Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb (21 page)

The set, on the other hand, was shaping up nicely. The moose heads—all three of them—were fantastic. Along with a coiled rattlesnake, a stuffed goose, and several skeletons from identifiable woodland creatures, the skull of what could only have been a unicorn held a prominent position. All the trees had left the front of the house and were now visible through the windows of the lodge. I knew the “rain machine” had been installed, and tomorrow, ironically for the first “dry tech,” we would see and hear it in action—along with sound and lighting effects to create “one of this region’s notoriously severe rainstorms.”

The familiarization rehearsal resumed directly after the photo call, and tempers steadily began to wear dangerously thin. How much longer would June and Don be able to abide each other’s attempts to steal the scenes they were sharing?

How much longer would Nick be able to put up with Lillie’s insistence that the rehearsal be stopped dead in its tracks for yet another question she had for John about specific moments of self-actualization her character Lauraine may—or may
not
be experiencing at this specific moment? Probing questions that were—I needn’t mention at this juncture—rarely answered to her satisfaction.

How much longer would any of the others be able to withstand the incessant clicking and clacking of little Mara’s tap shoes?

Crisis hit when Eve pushed Dennis and his wheelchair into Jack, ran to get out of the way, tripped over a floorboard, and fell flat on her face.
Clunk
!—like a sack of potatoes.

Everything froze for at least three seconds—including my pulse.

As if on cue, everyone on stage came out of this trance together, and rushed to assist her. She was moving, and waving the “okay” sign.

I leaned over to Sue Henry, who had the misfortune to be sitting next to me at that moment.

“There goes the show,” I whispered. “Now we’ll have to shoot her.”

But, as my mother used to say,
up she jumped and rubbed her bump
, and—aside from a bruised knee—appeared to be in no worse condition. She blamed her pumps for this mishap, complained that the boots she was supposed to be wearing were still being custom made.

Jerry let the actors go to lunch an hour early after this, and gave them all a little pat on the back verbally—something I wished John would do from time to time. “Say something encouraging to them,” I thought. “Hell, say something discouraging—just
talk
to them!”

“I wish he’d
set
something” muttered Jerry that evening as I stood in the wings watching the runthrough.

But that wasn’t John’s style—it never had been. I don’t really know what his style was, but it didn’t include much communication with anybody on or off stage. Tonight we encountered technical problem after problem—as was to be expected when you begin to execute blocking on the real set for the first time. Through them all, John remained silent. The actors had to scream out “John!” before he’d attend to anything, and even then, he’d seldom say anything beyond “fine” in response to anything they asked. Jerry, in fact, began to direct by default. The cries for “John!” gradually changed to less frantic calls for “Jerry.” They didn’t have to shout for Jerry. He was right there, doing what he could.

After lunch Pat held a cue-to-cue for the lights in Act One. This went off nearly without a hitch; her talent was dovetailing Marj’s. It was only when the actors were brought on stage that things began to spiral downwards once again.

“Oh, Jerry . . .” drawled Eve at one point, no longer the least bit self-conscious about interrupting the flow of the runthrough. Perhaps because there was no flow, and never had been. At this point it was barely a trickle.

“Yes. Eve?”

“Don’t you think we should postpone Saturday’s preview? I just don’t think we’re going to be ready.”

“Talk to John.”

“Well, every time I do, he tells me to talk to Ricka!”

“John?” called out Jerry.

“What?” came back a voice from the third row orchestra.

“Eve wants to know—”

“Just keep going. You’re doing fine.”

“Okay,” said Jerry. “Let’s take it from Eve’s line, ‘Tell me, where is your caravan?’”

“Fine,” said John.

Eve shook her head and raised her eyebrows, then soldiered on.

“Tell me,” she recited, turning to June and Don. “Where is your…
cadenza
?”

After that, she introduced her husband as Sidney
Holiday
and for some reason the rest of the cast found this so uproariously funny the rehearsal had to be stopped to allow them time to cumulatively get it together.

I remembered laughter, but I hadn’t heard it like this for a while. I was now pacing back and forth in the back of the theater while chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes. Marj and Dennis joined me there at one point, and I finally had the chance to tell the designer how much I loved her set.

“We’re considering contracting you to build us one of these on Big Moose Lake for real,” I said.

“So,” Dennis looked straight at Marj, and gestured toward the stage. “What do you think?
Still
think it’s funny?”

“I think the play is very funny.” said Marj. “I love the
play
.”

The rehearsal resumed, but everyone now seemed edgy as hell. Lisa and Don pulled some new business on June, and June received this by nearly pushing Don off the stage. Jack struggled to run up the stairs and across the balcony in his moose head, which virtually blinded him. Lisa cut her finger open on a moose antler, and Mara, running into a closet, slamming the door behind her, and then coming face to face with a huge blind Moose Man (only this time for
real
), burst into authentic tears and had to be comforted by her mother for quite some time. I don’t know if anybody ever comforted Jack.

Through it all John remained comatose.

“This piece of business doesn’t really work anymore,” somebody would say.

“Fine,” said John.

“There’s not enough time for me to make my exit,” somebody else would say.

“Fine,” said John.

Several hours later we threw ourselves into a cab, and, once home, stayed up for hours rehashing everything that had gone on and trying to convince ourselves any way we could that we’d be ready for the first preview on Saturday.

Here’s what I wrote in my journal that night. I think it pretty much sums up my grand delusion about this fiasco:

“We’re fortunate in many respects. The play is a farce, and, as such, really directs itself
.”

That’s right. Sort of like the Chia Pets™ that were becoming so popular that year. Just add actors, and watch your farce grow a full head of stage direction.

Here’s another gem from that same journal entry:

“
We
’
re also fortunate to have an ensemble of comic professionals who can all do farce and make the whole production seem coordinated
.”

Note the word “seem.” No play is ever
actually
coordinated, right? It only seems that way, due to the, oh, I don’t know, innate magic of theater, I guess. Who needs a director? This is farce. Which is another word for free-for-all. So just go nuts, please.

And our “comic professionals” included Lillie Robertson, who was performing her frothy bits of business as if she were a principal actor in the latest Hill Cumorah Pageant.

“Dennis tells me that should we ever find ourselves in the position of dealing with Force Ten again, we must insist that John not direct and Lillie not star.”

Can you see me vigorously nodding my assurance to myself as I wrote each word of that axiomatic line?

But, other than that, we’re having a wonderful wine; wish it were beer
.

I don’t bother reserving myself a seat for this first preview. I suspect I won’t be sitting still for very long. Before the performance begins, I do manage to sit for a spell with John, downstairs in the basement greenroom. We are both of us at a loss for ways to make ourselves useful. Mara skips by in her powdered-blue little sailor suit and matching bonnet, carrying an oversized lollypop—on her way to the stage for a final costume adjustment
.

We listen to her clickity-clack her way up the stairs
.

“
She in the show?” I deadpan
.

This cracks us both up, inexplicably
.

Aside from the fact that I am rapidly discovering that there is no safe, comfortable place to hang out in this entire Broadway theater, what troubles me most is that a show of mine in such bad shape is about to be presented to over a thousand people. I wander into the house and somehow manage to take solace by watching all those matronly usherettes in their appropriately funereal black frocks with the starched white collars, cheerfully going about their business escorting hundreds of strangers to their seats as if this is just another opening preview to just another show
.

Before I know it, the house lights dim, and I gingerly sit down in an empty aisle seat in the last row
.

Seconds after this the theater becomes totally dark. A long, mournful moose bellow shakes the overhead chandeliers. The audience laughs
.

So far so good
.

The curtain rises to the Singing Keenes’ execrable rendition of “Jeepers Creepers” already in progress. The audience seems to adore them, and gives them a burst of applause after their first exit
.

Nice, nice
.

Here comes Nurse Dagmar. Are they going to love her as much as the playwright does? Seems like it. Although Snooks and Howie get more response—and continue to do so once they return. Sight gags going well. Audience reaction may be getting a little tepid, now. That’s okay. Eve’s about to make her entrance
.

Oh my God
. Eve’s about to make her entrance.

I cover my face with my hand and begin to watch the play through my fingers
.

Nurse Dagmar opens the French doors and we get the full sound and sight effect of the rain machine. My God, that’s effective! Look at it coming down! Such a downpour! Splashing and spraying on everybody and everything! And the rain is so . . . so . . .
deafening.

Here now are the Holloway children: Stinky, Laurraine, and Little Gay, all huddled around their mother under her great big umbrella. The rain is crashing onto the top of the umbrella and pouring off its sides. It is Niagara. You can barely hear Eve’s first line:

“
Here we are children, here we are. Babies can let go, now
.”

What you do manage to hear is that unmistakable dipthongy delivery. Yep. That’s Eve Arden, all right
.

Hoots, hollers, and extended applause
.

Welcome back to Broadway
, Eve! We love you!

The audience stays with her as long as they can. They really do
.

Howie’s “blind” bits go over better than anything else—that and Stinky strangling Little Gay. Gay is despised. Mara, getting loud reactions to her shtick for the first time, begins to ham it up, indiscriminately tampering with other people’s business. (Both June and Lisa will have words with the child after the show. She is still a little green about reciprocity on stage, but with Miss Gable as her mentor, I have no doubt she will have a speedy education.)

But Eve’s performance is doddering, unsure, and at times sickeningly apologetic. By the end of the first act, there is no doubt where this play is going. You might be able to hear the flush above the rainfall
.

The suspense of the second act, for those who choose to remain, has very little to do with the play. It is more about whether or not Miss Arden will make it to the final curtain. What I see (when I dare to look) is somebody’s sweet old grandma, all dressed up for a party, who is obviously overwhelmed by all this excitement and needs to get straight to bed before she says another word or she may drop to the floor in exhaustion
.

They give June the biggest response for the curtain call—perhaps more out of sympathy and appreciation of her tenacity than for anything else. The applause dies down noticeably when Eve takes her bow
.

So much for deference to a living legend. This does not bode well
.

“
I guess they didn’t believe me as a villain,” she says to me after the show
.

As emotionally wrecked as I am, this confession from her breaks my heart. I don’t remember a darker moment than this one
.

Dennis, who has spent the evening wrapped in gauze from head to foot, is not so sympathetic
.

“
What did you expect her to say?” he asks. “God, I sucked! Let’s fire my sorry ass!
”

I go outside for just a moment to say goodbye to some of my friends from Air France to whom I’ve given comps this evening, and find that the only way back into the theater is through the stage door. Unfortunately, this is now blocked by a swarm of autograph seekers that has already enveloped Eve and Brooks. I figure I’ll squeeze by unnoticed, but am not unpleased to hear my name shouted loudly and enthusiastically by somebody in the crowd
.
A Playbill and pen are thrust at me; I graciously take the pen and confront my fan
.