few months earlier at George White’s apartment, with the students from the National Theater Institute. “Oh,” he said, “I don’t remember much about that evening—I was too drunk.”

The four leading actors had been called in a week early as well. To the Broadway community, they were a surprising group, names with some recognition factor but without strong theater associations. Of the four, two had never appeared on Broadway, one had appeared only once (and that had been many years before), and one was familiar with the territory. They were all eager to get a head start on learning their songs, and Michael was anxious to see how much choreography they were going to be able to master, especially the women, since he already had a notion for “Who’s That Woman?” that would require some fairly extensive dancing from all the leading ladies. They were supposed to have been good dancers at one point in their lives, but they were now “of a certain age.” Some of the cameo parts had been cast with actors in their sixties and seventies, but the leads were only supposed to be thirty years past their dancing days. And they had to carry the show. Calling them in a week early would also help them feel comfortable with each other. They all arrived after lunch.

Alexis Smith and Gene Nelson had flown in from California. Although they were well known in Hollywood circles, starring on Broadway was a new experience for them both. Alexis, who would play Phyllis, had only appeared in summer-stock productions of musicals. Her career had been mostly in Hollywood, where she had been plucked by Warner Brothers directly from college in 1940 to play leading ladies in what ended up being a series of B-grade movies. They changed her first name from Gladys to Alexis, and cast her opposite many of Hollywood’s most romantic leading men—Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, Clark Gable. She often made a good impression in clearly secondary productions. Among her best films were 1945’s
Conflict,
which she nearly stole away from Humphrey Bogart and Sydney Greenstreet, 1954’s
The Sleeping Tiger,
directed by Joseph Losey, and
Night and Day,
in which she played Mrs. Cole Porter. She was clearly intelligent and was often called upon to play “disarming schemers and beguiling opportunists.” She had remained comparatively inactive during the 1960s, preferring the role of wife to Craig Stevens, who was enjoying success as the lead in the television series
Peter Gunn.
They had toured together in various theater productions, most recently with
Cactus Flower:
Looking quite smashing at forty-nine, she stood tall in red knickers, white shirt, and a blue sweater wrapped around her shoulders. She had an infectious, good-natured cackle of a laugh that could be heard echoing down the hall. Her straightforward manner was very helpful, if at times a bit harsh. When I asked if she wanted some coffee, for example, she replied: “I’m not a coffee drinker, so you never have to ask me again.” She was, however, always grateful and gracious when I did bring her what she wanted—buttermilk. I was told that at her first audition, she looked less than glamorous, but before her second she was put in the hands of Ruthie Mitchell and the show’s hair designer, Joe Tubens, who turned her into the movie star she had been in the 1950s. She also worked with David Craig, the guru of singing coaches for nonsinging actors. His magic was such that he was able to instill the kind of confidence that ultimately led her to win a Tony for her role in
Follies.
Although she gave off the aura of not caring profusely about her career, she was determined to be in this show and had worked tirelessly to get the part. It would prove to be the highlight of her later career.

Gene Nelson was very friendly. He had been an athletic actor-dancer in Hollywood musicals of the 1950s, originally a figure skater, best known for his role as Will Parker in the film of
Oklahoma!
His other dance films had titles like
She’s Working Her Way Through College, Painting the Clouds with Sunshine,
and
Three Sailors and a Girl.
Anticipating the end of his dancing career, he began to direct both feature films and television, including two Elvis Presley movies and a slew of television series. After changing his birth name from Eugene Berg, he appeared briefly on Broadway in the 1940s before moving west. When his name came up for
Follies,
Michael immediately remembered him as the best dancer in all those Hollywood musicals. He was quick and cheerful, always with a handshake at the ready, like a really nice and honest salesman. His character, Buddy, was in fact a traveling salesman, so he and Buddy were a neat fit. His usual attire was a light-blue sweatshirt, light-gray slacks, and white loafers. Our conversations rarely amounted to much more than “Hi there, Teddy boy,” but he was pleasant and open. He was clearly psyched for this experience, if a little nervous, looking trim and fit. He asked if it was okay for him to come in an hour early each day to warm up before rehearsal. He and Alexis compared Hollywood notes. He rattled off the guest list of a going-away party that had been thrown for him: “. . . oh, Donna Reed was there, and Tony Quinn and his wife came over . . .” The other Hollywood creature in the cast, Yvonne De Carlo, was a featured player who would show up with the rest of the company the following Saturday.

The other two principals were from the East Coast. Dorothy Collins was known primarily as a singer and for her appearances on television’s
Your Hit Parade
and
Candid Camera.
She had been spending a lot of time performing in the summer and winter stock circuits, mostly in musicals. Both Steve Sondheim and Hal Prince had Dorothy in mind for Sally. Sondheim saw her play Leona opposite her husband, Ron Holgate, in a production of
Do I Hear a Waltz?
At that moment, she became his choice for the role. Hal had auditioned her for the lead in
She Loves Me
and agonized between her and Barbara Cook, whom he ultimately hired. He knew he wanted to work with Dorothy at some point.
Follies
was the perfect project. She had begun her singing career at fourteen, when she changed her name from Marjorie Chandler and became “one of the finest vocalists of her era.” She made numerous appearances on various television shows, where she showed a flair for comedy. Petite and cheerful at forty-four, she was full of nervous energy, and very much the den mother. On occasion, she would bring in apples for everyone from a farm in New Jersey near her home.
Follies
was a really big deal for her, and she was an immediate favorite with the creative staff. John McMartin, a Broadway regular who first came to prominence in
Sweet Charity,
was extremely professional. Taciturn and shy, he was quiet to a fault. His demeanor never changed, although there was a twinkle when he smiled. He was such a late addition to the cast that three weeks earlier an ad had run in the Sunday
Boston Herald Traveler
for the engagement at the Colonial Theatre with Jon Cypher’s name in the credits.

Harold Hastings, the production’s musical director, arrived after lunch as well. At this point in the process, his main responsibility was to teach the songs to the actors. But as the director of the musical aspects of the production, he was kind of the stage manager for all things musical. A bespectacled, silver-haired somewhat patrician figure with one curiously wandering eye, he didn’t fit anyone’s cliché of a Broadway musical director or conductor. He looked and acted like a banker in shirtsleeves. He had been in charge of the music for the Harold Prince musicals for years, starting with
The Pajama Game
in 1954, with the exception, for some reason, of
Fiddler on the Roof.
He was remarkable in his calm, soothing manner, which built confidence in all types of performers—actors, singers, dancers, old salts, young whippersnappers. He commanded respect. Until everyone learned what they had to learn, his patience knew no bounds, but once they were supposed to know their stuff, he could be rather sharp. As rehearsals progressed, he helped the performers deliver the material in a way acceptable to the composer, the director, and the choreographer. He also had to coordinate all the musical aspects of the production: the dance and vocal arrangements, the orchestrations, the music copyists, and, finally, the musicians in the orchestra and the onstage band. He had a couple of rehearsal pianists to help, beginning with David Baker, a fairly well-known composer and arranger in his own right. It’s interesting that musicians are willing to help their comrades without concern for perceived position of hierarchy, provided, however, that the “gig” interests them.

Hal Hastings took over the smallest room. Because there were only a few people hanging around, he would come and find his next victim as if he were a doctor calling a patient in from the waiting room—“Next!” Alexis was ushered in first to learn “Losing My Mind,” a Helen Morgan—like torch song that was one of the first songs finished for the Follies sequence. Sondheim’s original idea was that it would be a double torch song, sung by both Sally and Phyllis, who would start at either end of a chorus line, slowly working their way toward the middle. Everyone in the chorus would have masks of Ben, since he was the object of both women’s affection. That idea was discarded in favor of a Jerome Kern–like song for Sally to sing while seated on a swing that would swing out over the audience. That left “Losing My Mind” for Phyllis alone, but another song—“The World’s Full of Boys (Girls)”—was being played around with for her as well. Giving “Losing My Mind” to the character of Phyllis was to emerge as a mistake before too long, but Alexis struggled her way through. At one point she turned to Hal Hastings and said, “Are you helping me here? Aren’t you playing a little something extra for me—like the tune?” By the end of the day, all four principals had been taken through “Waiting for the Girls Upstairs,” one of the first songs written for the show.