Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb (5 page)

“I’m sick and tired of the way they just humor us,” said Ricka, referring to Johnson, Liff, and Zerman.

“When I
tell
them to do something, they’ll go ahead and do it,” said John. “But that’s not enough.”

“We need them to take some initiative,” insisted Lillie, whom I was meeting for the first time this afternoon.

Unlike her husband, Lillie could be very outspoken—but this was something I wouldn’t really see for myself until we were much further along into the production. For now, all I saw was an uncommon blend of poise and vitality that came very close to matching my mental image of what a real Houstonian should look like. She had the kind of physical beauty that sends men off to their garrets to write pages and pages of gushy poetry. It was as if she’d stepped out of a Victorian cameo broach, thrown on a pair of designer jeans, and gone outside just long enough to let the sun burn off all that ivory veneer. And yet she somehow managed to completely retract her “larger-than-life” persona at will—so convincingly, in fact, that (warning—spoiler ahead) when future casting director Stuart Howard had first visited the Force Ten headquarters, he mistook her for “the maid.”

“They can’t get a handle on any of the five lead characters—not Hedda, or Snooks, or Howie, or Dagmar or Nelson,” continued John, “let alone Joe Buffalo Dance, Stinky, or Gay.”

“Or Lauraine,” I said, referring to Hedda’s mousy and neurotic oldest daughter—one of my favorite characters.

John sank back into his chair and delicately coughed up a little phlegm.

“No,” he finally said. “Lillie’s playing Lauraine.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Really? Wow. I guess in my mind I’d already discussed it with you. Sorry.”

“Would anyone care for some sparkling water?” asked Lillie.

Dennis later suggested that this would have been the perfect time for me to say “Well, in
my
mind Dennis is playing Nelson.”

What burned my ass was not so much that Lillie was going to play Lauraine (although I had a hunch we could find any number of less spectacularly beautiful candidates for the role out there somewhere), but that I, the father of the Moose, was apparently the last one to know about this nuptial agreement.

Some time before John rolled this little grenade under my chair, Ricka had made arrangements for Force Ten Productions to meet with Vinnie and Andy later that afternoon. The rest of us, now walking on eggshells and exercising round-shouldered civility, might never have found the collective spines to venture out of the Dakota onto the mean streets below had Ricka not continued to take charge. She practically buttoned our coats before leading us out the door to take care of business. It was quite obvious where the “force” in Force Ten Productions came from.

To our chagrin, Geoff and Andy weren’t particularly apologetic about the lack of progress with the casting for
Moose Murders
. As if speaking to very slow children, they explained to us that this was par for the course for most productions. “We spent two years trying to cast
Solomon’s Child
,” Geoff said, “intending to secure Dustin Hoffman or Al Pacino. We ended up with John McMartin. That’s the way it goes.”

“But McMartin was good. He was really
good
,” Andy was quick to add.

“Please tell us exactly where things stand right now,” demanded Ricka.

We were then given updates of the status of just about every actor who’d been approached to join the cast of
Moose Murders
. Alexis Smith was a definite “no,” no explanation offered. Zoe Caldwell’s production of
Medea
at the Kennedy Center in April would be moved to Broadway later in the season, so count her out, as well. There was chatter about a possible eleventh season of
Mash
which, of course, would tie up David Ogden Stiers, but rumor also had it that the TV drama
Lou Grant
was on its last legs, so Nancy Marchand might very well be “looking” again. Both Katherine Helmond and Carrie Nye had responded favorably to the script, but both wanted information on the rest of the cast, and about the director.

“This ‘director’ issue is the biggest single concern for most of these folks,” Geoff said, after he and Andy had exhausted their notes. “There’s a lot of trepidation out there about unknown directors.”

“Fine,” said John, petulantly. “I don’t mind trepidation, but it’s not as if my direction comes as a surprise
string
attached at the last minute. And I don’t appreciate all these ‘no’s’ without any reasons—especially when they come right after initial consents.”

“They just don’t know your work,” said Geoff.

“Well, that can be remedied. I’m directing a show at the Production Company at the beginning of March. But I’d rather not wait until then to see some results.”

“Maybe we should explore soliciting some agent submissions here in New York,” suggested Andy, “instead of going after glittering names from L.A.”

“You told us originally that you wanted to take care of the
legends
first, before going after the others,” reminded Geoff.

“Fine,” said John. “Give me a list of ‘real actors’ from New York.”

Leaving the Johnson-Liff office that afternoon, we all felt reasonably secure that our casting crisis was now under control. We all liked the idea of abandoning the movie-star wild Moose chase, and were eager to start hearing from all those great stage actors who, being so unconditionally committed to the vanishing art of live theater, wouldn’t be so goddamn picky about technicalities like playwright, producer, director, and Lillie Robertson as “Lauraine.”

When we were alone, I asked John how his investors would feel about “nonglitter.”

“My investors,” he said, “owe me favors. But I think I’d have a better chance of convincing them in the
next
tax year.”

All was still deathly quiet on the casting front in March when the “remedy” John had proscribed for those unfamiliar with his work as a director—a play called
The Chinese Viewing Pavilion
—concluded its run at the Production Company. Mel Gussow of the
Times
was not kind to the playwright or cast members (Lillie was one of these), but was comparatively easy on John:

“John Roach’s direction is listless.”

Still, this wasn’t exactly the kind of inspirational testimonial we were all hoping for.

After another few months went by with Lillie maintaining her status as the sole cast member of
Moose Murders
, it was looking as if John wouldn’t have to worry about saddling his investors with any 1982 expenses. The initial spring production date turned into a late September opening, which, in turn, became Halloween. After that, Geoff suggested that we wait for the first “fall fiascos,” and then move in to settle for a late winter/ early spring 1983 opening. John conceded that this would be a “possibility.” I kept waiting for the phone call from Ricka or John that would advise me that the project had been totally scrapped and that John had now decided to buy a football team instead.

During this time I kept in touch with Anne Meara fairly regularly. In June, John had me set up a meeting for the two of them, stressing that I was to tell Anne that he would be wearing his director’s hat only. (He had by now handed over most production elements to Ricka and the show’s general manager, Eddie Davis of Theatre Now, Inc.)

A few weeks after this meeting (which had gone well, according to John), Dennis and I ran into Anne at a bakery shop on West 57th street.

“Hey, Arthur! CBS is doing my movie!”

“Is this the play you were writing?”

“Nah, it’s a whole different project. We’re wrapping it up at the end of November, beginning of December. Locales in New England and Yonkers—all of ’em shot in L.A. What are you gonna do?”

“See,” said Dennis. “She’s available.”

“So, Anne,” I said, never one to ignore a cue to beat a dead moose, “is there a sparkle of interest left in
Moose Murders
?”

“Oh, yeah, the old ‘Moose that Roared.’ I’ll tell you, Arthur, here’s the thing. I think I’d feel guilty playing half a comedy team without Jerry.”

“How would you feel about playing half a comedy team
with
Jerry?”

“Terrific.”

“Well, I have my ways, you know.”

“This Moose still headed for Broadway?”

“Yeah, we’re targeting late winter or early spring now.”

“Who’s directing?”

“John Roach,” I said calmly. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times. You’ve talked to him on the phone. You visited his apartment about two weeks ago, and you had a lovely, lovely time.” I grabbed hold of both her hands. “John Roach, John Roach, John Roach!”

“Oh, God,” said Anne when I let her go. “You gotta forgive me. Do you know what it’s like having had your last period six months ago?”

In early July, Johnson-Liff Associates terminated their contract with Force Ten Productions. They sent John a letter explaining that they felt they had “exhausted” their energies toward the
Moose Murders
project, and that a “fresh approach” was perhaps called for. They said they felt very bad that the show had not been cast by this date and told Force Ten to feel free to consult with them for any casting advice in the future.

John actually seemed blasé about this news. To tell the truth, I was a little relieved myself. I can’t speak for the others, but the Johnson-Liff boys always made me feel as if I was sitting at the dweeb table at the school cafeteria. (Not that I wasn’t used to that, but still.)

As coincidence would have it, Geoff, Vinnie, and Andy weren’t the only ones to drop out of the picture in July. After meeting Anne at the bakery shop, I’d talked to John about offering Stiller and Meara the roles of “The Singing Keenes.” I was quite willing to expand Howie’s lines, to balance things out. John was all for it, and since we were currently without casting representation, he suggested that I call Anne to feel things out.

After a little small talk, Anne came right to the point.

“Arthur, I love you, and I love the play, but my priority is the CBS film.”

“I bet we could work around the film.”

“What can I tell you? I’ve also got a special for HBO with Jerry. But tell me something. Have you got a good director?”

“Yep. John Roach. I think I may have mentioned that already.”

“Who?”

“Don’t start with me, Anne. Just don’t do it.”

“Well, tell you what.”

“What?”

“You let me know when your director drops dead, okay?”

This time I got the message.

“Bunch of dilettantes,” snarled Dennis, obviously in need of having a thorn yanked from his paw.

It was the first week of August, and we were baking away in our tiny kilnlike apartment near Astor Place. The only word we’d heard from Force Ten Productions since the departure of Johnson-Liff Associates nearly a month ago was from Ricka, who called to see if I might be willing to coax Anne Meara to attend an upcoming fundraising event for the Production Company. I’d asked her how things were going with the show, and she’d told me that John had hoped Eddie Davis’s Theatre Now would take on the job of casting, but that they unfortunately had no time to spare for us since becoming immersed in projects for NBC Entertainment. “So,” she said, “we’re back to square one.”

“They’ll lose interest altogether,” Dennis predicted. “They’ll find another lollipop in the candy store. No big deal. Just give the money back to the investors and write this particular endeavor off as a tax loss.”

I tried to cheer us both up by rattling off all the feathers we’d managed to attach to our moose-hunting cap. Marjorie Bradley Kellogg had signed on as scenic designer. I remembered the magnificent set she’d designed for the recent George C. Scott revival of Coward’s
Present Laughter
at the Circle in the Square. She’d also created the sets for the Broadway productions of
Steaming, Extremities
, and
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
, so nobody could get away with calling this lady a dilettante.

Another gem, Betty Lee Hunt, had been hired as press representative. Betty’s agency, Hunt/Pucci Associates, was currently handling
Torch Song Trilogy
, and also had the Broadway productions of
Agnes of God
and
Crimes of the Heart
under its belt. And the wonderfully demented cartoonist Gahan Wilson had agreed to do the graphics.