Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb (16 page)

He nodded. As a full-time captive observer, he had some other questions, too: Was John aware of the play conceptually? Were there gaping holes in logic? Was anybody watching the store or just gorging on penny candy?

He said he’d chatted briefly with June about this, who’d told him, “You know, my friend Orson Bean didn’t want me to do this play. He didn’t think it worked.”

“I think I should try to prepare us both for divergent reactions,” Dennis said. “There’s a lot of rah-rah team zeal that tends to make certain truths a little opaque, you know?”

I said, “Yeah, I know.”

“I just hope that someone is remaining objective…” he said.

“And I don’t think it’s you or John” he also said.

After that little heart-to-heart, I became defensive and withdrawn, and we had quite a row. The end result was a discussion of the play’s ending and my discovery—not for the first time—that a large portion of it was indecipherably convoluted. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember the airtight logic I just knew I’d found when it was first written. I began to panic. This, I thought, was the sort of discussion I should have had with John before rehearsals even began.

In John’s defense, Dennis also told me that our director had prefaced this last runthrough with an order to all the actors to keep on top of the cues. “No business between lines—keep it at a clip.” This was an essential element of farce I hadn’t been entirely certain John subscribed to. With Eve’s lines down, I rationalized, we should soon be getting some fabulous results. All of the other actors, after all, were each continuing to grow in his or her own way.

Nursing my wounded pride, I stayed away from the rehearsal on Saturday. Dennis phoned to report that a miracle had evidently occurred overnight, and Eve had most of her lines down for Act One—as written, in fact. “And get this,” he said. “She’s even begun to
act
! I think it’s safe to say she now has a vague awareness of what’s going on in the play!”

“What makes you think that,” I said.

“Because afterwards she told me, ‘you know, I think Hedda should be more dignified at the beginning.’”

Eve lit up every time an opportunity became available for her to contribute something to the show other than memorized lines. One of the reasons Friday’s runthrough had been so rough was that it had come after a taping of the radio spots, and Eve had rushed to the studio early in the morning. Once there, she’d carefully gone over the copy and decided that it gave too much away. Rather than “There goes my daughter!” after the gunshot, for instance, shouldn’t it be “Could that be my daughter?” She cheerfully rewrote all of the ad copy in this fashion. She was right on the mark, too, and became eager to boast of this improvement. You could see how proud she was of her gift to the promotional campaign.

Her star’s vanity was ever present. Despite its figurative connotation, the line “I didn’t want you to soil those lovely hands” had to be struck. Eve was adamant that no attention ever be drawn to her hands—especially when uncovered by her gloves. Little by little, however, as she began to take ownership of the project, she began to let her hair down—quite literally, in fact. My heart skipped a beat the day she came flouncing into rehearsal without a turban, proudly sporting what very well might have been her own perky red hair—the current Arden insignia.

She remained nervous about televised interviews so we had to wait until we moved into the theater before allowing
Entertainment Tonight
to bring their cameras to a rehearsal. Although she seemed to be adjusting to the hectic pace outside of the Minskoff, she still had some classic absent-minded moments. Once, while Cliff, the assistant stage manager, was escorting her to her limo, the two were accosted by a woman asking the location of the Golden Theater. Cliff claimed not to know, and then watched the lady’s jaw drop as she recognized the person he was standing next to. “Are you Eve Arden?” gasped the lady. Eve turned to Cliff and stared blankly. After a dead moment or two, Cliff finally said, “Yes! You’re Eve Arden! Now get in the car!”

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if somebody—anybody—had taken off the Isotoners and slapped Eve around a little.

Just a little; don’t get excited.

If we weren’t being cloyingly deferential, we were throwing around cryptically backhanded compliments. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of humor, but I don’t think it’s particularly useful as an aide memoire.

See, it was about balls. Nobody having any, I mean. Except maybe Ricka, who finally sent Sue Henry to Eve’s hotel room on a nightly basis to run lines. But Sue was at the mercy of Brooks, who apparently had a hundred ways to excuse his wife from any hard-core study each and every time Sue showed up. Eve never really improved for very long, and this remained the elephant in the room right up until the first preview.

I hope that doesn’t give too much away for those of you who weren’t there.

Speaking of slapping around, we actually hired a “fight master” to handle all our violence. Onstage violence, that is. His name was Kent Shelton, and if you’re going to have a fight master, pick this guy . . . if he’s still doing it. It certainly sounded like a James Bondian occupation, so I wasn’t really surprised when Kent turned out to be a hunky matinee idol—Errol Flynn without the moustache. At the time he was working with a group performing jousts on horseback at Renaissance fairs across the country. I sometimes fantasized about being his serving wench.

Kent taught Lisa various karate stances (since, as the play’s reliable device, Nurse Dagmar most assuredly was called on to kick and arm chop). I believe one of the reactionary lines I gave to Snooks was “
Chink crap, eh
?” which may give you a better understanding why many of the critics were relieved when much of the play proved ultimately inaudible.

He taught Nick how to leap from a balcony onto the back of a moose, and, as if this were not enough, he taught Mara how to stamp on feet and throw sucker punches into various unprotected crotches. Good times.

But we didn’t stop at a fight master.

We brought in a choreographer, or “dance coordinator” as the union preferred to call her (Mary Jane Houdina), who worked on Mara’s spontaneous tap numbers. In addition, she gave June some “cheese bits” for her act. (Talk about taking coals to Newcastle!) We also hired a music director (Ken Lundie) to help June and Don with their Singing Keenes numbers, in particular an off-key version of
Jeepers Creepers
that opened the show. Ken taught them how to be really, really bad.

That’s right. We actually outsourced some of our bad.

Despite the constant problems and setbacks Eve provided by not learning her lines, I did manage to allow myself to get excited—even ecstatic—from time to time. Like when Ricka called to let me know she’d booked me my first interview. About time! I’d been wondering where the press had been hiding as I prepared for my big, auspicious Broadway debut.

I was pretty sure I was ready for Brendan Gill, Rex Reed, or even Barbara Walters.

What I got was a short and bulbous guy from
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
.

I met Ricka at Sardi’s to wait for him. We thought he was late, but he’d actually been there for quite some time before us, distracted by some commotion at a table around the corner involving incessantly exploding flashbulbs. Which probably meant celebrities, right? Hot cha cha! He reluctantly pulled himself away from this activity to join us.

“Something big goin’ on over there,” he said, and then distractedly began to ask me a series of uninspired questions. But I answered each of them professionally and eloquently, all the while trying to remember if I’d ever even seen a copy of
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
. Shorty never once looked me in the eye, merely throwing me an occasional “yeah” or “go on” as he continued to strain his neck to see what was going on at the other, obviously far more
mysterious
, table.

“If he was from any reputable publication,” said Ricka, once this dweeb had left to go to the john, “I’d be on the phone now telling them ‘never again.’”

He eventually returned from the toilet, but I noticed he took his time creeping down the stairs. He was like a baby elephant trying to hide his telltale bulk behind a telephone pole to spy on some really cool lions and tigers.

“You know, I just don’t recognize anybody over there,” he said, as he scooted his chair closer to the other table to get a closer look.

“The star’s right here,” said Ricka coolly, pointing at me.

I loved her madly at that moment.

Fanboy soon asked me everything he cared to, and wondered if he might be able to get a couple of comps for the show.

“If I’m there to review it,” he said, “it’ll be in the running for an
Edgar
!” (The
Edgars
are the annual awards handed out by the Mystery Writers of America to distinguished works in the mystery genre.)

“Oh, is
that
how we get one of those?” said Ricka.

We also got a free copy of
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
. He was out of the other publication.

The third week of rehearsals began with my first theatrical erection. I almost feel sorry for folks like August Wilson and Neil Simon, who’ve watched so many marquees go up over the years they must now be totally indifferent to such ceremonies. I’d been excited a little earlier when the first quarter-page ad for the show hit the Arts & Leisure section of the
New York Times
. When Dennis and I were given our own collection of the
Moose Murders
posters that were being circulated around town (and where is this collection now, when I
really
need it), I flipped out. But none of this prepared me for the thrill of watching
hardware
that said “Moose Murders” being mounted high above the Eugene O’Neill theater. Dennis brought along his video equipment and taped our little enclave (Lillie and Marc had joined us) paying homage to this groundbreaking event.

I went back later by myself and walked by the theater several times, pretending to be a passerby getting his first gander at this upcoming spectacle. Back and forth; forth and back. “Hmmmm.” I remember thinking, as an innocent bystander. “Looks like a new play.

“‘
And
Lillie Robertson?’ they say. Wonder who that is?!?”