Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb (26 page)

Knives. All sizes. The most expensive ones you could own. An extra fancy set of moose memorabilia or an extra fancy subliminal message? No time to decode now; must move on, move on.

Dennis left to retrieve his mother and Aelred, and I waded through the carnations and chrysanthemums to throw myself at the mercy of the friends and family members that had begun to accumulate. It was a crazy kaleidoscope of faces from all my years on earth. I half expected Howard Morris as “Uncle Goopy” from the old Sid Caesar parody of
This Is Your Life
to burst out of the crowd and wrap himself around my leg. Jane was there with her mother, proffering more gifts that would have to wait to be opened until the party at Sardi’s after the show. Marc had squeezed himself into a ten-year-old suit and was concerned about where he’d be sitting this evening. I worked my way through kisses and hugs and more gifts, into the bar where Brother Aelred and Mary Ann were just finishing their cocktails. It was here that I confronted my oldest brother Harrison, his wife Jane, and their youngest son, my nephew Bruce.

You have to understand something. We Bicknells are not big on reunions, especially when the occasion calls for joy. So, for the first few hours, at least, this was a horribly awkward time for all of us.

Harrison, it turned out, was in a bit of a panic. All the Bicknell tickets had been picked up by our other brother Bruce the day before—and Bruce, apparently, was somewhere between LaGuardia and the O’Neill with our Uncle Arthur and Aunt Emma in tow.

“There’s a holdup in the Bronx, Brooklyn’s broken out in fights . . .”

I listened as best I could about how difficult the traffic was in this city and how outrageously steep the rates were at the New York Hilton (where Uncle Arthur was staying) until the lights began to flash and the crowd began to file inside.

I remained outside with Harrison scanning faces for Bruce, grateful for such a specific task. Bruce and party finally appeared, and before I knew what was happening, I was having my picture taken by an irrepressible Aunt Emma, who was one person having the absolute time of her life. (She was only a Bicknell by recent marriage.)

This may not be the fairest appraisal of what was going on with my family during all this. Most of them had no idea what we’d been living through these past several weeks, and for all they knew the curtain was about to rise on another “Death Trap” or “Sleuth”—had they been able to name a couple examples of successful Broadway mysteries. For better or worse, these were our very last moments to enjoy any sort of hopeful expectation, and we did the best we could with whatever little we had. Even the usually somber Uncle Arthur was flashing a smile as bright as any matinee idol, while Aunt Emma flitted about snapping candid shots like Annie Leibovitz.

We’d managed to comp Jane, her mother, Marc, and Mary Ann. The other two tickets from our party—Brother Aelred’s and my own—had been paid for, so I decided to actually use mine and sit with the others in the midsection of the orchestra. I walked in with Rex Reed and tried my best not to look like I was aware of it. I left him somewhere center orchestra, and then went down the aisle a few more rows to take the seat Marc had thoughtfully saved for me. I settled down with him securely on one side and Jane and her mother on the other, and comfortably waited for the thunder clap, the plaintive moose bellow, and the (unbeknownst to some of us, at least) swan song performance of Snooks and Howie’s “Jeepers Creepers.”

It might have been where I was sitting, but the show’s reception seemed very good. Granted, the seats were filled with family and friends but, I’ve got to say, neither group was particularly known for exhibiting any wayward, overzealous display of tolerance. I was even able to mingle and receive compliments at intermission, something I’d assiduously avoided since wandering downstairs to use the restroom during one of the previews, and being gut-kicked by bits and pieces of overheard “critiques.” The only thing that had saved me then had been my anonymity and the good sense I had to make a hasty exit. Tonight, conversely, I was wearing a lapel pin a friend had made me of the terrified Moose logo with a thought bubble over its head that read: ‘Opening night…’ so there might as well have been a red neon arrow pointing at me and following me around.

John, Suzanne, Ricka, and Albert had all chosen not to sit and were clustered together in the back. I saw them all very briefly, and they seemed as encouraged as the rest of us. On reflection, I have to say I’m glad I watched this last show from the house. It was good to be engulfed by the steady flow of giggles and guffaws and even the occasional ooohs or aaahs. For one brief shining moment, this was the opening night of my dreams.

After curtain calls, I sent Brother Aelred and Mary Ann back to the limo, told Jane I’d meet her at Sardi’s, and ran backstage to make the climb up to Dennis’s dressing room. Such commotion! Countless flowers had yet to be claimed; I tried my best to find any that were ours, but was hurried out the door and into the limo by Dennis, himself full of uncustomary mirth. Something nontoxic was in the air at the moment; God only knows where it had come from, or how long it would last.

The Eugenia Room at Sardi’s was elegant and radiant. A dance band was already playing as we checked our coats. Alan met us in what appeared to be a reception line. “I’m on the groom’s side,” he quipped. He also came up with what was to my mind the best analogy for the evening: “Being at a friend’s opening night is like going to Disneyland and studying for your final exams all at once!”

The party was downright festive, with very little foreshadowing of the total decimation only hours away. I do remember Robert Johanson, who’d directed
Masterpieces
, looking at me rather sadly, I thought, and saying to me “Well, Arthur—you’ve written a funny play.”

Oh, oh. There’s that word “funny” standing alone in the cold wind again, without its overcoat or scarf.

Harrison took me aside and said “I can’t say I understood everything I saw and heard…but if the reviews are bad, I’ll have to disagree with them.”

“But,” he added before returning to his table, “I won’t be able to agree with the
good
ones, either.”

That should cover everything; I understood.

The food was yummy, or so I was told. I preferred to drink. And the drinks were endless. Everywhere I looked there were friends and family from all over the country, basking in the glow of Arthur and Dennis’s Broadway Debut. I’d brought the Polaroid, and like the documenting fool I am, made sure I’d gotten a portrait of just about everybody present. It was worth it, of course, both now and then. These wonderful people—all of them—with their devotion and untarnished affection—made up a force field that was absolutely overwhelming—and was later to provide a desperately needed sanctuary.

Around eleven, the crowd quickly and methodically began to thin. Most of them knew what was coming, and that it would be safest not to be around when the tsunami actually hit the beach. Ricka and Dennis left for the publicist’s office, both of them forbidding me to tag along. This gave me an extra forty-five minutes of blissful ignorance.

The band, without warning, began to play “Nearer My God to Thee.”

No, not really, but wouldn’t that have been ballsy?

Harrison gathered up brother Bruce, Uncle Arthur, and the rest of his clan. He jotted down my phone number so he could call “first thing in the morning.” What either one of us would find to talk about then was beyond our imagination, I’m certain, but it seemed to both of us like a very good way to end things.

Dennis finally returned and drew me away from the others. I remember how gently—how lovingly—he placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear.

“The
worst
,” he said.

Every television critic with the exception of Pia Lindstrom (who was merely ambiguous) went after the show with an almost unprecedented malice. I say “almost,” only because my research has not been inexhaustible, and there
might
be a show in the dark ages that gathered equally bad or worse press.

Doubt it, though.

“Atrocious.” “Horrendous.” “Somebody by the name of Arthur Bicknell . . . who should change his name immediately . . .”

Most of the network commentators mercifully left out names. Many remarked that Eve Arden was fortunate to have abandoned the sinking ship at the eleventh hour. The director and/or his direction were rarely mentioned—the only perpetrator to be singled out besides me was Ricka on behalf of Force Ten Productions.

The dailies were no better. Clive Barnes decided he wouldn’t waste people’s time with a review. Instead, the
Post
ran a graffiti moose along with the announcement that there would be no review of this inane production. This was perhaps both the cruelest and the kindest decision made by a press member.

I asked Dennis what it had been like in the press room.

“Ricka and I just sat there,” he said. “It was one stab wound after another, with no relief. We were glad that you and John weren’t there for the massacre.”

After a respectful duration, we were quietly joined by John, Lillie, and Ricka. The only cast member still around was Lisa, who now deferentially approached our huddled mass of show refugees.

“Hey, you. Mr. Brilliance,” she said in her deep, gravelly voice. “You’re before your time.”

That helped a little, I think. It’s hard to separate all the different feelings I was bombarded with at that moment. I know I was truly experiencing them all, though—my body hadn’t gone into shock, and I wasn’t numb. I was feeling everything very acutely.

I remember Jane approaching me, her eyes wide and sharply focused. “Where do you want me?” she asked. “I’ll stay with you—go away—whatever you want.”

I didn’t actually break down into tears until Jane’s mother Mary put her arms around me, stroked the back of my head, and murmured “I love you.” My own mommy had been dead for seventeen years, so I’d forgotten how good this kind of maternal hug could be—especially when your heart was breaking.

A small band of us ended up at Curtain Up, a theater restaurant near Manhattan Plaza. We drank, theorized, schemed, drank, commiserated, analyzed, drank, drank, and drank again, well into the morning. After that, Dennis and I saw our out-of-town visitors off, and then stumbled into an all-night diner to discuss the next steps. I believe we had a couple of ideas for next steps, but sleeping definitely wasn’t one of them.

The next day Lillie invited us to lunch at a French restaurant on 61st street. This, along with the company of Brother Aelred and, yes, even Mary Ann, provided us with the welcome distraction to help us cope with this especially gloomy day after.

It was raining, of course.

We went back to the O’Neill one last time to pick up some remaining flowers and to say our goodbyes to several cast members. Workers were already depositing large chunks of Marj Kellogg’s beautiful set onto the street for trash pickup. This was the single most devastating sight I took in during the whole catastrophe, and I still dream about it sometimes.

“Like a phoenix!” exclaimed Jack, as we walked into the theater.

“Hey!” shouted Holland, when she caught sight of me. “You were killed!”

You bet,” I said, as I watched June Gable make her rounds tossing snapdragons into each dressing room.

“Flores. Flores para los muertos! Flores para los muertos!” she chanted.

“Listen,” continued Holland. “They wanted this
out
. They were after blood!”

She thought this explained—at least in part—why none of the critics had addressed the play itself in their reviews, other than listing the cast of insufferably inane characters they’d had to endure for two hours.

“They didn’t want anyone to misconstrue anything as a possible compliment,” she said. “Nothing you could possibly excerpt for an ad to keep the thing running!”

“We’re not defeated,” I lied.

“Of course not! You’re professionals now,” she lied back.

But the words made me feel good, I have to admit. If nothing else, I’d paid some dues. Maybe I could take pride in that.

“Flores! Flores para los muertos!”

Then again, maybe not.

June threw me a snapdragon, and then disappeared up the stairwell. I handed the flower to Lillie, who happened to be standing next to me.

“I don’t think you got enough of these,” I said.

The Lady Roach curtsied sweetly, and accepted her floral scepter.

“You know,” she said, “whatever else they can say, we got there!”

True enough, I suppose, but that didn’t stop me from recalling a famous quote from Gertrude Stein:

“There is no
there
there.”

A week later,
Newsweek
published an article in its business section entitled “A Bad Case of Broadway Blues,” which used
Moose Murders
as a major example of a disastrous season so far for 1983. “The bouncy tune of ‘The Lullaby of Broadway’ has turned into a discordant funeral dirge this year,” wrote David Pauly. “Twenty of the 31 shows that opened this season have already closed. Twelve of Broadway’s 38 theaters are dark and the ominous shadow will spread in the coming weeks when at least three more shows are likely to close. The venerable Shubert Organization, even with house-fillers like the sizzling new ‘Cats’ and the long-running ‘Dreamgirls,’ expects to suffer a 4 percent drop in ticket sales for the season. Says Shubert president Bernard Jacobs, ‘Broadway is in a recession, a cyclical slump.’”