Mark Griffin (9 page)

Though he was shy and self-protective, Vincente somehow managed to cultivate an impressive collection of friends. They would congregate in the West 53rd Street studio that Minnelli acquired in 1935 and in his “modernistic” apartment, which came complete with a Japanese valet named Hara.
ⁿ
Regular visitors included Yip Harburg, choreographer George Balanchine, writer Paul Bowles, and composer Kay Swift, who christened Minnelli’s salon “The Minnellium.” There were other visitors as well.

If Paul Stone’s Raymor Studio had been something of a gay refuge back in Chicago, The Minnellium may have offered the same kind of sanctuary in Manhattan. “Clearly Minnelli’s aesthetic interests and the world in which he lived was very queer,” says historian David Gerstner:

ALTHOUGH VINCENTE’S RESPONSIBILITIES at the Music Hall were multifaceted and ever expanding, they were also limiting. What Minnelli really wanted
to do was direct. His first offer came from “the theater’s bargain basement”—the Shuberts. Like everyone else, Vincente knew that the Shubert organization was a “shlock operation,” though now brothers Lee and Jake (also known as “J.J.”) were attempting to produce shows of higher quality. They hoped that by signing Minnelli, this would be a signal to theatergoers that the Shuberts were going legit.

The first of the three Shubert revues Minnelli agreed to oversee was originally called
Not in the Guidebook
. Vincente and collaborators Howard Dietz and Arthur Schwartz (whose songbook would later comprise the score for Minnelli’s
The Band Wagon
) envisioned their
Guidebook
as a colorful “musical holiday” in which stars Beatrice Lillie, Eleanor Powell, Ethel Waters, and Reginald Gardiner would romp through such exotic locales as Japan, Austria, and Africa. All of the globe-trotting prompts one of the weary adventurers to ask, “Why don’t we just take a trip around Paul Whiteman?”
⁴

“I had total autonomy and no expenses were spared in mounting the production,” Minnelli recalled. While this arrangement freed him up creatively, he was also operating under the onus that if the show didn’t come off, there would be nobody to blame but Vincente Minnelli. He seemed to prefer it that way, telling
Newsweek
: “One person should do everything in musicals, then original ideas remain un-tampered.” Credited with staging, settings, and costumes for what was ultimately retitled
At Home Abroad
, Minnelli knew that his professional reputation and future career were riding on the whole extravagant enterprise. In a sense, Minnelli was the whole show. And already there were some who wanted to give him the hook.

In a letter to business partner William Klein, J. J. Shubert let it rip: “I wish you would ask for a manuscript of
At Home Abroad
and read it yourself. I read it and believe me when I tell you that there wasn’t one outstanding thing in the play. . . . If you asked me to invest a five cent piece in the proposition, I would absolutely refuse to do so on its cold-blooded book and lyrics. My only hope is that it succeeds and gets over.” Of course, J. J. Shubert’s damning assessment of the material was obviously colored by what Vincente described as the intense “love-hate relationship” that existed between the Shubert brothers. “[They] had no personal dealings with each other,” Minnelli recalled. “Each headed his division of the company in separate but equal fashion. . . . Lee was marvelous, it was Jake who was the monster.”
⁵

Minnelli had no time to get caught up in the in-fighting. Digging his heels in, he prepared to work like never before. With this production, Vincente was determined to bring a modernistic sensibility to the Broadway musical as well as a thematic continuity that had been conspicuously absent from most theatrical revues. He was also intent on creating a show that
would have a fresh, bold look. He devised ways to effectively spotlight each member of the company, fully aware that this was the kind of production the trades termed “a personality show.” And what personalities. First and foremost, there was the inimitable Beatrice Lillie. In a priceless sketch entitled “Dinner Napkins,” Lillie appeared as the delightfully discombobulated Mrs. Blogden-Blagg. The snooty matron attempts to order “one dozen Double Damask Dimity Napkins,” which, after many mangled attempts, comes out as “two dizzen dozen doozan dankin nippers, only dibble drimmisk.”

Though she was clearly
At Home
’s headliner, Queen Bea (as the press affectionately dubbed Lady Peel) was the first to admit that the show’s success was dependent on the extraordinary ensemble that Vincente had carefully assembled: “We had the latest thing in tap dancers in Eleanor Powell, a long-legged, statuesque girl, who as Ashton Stevens used to say, ‘looked as if she had a mother.’ Ethel Waters invariably stopped the show with a Jamaican plantation number, which in these much altered times would probably bring out a picket line. . . . And I brought over from London a new leading man, Reginald Gardiner, who began by doing brilliantly original imitations of wallpaper.”
⁶

Although virtually every sequence in
At Home Abroad
was a knockout, Minnelli and librettist Howard Dietz locked horns over two elaborate production numbers: the scintillating Eleanor Powell showcase “The Lady with the Tap,” and “Death in the Afternoon,” a surrealistic ballet featuring the young Danish dancer Paul Haakon. The acerbic Dietz (whose Playbill bio included the memorable admission, “I am thirty-nine years old and drink like a fish”) wanted to eliminate these sequences. Dietz may have registered concern because both numbers were dance-centric affairs that weren’t dependent on his clever lyrics to succeed. Believing that both numbers were integral to the show, Vincente fought to retain them and ultimately prevailed. Minnelli was vindicated when these sequences were singled out for praise by the critics.

Minnelli was partial to “Death in the Afternoon” because of its “overtones of apprehension.”
⁷
The sequence concerned a young Spanish matador (Haakon) marching off to the bullring to meet his fate. The ballet employed innovative lighting techniques, and it was awash in a violent shade of scarlet that, years later, MGM designers would come to refer to as “Minnelli red.” Apart from the stylistic flourishes, the ballet also featured a fairly blatant helping of homoeroticism, as the handsome torero is dressed by two male attendants who seem unusually attentive.

If naysayer J. J. Shubert had been unwilling to invest a nickel in the “cold-blooded”
At Home Abroad
, he probably found himself warming up to the show as 2,000 people jammed Boston’s Shubert Theatre on September 3,
1935, for the world premiere. Despite the impressive turnout, the production’s creative team second-guessed themselves right up until the eight o’clock curtain. But as the evening got underway, the perspiration and panic attacks gave way to hopefulness. “Beatrice Lillie was given a near ovation at her first appearance,” the local press noted. By evening’s end, it was clear that Minnelli and company had a Broadway-bound hit on their hands.

Reginald Gardiner surrounded by adoring fans in a promotional photo for
At Home Abroad,
which took Broadway by storm in 1935. The
New York Times
declared: “What gives
At Home Abroad
its freshest beauty…is the scene and costume designing of Vincente Minnelli.” PHOTO COURTESY OF PHOTOFEST

While acknowledging that a bit of “skillful surgery” was in order, the
Boston Post
’s Elliot Norton (who would emerge as one of Minnelli’s most vocal early champions) concluded, “
At Home Abroad
is that loveliest of things to see in the theatre—a hit.”
⁸

Once the company returned to New York and prepared for the Broadway unveiling,
At Home Abroad
was retooled and scaled back. On opening night at the Winter Garden (September 19, 1935), lighting effects failed to come off and cues were missed. To an exhausted Minnelli, these relatively minor blunders seemed like signs of an unmitigated disaster. Fearing the worst, the director left the theater immediately after the curtain came down and went straight to bed, fully intending to skip the opening-night party. But the unqualified raves drew Vincente out from under the covers.

“What gives
At Home Abroad
its freshest beauty . . . is the scene and costume designing of Vincente Minnelli,” the venerable Brooks Atkinson declared in the
New York Times
. “Without resorting to opulence, he has filled the stage with rich, glowing colors that give the whole work an extraordinary loveliness. Nothing quite so exhilarating as this has borne the Shubert seal before.”
The New Yorker
concurred: “The settings, done by a young man called Vincente Minnelli, seem to me the best I’ve seen in a long time, being uniformly stylish, cheerful and intelligently in key with what’s going on.”
⁹

Prior to
At Home Abroad
, no one had ever simultaneously designed and directed a Broadway musical before. As critics used words like “innovative” and “original” to describe Minnelli’s work, he was both flattered and surprised that his efforts had made such an impression.

Vincente Minnelli was the toast of Broadway, a critic’s darling—the subject of adoring magazine profiles and the nucleus of an incredibly eclectic coterie of friends. Yet this wasn’t enough. Even now, when Vincente studied his reflection in the antique mirror in his Chinese red bathroom, it was still Lester staring back. “Here you are. . . . And what have you done?” always seemed to be the question behind that wanting look. For Vincente, the answer was always “not enough.” Even now, his father’s admonition, “Not up to your usual standard,” was always nagging at him.
¹⁰
In a very real way, “the usual standard” for Minnelli was one of almost superhuman achievement. No matter how hard he worked, nothing on stage could ever quite measure up to the magnificent images swirling around in his brain.

While audiences were still flocking to see Bea Lillie deliciously poke fun at all sham and pomp in
At Home Abroad
, Lee Shubert approached Vincente with an irresistible idea: resurrecting the Ziegfeld Follies. Although Ziegfeld had died in 1932, his widow, Billie Burke (still several years shy of achieving immortality via her role as Glinda in
The Wizard of Oz
), had given her blessing to a Shubert-produced
Follies
in 1934. The production was well received and even turned a modest profit in the midst of the Depression. Even though “The Great Glorifier” was gone, the opulent spectacle that was the
Follies
could still cast its spell. Encouraged by the reception for the 1934 edition, the Shuberts were ready to give the
Follies
another go, and Minnelli agreed to join them. Though they were never known for their extravagance, the Shuberts spared no expense in mounting the 1936 installment. They assembled a dream team that included Ira Gershwin (lyrics and sketches), Vernon Duke (music), and, direct from Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, George Balanchine (choreography).

The Shuberts had already tapped revue veteran John Murray Anderson to direct, while both sets and costumes were being entrusted to Vincente, who
would be paid $1,500 for his services. At least that’s how it read on paper. As those close to the production recalled, Minnelli provided “major uncredited assistance” to Anderson in a variety of ways. This included everything from establishing the visual concept of the show (which would be in “the spirit of a fashion photograph by Cecil Beaton”) to directing at least two of the sequences. One of these was “Night Flight,” an impressionistic ballet featuring the eternally unsmiling Harriet Hoctor and choreographed by Balanchine, who would become a Minnellium regular.