Then and Now (10 page)

But—
Candide
did great things for my career and I am extremely proud to have been a part of it. More than any other show in my career,
Candide
has given me a certain musical credibility I wouldn't have acquired otherwise, especially within the classical world. People who knew my work pre-
Candide
were, to say the least, sur
prised by this new “classical” Barbara. Franz Allers, the conductor with whom I worked on
Plain and Fancy
, was stunned and often spoke to me about the show throughout the ensuing years.

Candide
has now had two Broadway revivals, most notably the first one, in 1974, directed by Hal Prince. It was an environmental production where they took all the seats out of the orchestra floor and replaced them with benches and cushions, an odd and cramped seating configuration; when Katharine Hepburn went to see the show with her
Lion in Winter
director Tony Harvey, she was so uncomfortable on her stool, that after deciding the actors onstage looked much more comfortable than anyone in the audience, she turned to Harvey and said to him: “Dare me to join them onstage?” He did, and she did.

But brilliant as Hal is, he made a very strange choice in that production. At the end of the show, the entire cast sings the absolutely gorgeous “Make Our Garden Grow,” which was written while we were in rehearsal. Wilbur wrote the lyric first and Bernstein then went home to compose that beautiful melody. It's a transcendent, even spiritual moment, but while the cast was singing that extraordinary song, Hal had the cow come onstage and die at their feet. I just can't figure that one out.

That said, I must add that he is one of the most talented directors I've ever worked with. Yet here's another choice Hal made in
Candide
that strikes me as passing strange. In “Glitter and Be Gay” the singer takes center stage, but over on the left Hal had some person playing a pipe organ; the jewels, which are so important to the song, remained over by the pipe organ instead of being handy for Cunegonde. It was like the song was being performed by two different people—Cunegonde and the lady on the pipe organ. Frankly, all you have to do is stand there and inhabit the song.

Candide
has lived on in our original cast recording, which I think is a good one. I remember singing all day during that recording session: there were trios, duets, and quartets that all featured Cunegonde, and we recorded those
before
I sang “Glitter and Be Gay,” which was scheduled for after the dinner break. In other words, instead of just singing sporadically during a two-and-one-half-hour performance, I was scheduled to sing full out on multiple takes from eleven a.m. to five p.m., and then beyond. Knowing this could spell trouble for my voice, I forgot about dinner and went right to my doctor's office, where for the only time in my life I had my vocal cords shrunk with a spray. The doctor said they looked like a picket fence, they were so swollen from singing for so many hours. The spraying of vocal cords is a tricky procedure for a singer, but I trusted him, and it worked. (I've also never done it again.) I then went back to the recording studio and did three takes of the aria.

The funny thing is that Lenny couldn't be in the studio for the cast recording because he had a concert somewhere in the Caribbean. He showed up about eight p.m. and listened to some of the songs. He said Sam's tempos had been too fast. Maybe—but I think most people perform “Glitter and Be Gay” too slowly. Our recording is exciting as hell. To this day I receive compliments on “Glitter and Be Gay,” and I repeatedly hear that no one has ever bettered my rendition. But—

The truth is that I hear lots of things wrong with my version. I think the main mistake most people make with this aria is thinking that they have to “make it funny.” It is intrinsically funny and best when presented in earnest, as if sung by a dramatic teenager. It has to be carefully sung, particularly the “ha, ha, ha”s, because Bernstein did not intend them to be “runs.” Each “ha” should be sung
separately so that they sound like laughter. Lenny also wanted me to emphasize certain notes—for instance: “hahahahahaHAhahahaHAhahaha.” I never managed to fully accomplish that task. My voice teacher, Bob, told me that each “ha” is a little “push”—something you really ain't supposed to do. But, he assured me, the ensuing musical lines are legato and if I sang them purely I would immediately be okay after all those “pushes.” It's not your typical musical-comedy song; it's a brilliant, scary, exhilarating aria, and I remain immensely proud that I introduced it to audiences.

Candide
ran for only two months, but it acquired a cult following, and the closing-night performance was just like an opening. There wasn't a seat to be had and people were actually standing on their seats screaming: “No! No! Keep this show open!” There just weren't enough fans to keep it going indefinitely, and when the show closed I had a feeling of the rug being pulled out from under me. I always do at the end of a run. That's just how it is—especially when you have bonded with your fellow castmates. The cast, the crew, the ushers, the box office—everyone is working together with one goal in mind: to put on the best possible show. You experience a sense of belonging as soon as you walk through the stage door—you're a family. During a run your entire day is colored with the knowledge that you're going to perform the show that night no matter what. When the show closes, the entire structure of your daily life is yanked away and simply vanishes overnight.

I was fortunate to receive great notices for my work in the show, and, frankly, I was surprised not to receive a Tony Award nomination. Maybe it was because people just didn't know what to make of the show. When I did win the Tony Award the next year for
The Music Man
I decided that part of that award was for
Candide
.

After
Candide
a lot of people, including Bernstein, said, “You ought to do opera”; but I was never really tempted. I had a light soprano voice, and if I entered the world of opera I'd be singing Barbarina and Susanna the rest of my life. If I couldn't do
Tosca
I didn't want to play. There's just no way in hell I could sing the roles I liked—I'd kill myself trying to do that stuff. I also think the lifestyle of an opera singer is hard. There is constant, wearying travel, and you don't have the benefits of a long run, in which you can work on specifics and ask yourself, “How can I do this better tonight?” I love that kind of detailed work.

Difficult as it was to sing,
Candide
made my voice stronger. Singing the score became second nature, like breathing. Richard Wilbur made me angry years later when he was on
The Dick Cavett Show
and said I had nearly ruined my voice by singing
Candide
eight times a week. The exact opposite was true. I was singing properly, and by the end of the run my voice was stronger. And better. So there, Richard Wilbur. I was ready for my next adventure.

PEOPLE MAY HAVE
been talking about the possibility of my singing opera, but I knew that I was meant for musical theater, and shortly after
Candide
I performed in a second production of
Carousel
at City Center, this time in September of 1957, as Julie Jordan, the female lead.

Before
Carousel,
however, there was a detour to television for a live broadcast of Gilbert and Sullivan's
Yeomen of the Guard
. Alfred Drake, who had become Broadway's foremost musical leading man after his performance in
Oklahoma!
, was my leading man. I was pretty nervous about the live telecast, but Alfred was even more nervous. We began the performance, I looked at Alfred, who was usually unflappable, saw terror in his eyes, and knew I needed to stay calm.

The cast included Celeste Holm and Bill Hayes, and the great Franz Allers, who had conducted
My Fair Lady
on Broadway, was our musical director, so Alfred and I knew we were in very capable hands. In the end it all unfolded quite well, and then I was onstage at City Center again, playing Julie Jordan.

I actually had a better time playing the secondary role of Carrie in the production three years earlier, because Carrie is more fun. When I was playing Julie I couldn't fool around much backstage—I had to keep myself pulled in. I think the key to the role was to remember that Billy Bigelow was a very troubled
man and Julie had to be his calming influence. David gave me a terrific piece of advice when he suggested that I think of her as a cool, calm, lake. Well, as Dick and Oscar wrote, she's “quieter and deeper than a well.”

Shortly before
Carousel
I found myself in Hollywood filming an episode of the television series
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
. My appearance on the show was thanks to
Plain and Fancy
; Paul Henreid had come to see
Plain and Fancy
and told me later that he had made a note in his Playbill that read “Use this girl.” As a result, when he was hired to direct an episode of
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
on television, he cast me—as a nymphomaniac!

Hitchcock was not around, but Paul was very, very kind, especially to a still unseasoned television actress who was a bit unsure of herself on camera. I starred opposite Vic Morrow (who later died in that tragic helicopter accident during the filming of
Twilight Zone: The Movie
) and somehow got through the episode with Paul's kindness and David's help. The episode aired in June of 1957, right before
Carousel
, by which time I had signed for the female lead in a new Broadway musical.

I had received a call to come hear the score of this new musical, called
The Music Man,
at conductor Herbert Greene's apartment. Only one other actor was present, Andy Griffith, who was being considered for the leading role of Professor Harold Hill.

There was already a lot of buzz about the show, with people saying that the lead role was a terrific one for a singing actor. A great many people were considered, and many even tried out for it. You know who really wanted the role? Ray Bolger. Meredith Willson was not a proven Broadway composer/lyricist, however, and I have heard that the list of those who actually turned down the role was a long one: Art Carney, Gene Kelly, Bert Parks (who later ac
tually replaced Robert Preston on Broadway), and Jason Robards.

Now, Ray Bolger was a talented man and great fun, but that casting would have been all wrong. The key to the role of Harold Hill is that he has to be sexy as hell, and one of the things that made our production of
The Music Man
work so well was that Bob Preston was an extremely sexy guy; you really could imagine that the whole town—men, women, dogs, cats, and sheep—could have fallen in love with him. That's why it was so funny when Helen Raymond, who played Mayor Shinn's wife, Eulalie, would get so flustered talking to the Professor; she fluttered around him and did this funny little bit of business with her feet because she just couldn't keep still around Professor Harold Hill. It worked because Bob Preston was pure, walking sex—and, my God, he was great in that role.

I was blown away when I heard the score for
Music Man
at Herbert Greene's apartment. That was the first time I'd heard that rhythmic singing, that speak/sing dynamite rhythm that propelled the show forward like a train leaving the station, keeps gathering speed, faster and faster, until you just surrender to the sheer glory of the movement. I really did feel all of that even when it was just Herbert singing at the piano. I was knocked out. People forget that Meredith was a conservatory-trained musician, having played in both the John Philip Sousa band
and
in the New York Philharmonic under Toscanini and Stravinsky, and that training and experience showed.

The nice thing for me was that everybody seemed to want me for the role of Marian, the River City librarian and piano teacher who falls for con man Professor Harold Hill. Even though the role seemed to be mine, Frank Loesser, who was one of the producers of the show, had asked to hear me sing. He wanted to put his stamp
of approval on the whole thing, and when he said, “Sing some high notes,” I just ripped off a few high C's and E's. It was just what he wanted. He seemed to like big and loud, to the point that on his studio wall he had hung a sign that read:
LOUD IS GOOD, LOUDER IS BETTER
. Because everyone seemed to want me for the show, I don't remember sitting by the phone wondering the usual “Oh, am I gonna get this show?” I had already worked with Morton Da Costa when he directed
Plain and Fancy
, and I think he was instrumental in helping me land the show. Tec was particularly well known for his work on straight plays, like
No Time for Sergeants
and
Auntie Mame
, but I sure had a great time with him on the two musicals we did together.

The Music Man
had actually been a long time in arriving. I think Meredith worked on it for about five years, writing book, music, and lyrics, although Franklin Lacey helped him with the book (while receiving credit only for his work on the story). I think there were something like thirty drafts of the book! Tec himself also deserved credit for parts of the book, because originally the character of Winthrop, my little brother in the show, was, to use the word of the time, spastic. His big thing was going to be crashing the cymbals together every now and then, but onstage that gimmick is not as useable or funny and lighthearted as Tec's idea of having that cute little boy speak with a lisp. Tec's change was a really smart and important decision, one made even better by the fact that the young boy they cast, Eddie Hodges, was adorable. A darling kid.

I met Bob Preston briefly before we started rehearsals, and when those rehearsals began, in the fall of 1957, the show seemed to work right from the very first day. We had a great rehearsal period in which we jelled with a sense of family. In fact, one day
during rehearsal Meredith came to me and said, “
Now
I know who you are. You're my
mother
. I wrote about my mother!”

Meredith was a very young-looking, handsome fifty-five-year-old at the time of the show, and he was a friendly, nice, and generous man. On opening night he gave me the most beautiful present—a heart from Tiffany. When you opened the heart you had two hearts, and when you opened that further it became a four-leaf clover. On the inside of each of those four hearts he had had engraved the beginning bars of all four of my big songs in the show. Then, when you closed the heart up, on one side it said “Barbara,” and on the other it said “Marian.” It was so thoughtful, the nicest opening-night gift I've ever received. He gave Bob a gold cigarette lighter, and while we think of that differently now, at the time it was a great gift.

Meredith's generosity extended to his wife, Rini, to whom he gave the most extraordinary present on opening night. It was an antique lorgnette that was encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. There were also engraved initials, which read in order, NB to JB, JB to LR, and MW to RW. The first initials stood for Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine Bonaparte, next came Jim Brady to Lillian Russell, and, finally, Meredith Willson to Rini Willson. The story was that when Meredith first saw this lorgnette he asked the owner if he would add his and Rini's initials. The man agreed and the initials were added. Rini was, of course, thrilled. However, the truth is that Meredith had all of the initials added and never told Rini about it. He just wanted to please her, even if he had to fib to do it.

Before we went out of town we had a “gypsy run-through” (for an invited audience of theater friends) on an empty stage with just piano and work lights. The response was enormous. Gigantic.
Even then, when the piano struck up “Seventy-six Trombones” for the final bows, rhythmic clapping from the audience started instantly. And then—the audience stood. Those jaded, seen-it-all Broadway gypsies were standing to applaud. This was in 1957, when standing ovations were rare. Now, God knows, they're
de rigueur
, no matter how good or bad the show. When we played the show, our audiences never—I mean never—failed to clap to the “Seventy-six Trombones” scored bows.

Tec gave us a big speech the next day about how just because our friends and family liked us, we shouldn't think we had it made. He told me later that the response at the gypsy run-through had scared him because he thought we might get complacent. I liked Tec very much—he was so easy to work with and gave me room to explore the character. We had only one disagreement, which occurred when he tried to show me how to put my arm around someone onstage. I disagreed strongly. You can't do that—the way we touch others is so personal, so individual. It was really no big deal, but it bothered me at the time. I said to him, “You have to back off.” That was it for disagreements. The rest of the time we got on very, very well. David also helped me with the character of Marian, but he never, ever talked against the director. He would just give me really helpful notes that deepened my understanding of the role.

When we went out of town to Philadelphia, the opening number, with all of the traveling salesmen singing on the train was just not working. They'd sing, “He's a music man / and he sells clarinets to the kids in the town . . . with the big trombones and the rat-a-tat drums / Big brass bass, / Big brass bass”—it was all fully orchestrated and it just didn't land with the audience. Tec solved the problem with two terrific ideas: first, he cut the or
chestra, so you could really hear the guys a capella. They supplied the rhythm and the entire song was built around that rhythm, without a single note of music underneath. In addition, Tec also had the actors jiggle up and down in their seats. They hadn't been jiggling before. Now they'd sing “To the kids in the town” and you'd see all the guys jiggling as if they were really on a train. It was electric. The audience loved it! So simple and so good. Stephen Sondheim has gone on record as stating that “Rock Island” is one of the best opening numbers in musical-theater history.

People loved the music right from the start, but Meredith made changes and even wrote a new song on the road to try and replace “Iowa Stubborn”—

Oh there's nothing halfway about the Iowa way to treat you,

If we treat you, which we may not do at all

I can't remember what he wrote, but it lasted exactly four performances before everyone decided it wasn't as good as “Iowa Stubborn,” which went right back in.

One of my big songs, “My White Knight,” kept changing. The song was originally much longer, because Meredith told me it was intended to be a kind of counterpart—a balance—to Bob's big song “You've Got Trouble.” But that very long version of “My White Knight” didn't work in the scene. Meredith wrote so many variations of the song that I ended up performing twelve different versions of it. That's right—twelve. It was hard! During those out-of-town tryouts I'd go onstage thinking, “Now which version do I sing tonight?”

I was the leading lady but not the above-the-title star—I hadn't earned that yet. I knew the show represented a big opportunity for
me, but Bob carried the show, no question about it, and he was sensational. He had developed a very effective manner of speaking/singing his songs, à la Rex Harrison in
My Fair Lady
. His family used to sing, and he had a great sense of rhythm and pitch, but he wasn't a trained singer. That didn't really matter because he was just so damn good onstage. He wasn't a trained dancer either, but he moved just like one onstage.

He actually had only one mishap out of town, when, in our last week in Philadelphia, he started losing his voice at the final matinee. As his voice grew weaker and weaker, he started getting kind of crazed. His standby, Larry Douglas, who was married to Onna White, our choreographer, had to finish the performance. Of course we were still out of town, so Larry hadn't been fully rehearsed. The stage manager would read a line to him offstage and then he'd say it onstage, and that's how we played the scenes on that Saturday. It was pretty crazy!

We felt we had a good shot on Broadway because the response out of town had been sensational, but you just never know. Our producer was Kermit Bloomgarden, who was also the producer of the play
Look Homeward, Angel
, which had opened in November 1957, one month before we were to open at the Majestic Theater on December 19. When we were in Philadelphia with
Music Man
, Bob showed me a telegram that Jo Van Fleet, who was starring in
Look Homeward, Angel
, had sent him right after they opened to sensational reviews; her telegram read: “Come on in, the water's fine.”

Our opening night on Broadway felt like we were riding on top of a tidal wave. Kermit threw a big party at Sardi's, and in those pre-Internet days, everyone waited for the newspaper reviews. When they came in they were sensational. John Chapman in the
New York Daily News
raved that
The Music Man
was “one of the
few great musical comedies of the last 26 years,” comparing it to
Of Thee I Sing
and
Guys and Dolls
. Whew!