B00AZRHQKA EBOK (43 page)

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Friday, January 11, 1980

INVITATION
: The entire company has been invited to an official tour of the White House at 9 A.M. (!) on Tuesday, January 15. We will meet at the East Gate at 8:45 A.M. Please sign up on list.

TRAVEL
: Henry Wadsworth has all plane and train reservations in his office. You can pick them up anytime today.

TRUNKS
: Must be ready in hotel or apartment lobbies at 9 A.M. Thursday, January 17.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: DIANA VAN RIJN
(Belle)

Portland, Maine, is my hometown and I go back to it whenever I can. Emerson College in Boston, where I earned a master’s degree in speech pathology. Nobody wanted my speech therapy but the Rockettes wanted my high kicks and had them for two long, long years. Then Broadway: FOLLIES, SMITH, COMPANY, OLIVER, DANCIN’. I was in the National Company of APPLAUSE (Eve Harrington) and in the National Company of WHERE’S CHARLEY? (Amy). I have done specials for NBC and ABC, notably TELL IT LIKE IT IS. In resident and regional I have played leads in SUMMER AND SMOKE, BAREFOOT IN THE PARK, THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE, and others. Married, divorced, two adorable kids: Peter (6), Amy (5). I love life.

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“I was never ashamed of myself. I was practically raised in a saloon, and I never had any feeling about that. I guess I knew it was better to be honest…You are either something or you are not. When I came to Broadway and was meeting all those people; society people, royalty, and the like, I never thought to myself: 'Gee, kid, you really are there now. You are with the important people now.’ I never said that. I never thought it. Money never impressed me if there wasn’t the person to go with it.”

Fanny Brice

There are now 20 days remaining before the New York opening.

51

Russ is out.

The past eight days have been so jam-packed with action and work and offstage excitement that I have been unable to keep this log straight.

When I mentioned my distress about it to Gene, he laughed and said, “Don’t worry. You won’t forget the important things, the ones that matter. When I was a young reporter—very young—I interviewed Gene Fowler, who’d been a newspaperman before he became a marvelous writer. He asked me why I was making such copious notes, and I said it was so that I’d be able to quote him exactly. 'That would be no favor to me,’ he said. 'Why don’t we just talk? Then you can go off and write it up—write
your
impression of it all. There’s a difference between a sketch and a snapshot. I’d rather have a sketch—how you see me—that’s interesting because it’s individual. A snapshot would be the same no matter
who
pressed the button on the Brownie.’ That was the day I made my last note.”

And need I mention that the eight days have also had nights—and that many of the hours I might have spent jotting have been spent in a far more glorious way? My feeling for this man grows in ways I had not imagined possible. I see him and I want to cry, not out of sadness but out of my overwhelming sense of wonder that such a person can exist—does exist—and that I know him and that he is in my life.

About Russ. What happened was that he slipped. After the Big Meet, he set to work in an attempt to please everyone. The lighting went back to the old cues, except for Star’s much brighter spots. He convinced Star that it was even better for her this way—that the contrasts were in her favor. Much to our surprise, he persuaded Ivan that he ought to compromise on this point because the brighter light had an affirmative psychological effect on her and helped her overall performance.

The open changes were abandoned, some of the restaging was restored, but again—most of what affected her was left as is. So almost everyone was at least partially content, and the clever fox—by means of whispers and phone calls and private dressing-room confabs—somehow succeeded in making everyone feel that every change or cut or addition was to
their
benefit.

Then, as I understand it, he tripped. With Buddy gone, he was on his own and tense and lonely. He began making his way through the boys in both the singing and dancing choruses—his position giving him a special advantage. Every chorus boy wants a line or a bit or a solo spot—
anything.
And apparently, the
quid pro quo
is anything for anything. While this was going on, Calvin Sharp began to sense that he was being more and more overshadowed by Star. Of course, he had known in advance that it would happen, was bound to happen, but as we got closer to commitment of the New York opening, it began to trouble him. He decided to take a bold step, took Russ out to supper one night, and afterward to an out-of-town motel for the night. From that point on, they were a secret pair—they thought. The fact is there are few secrets around a theatrical company. A hint here, a remark there, a shrug or a raised eyebrow elsewhere, and information goes through the company like a flu bug.

Russ confirmed the rumors by his besotted, in-love behavior. It was not so much that he directed Calvin—in fact, at rehearsals and post-performance note sessions, he pointedly ignored him. But he became permissive and let Calvin interpolate bits of business (some good), which they had probably worked out at the motel. Calvin took new and better positions onstage and ceased being a wax dummy while She was on. His lighting was slowly and subtly improved, and—line by line—much of his part from Gene’s original book was restored.

Rumors of the Calvin-Russ liaison reached Val, who immediately reported it to Star, who laughed in his face.

Bonnie told me that when Val laid it on her, She said, “You need a vacation, y’know it? You believe that, you’ll believe
anything!
It’s a crock!”

“How do
you
know?” he asked.

She hesitated and replied, “I know because I know, that’s how I know.”

She could hardly tell him She “knew” because She and Calvin had been having periodic dressing-room sessions since the show had opened in Boston.

Poor thing, living her insular life, She had never heard of “bi.”

Val remained convinced. He hired an investigator (actually, a moonlighting cop) and put Calvin under surveillance. The cop stretched his assignment out to a week’s work, although he had the goods on Calvin the first night. He reported back to Val, who took him at once to Star. She, needless to say, went up the wall.

It is my own opinion that She cared less about the slight stage favoritism the new situation had brought Calvin than She did about the sexual betrayal.

“Did you always know that?” She asked me once during the long postmortem period that followed Russ’s departure. “That he was gay?”

“No. Is he?”

“I can prove it in writing,” She said.

“What does it matter? He’s sexy as can be up there on the stage with you.”

“And not only there,” She said. “Close the door.” I did so. “Him and me. Would you believe it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anybody else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there anybody else in the company he’s been putting the boots to? You?”

“No, not me.”

“You sure? I hear you swing.”

“I get my share,” I said.

“But how about this minty prick romancing
me?
And scoring!”

“Life.”

“God, a fucking fag, it’s kinda weird, isn’t it. But—like you say—as long as it looks all right from the front, so what the hell. But he’s gotten into my pants for the last time, that I can promise you. In fact, I’m a nun from here till we open.”

With Russ gone, the question of who to direct came up again in an intense way. Again, Ivan and Gene fought for Larry. Again, they were rebuffed. Not a single respected old hand was available or interested.

“They’re all too rich, those slobs,” Art railed. “That’s how these show-business clowns are. Get the wrinkles out of their bellies and they start giving you a hard time.”

Two or three of the newer, younger directors came down, were examined by Star, and sent packing.

“Maybe we don’t need
anybody,”
said Art. “Maybe just play it in? What does everybody think?”

Nobody thought.

“Let’s watch it for a day or two,” said Gene. “Then see.”

I knew he had something in mind. I have come to know that dear face.

I was right. He phoned Larry and asked him to come down—as a personal favor.

I bought a single balcony seat and gave it to Larry, who got himself a beard, mustache, long-haired wig, blue jeans, turtleneck, and leather jacket. Thus disguised and attired, he saw the show.

Afterward, we met at Gene’s. Larry, almost completely recovered, began to talk. I took it all down, or tried to, but did not do too well since he was talking too swiftly and excitedly and angrily, which had the effect of muffling much of what he said.

Suddenly, without warning, he burst into tears. He sat down heavily on the sofa and head in hands, let himself go.

I moved toward him, but Gene waved me off, went to the kitchen and made Larry a strong drink. Larry drank it, went out to the bathroom, returned, and sat down.

“First of those in years,” he said. “Didn’t know I had it in me.”

“Healthy,” said Gene.

“Contact with death,” said Larry. “Is there anything more depressing?”

“Death?”

“You bet. What’s up there is fading fast. A show has a heartbeat, and this one’s stopping and skipping—and I would say the situation is just about hopeless. All the
climaxes
are wrong! And the pace—it isn’t that the show is too long—it’s that every
moment
in it is too long. Oh, well. Fuck it.”

“That’s no solution,” said Gene. “It’s been fucked enough.”

“I don’t have any children,” said Larry. “It never worked out somehow. The career girls I seem to marry. Anyway, no kids. So the shows or the plays or the TV specials—
they
become the kids. This one was a real favorite, I expected so much of it, now—too soon—it’s about to expire: a death in the family. Damn.” Gene seemed ready to speak, but held it in, strategically. He wanted Larry to go on. Larry did. “Listen,” he said. “Is
this
anything? What if I call him and offer to come back in for nothing? Free. Gratis. No credit, even. What do I care? No money, no nothing.”

“But that’s crazy,” I said. “Why should you?”

“Because I want to.”

Gene. “I don’t see how he could turn that down. As long as he feels he’s screwing you or anyone, he’s content. It seems to be a sexual transfer, doesn’t it?”

I said, “I think he’d accept a proposition like that, Larry, but—” I stopped.

“But?…” he asked.

“Star.”

“She wouldn’t?”

“She’s not intelligent enough.”

“Tell you what,” said Gene. “No use batting it around here—by ourselves. Let’s make a few calls and get a reading.”

“Not too late?” I asked.

“One-fifteen,” said Larry.

“Let’s do it,” said Gene. “Let me call Art, you call her.”

“All right.”

“She’s in nineteen-D,” I said, and went out to the bedroom to get Art. As his room phone rang, I handed the phone to Gene.

“Art?…Gene. Can I get you to listen without interruption for a minute or two?…Thanks. It’s important. I just talked to Larry Gabel, and he’s offered something I think you must consider. He—Now, Art, you promised two minutes, and I—Thanks. He’ll come back in and straighten us out for free. No money, no credits, nothing…Because he loves the show, that’s why…You don’t?…Why not?…Try, Art. If you’re going to be in this business, you’ll have so try to understand creative people. Larry has a part of his life in this venture, and he can’t bear to see it go down…Because I
told
him it was going down, that’s how!…O.K. What the hell can you lose? You’ll be getting something for nothing. A
big
something for a little nothing…Of
course,
in writing, why not? All he wants is to see the show saved, and you know and I know that it needs it. Look, Art. The stars in their courses change from night to night. Don’t take fixed positions on anything, anytime. You’ll fail…Yes, I will. Gladly. Even
twenty
minutes. Go ahead.”

Now he listened. I went out into the other room and heard Larry on the phone.

“How
would I twist her arm? I’m nowhere
near
her…Well,
ask
her. Or, put her on and have
her
tell me She’s not interested in anything I have to say. Why not? Come on, Val. Be human, be professional…Yes, I’ll hold on.”

He looked at me and shook his head, miserably. All at once, he brightened.

“Hello, there! How are you?…Hello?”

He put down the phone just as Gene bounced into the room shouting, “We’re all set!”

Larry looked up. “No, we’re not.”

“No?”

“She hung up on me.”

“Bitch!” said Gene.

“Well, that’s that,” said Larry.

“The hell you say,” said Gene. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, as we used to say in Minnesota.” To me: “Call Clay and ask him to come over right now.”

A shout from Larry. “Clay?!”

“Why not?”

“No good,” said Larry. “I couldn’t handle it.”

“Now don’t
you
start hanging up on people,” said Gene. “I’m having enough trouble as it is.”

“But
Clay!”

“Look, if we’d put over the other deal, you’d’ve been working with him, wouldn’t you have?”

“I suppose so.”

“All right then?”

“All right. Although I still don't know what you have in mind.”

“A plot. Better than the one in the show, believe me.”

I reached Clay. Woke him up, in fact, and indicated that it was of vital importance for him to join us. He seemed reluctant at first but, recognizing the urgency in my voice, he agreed.

“On his way,” I reported.

“We need food,” said Gene. “All this intrigue’s made me ravenous.”

“Anything special?”

“Anything we’ve got—just so long as it’s highly seasoned.”

I made Spanish omelets, cottage fries, English muffins, and Irish coffee. A success. As we were finishing the feast, Clay arrived.

He went at once to Larry and offered his hand. After a split second’s hesitation, Larry took it.

Clay spoke softly, ostensibly for Larry’s ears only. “I’m deeply sorry, Larry. Forgive me. He said if I didn’t, he’d take me off. And that I couldn’t handle, not right now. I’ll explain it to you someday. We all do insane things sometimes—don’t we? Especially under pressure.”

“Forget it, Clay.”

“No, I won’t forget it—I can’t—but I hope
you
can.”

“Sure.”

Coffee. We sat close together in a sort of circled huddle.

Gene began by outlining to Clay the events of the evening just passed, right up to the unsatisfactory ending with Art and Star.

“What we must achieve now,” he went on, “is Larry’s eye on the show—night after night until it’s right—and some method of implementing his ideas and instructions.”

“Impossible,” said Larry.

“Why?”

“I’d have to watch the show from mid-orchestra. And make notes. I’d be recognized eventually, no matter how many beards I wore.”

Clay. “But suppose that could be overcome one way or another—even then—how do we get to make the changes in the show?”

“You,” said Gene.
“You’re
going to take over.”

“Me?” said Clay, plainly terrified.

“Yes, of course. Didn’t I mention that? You’re odd man out, my boy. There’s no one else. He’s down to you, I can make him see that in ten seconds flat.”

“Not bad,” said Larry. “Now all we have to figure out is access.”

Why was Gene looking at me so hard? Was he angry about something? Something I had done? Not done? No one has ever looked at me as hard or as long. Finally, I could bear it no longer.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”

Gene, his eyes still on me, said, “Larry, as long as you’re out of work, how would you like to come work for
me,
as my secretary?”