Ethel Merman: A Life (20 page)

Leland Hayward had gone all out for the
Call Me Madam
production. Thousands of actors were auditioned for the twenty speaking parts and the thirty-nine spots in the singing and dancing choruses. (Assisting in this task was Abbott’s twenty-one-year-old casting director, Harold Prince.) Raoul Pène du Bois, who had not worked with Ethel since
Panama Hattie,
was engaged to design the sets and costumes. To create Ethel’s costumes, Hayward pulled off a major coup when he signed up the famed clothing designer Mainbocher. Born in Chicago, Mainbocher was once described by teacher/director John Murray Anderson as resembling a “poor famished faun.” He longed to become an opera singer and studied voice off and on with the famous Madame Schoen-Rene, teacher of Risë Stevens, among others. His art studies led him to open a salon on the avenue George V, one of Paris’s great fashion centers. Having become the first American to break successfully into the world of French high fashion, he opened his own business in New York. His
maison de couture
occupied a three-story space on Fifty-seventh Street, just around the corner from Tiffany’s. In the 1940s he began to branch out into the theater. Ruth Gordon, whose clothes he designed for her hit
Over Twenty-One,
claimed, “Next to Lee Shubert, Main’s the most stage-struck man I’ve ever known.” Having been credited with dreaming up the cocktail suit and the tailored evening coat, he brought his clean, sharp, simple lines to Broadway. In 1943’s
One Touch of Venus,
Mary Martin created a sensation when she walked out onstage in Mainbocher’s low-cut black satin gown. He always took care that his designs didn’t fade into the background. “I believe in the exact opposite of realism on the stage,” he once said. “The theater is bowed down by realism. The movies do realism so much better, and the theater should stand on its own legs. It should produce a sort of unreal brilliance.”

Since Ethel was cast as social butterfly Perle Mesta, Mainbocher thought it only logical for her to be presented as a clotheshorse for the first time onstage, and he created a stunning array of costumes, including an elegant black-and-white suit, a chic black tulle dress with flame-red lace, and a point d’esprit negligee sparkling with gold. Ethel, whose diamond-in-the-rough roles had never really allowed for ultraglamorous presentation (with the exception of
Du Barry Was a Lady
), was delighted by the deluxe treatment Mainbocher gave her. A fast, inventive, and precise worker, Mainbocher earned her respect immediately.

When the script of
Call Me Madam
was finally finished everyone on the creative team recognized that it was in no way an outstanding book. As a musical that dealt with current events and current figures, it fell into the trap of many “topical” shows: it was a bit too self-consciously bright, ribbing the Truman administration and the postwar situation with hearty verve rather than satiric deftness. But as a vehicle for Ethel, it got the job done pleasantly and, for the most part, efficiently. It was a show that set out to have a good time, not to inspire. Lindsay and Crouse had painted a colorful central character for the Perle Mesta figure, a rich American hostess named Sally Adams, whom President Truman appoints as ambassador to the tiny duchy of Lichtenburg. Mrs. Adams reports for her new post with a canned speech she has learned by rote (“I am happy that my duties take me to a country it has long been my dream to know and love—the glorious grand duchy of Lichtenburg”) but a complete ignorance of the specifics of the country. Her brash American manner immediately puts her in conflict with Pemberton Maxwell, the U.S. embassy’s prissy chargé d’affaires. When Maxwell rebukes her for the lateness of her arrival in Lichtenburg, she unfolds a large map of Europe:

 

SALLY
: This is supposed to be Rand McNally’s latest map of Europe. Take a look at this. Now there’s Lichtenburg. It’s green, isn’t it? And there’s Italy. That’s yellow. Well, let me tell you something Rand McNally doesn’t seem to know. Italy isn’t yellow. It’s green.

 

Later on, as Sally insists on being addressed as “Madam,” she tells Maxwell:

 

SALLY
: Okay, now we understand each other. I’m the madam and you’re just one of the girls.

 

Sally’s unpretentious style succeeds in disarming most of the Old World Europeans who surround her. She kicks off her shoes, complaining, “My dogs hurt.” She serves franks and baked beans at an embassy soiree. While curtsying before the grand duke and duchess, she loses her balance and falls on her behind. There were frequent references to President Truman’s policies, and to his daughter Margaret’s unsuccessful attempts to launch a singing career, and a plot thread about America’s eagerness to lend huge sums to a struggling postwar Europe—all timely jokes that the audience was expected to get. Most of
Call Me Madam
’s book scenes failed to rise above the level of middling situation comedy, but luckily there was something else besides the endless culture-clash jokes. Lindsay and Crouse had provided two love stories, one between Sally and the suave Lichtenburg prime minister Cosmo Constantine (played by Academy Award–winning screen actor Paul Lukas, who had retreated to the stage after his Hollywood career had run out of steam), and another between Sally’s likable press attaché Kenneth Gibson (rising young actor Russell Nype) and the Princess Maria (dancer Galina Talva).

And there were the songs. It would have been all but impossible for Berlin to surpass his stunning achievement with the score of
Annie Get Your Gun,
and in
Call Me Madam
he didn’t come close. But he turned out a good score nonetheless, one that was merry and tuneful and instantly memorable. Among the high points were Sally’s establishing number, “The Hostess with the Mostes’ on the Ball,” in which she lays out the qualities that have made her indispensable on the Washington scene. There was a charming trio of romantic numbers, “Marrying for Love,” “It’s a Lovely Day Today,” and “The Best Thing for You,” all showing Berlin in solid if not inspired form. There was “Lichtenburg,” a wistful paean to the duchy’s simple, old-fashioned qualities of life. And there were two comic songs: “Mr. Monotony,” which Berlin strongly believed in despite (or because of) the fact that it had been dropped from both the Fred Astaire–Judy Garland film
Easter Parade
and his Broadway failure
Miss Liberty,
and “Can You Use Any Money Today?,” which kidded America’s generous lending policies.

And there was the song that, over time, would receive the most widespread play: “They Like Ike,” a comic tune predicting that the popular war hero Dwight D. Eisenhower would run for the presidency in 1952. Although
Call Me Madam
had a Democratic spirit, with its constant references to Harry Truman, Berlin was a rock-ribbed Republican. “They Like Ike” gave him a chance to get his point of view across, and he was delighted with the success the number eventually achieved when it was used in Eisenhower’s real-life presidential campaign. So was Ethel, whose politics had always leaned toward the conservative, although, like many actors, she declined to take extreme sides in public and once told the
New York Times
, “In politics, I’m noncommittal.”

Rehearsals for
Call Me Madam
began on August 14 at the Golden Theatre. (It was scheduled to open at the Imperial, the same theater where
Annie Get Your Gun
had made history.) To choreograph the show, Hayward had signed Jerome Robbins, who had become one of Broadway’s most sought-after talents following his creation of the dances for
On the Town
and
High Button Shoes
. There was no denying that Robbins had one of the keenest imaginations in the business. He also had one of its most blistering tempers. He could be unthinkably brutal to the dancers in the chorus if he found them at all lacking—as he often did. He would berate them in the most humiliating ways, railing at them for being stupid or fat, until they were reduced to tears; the sadist in him loved to single out one particular girl as his object of abuse. He might unleash his fury on anyone, including the producer or director, or on the star—unless the star happened to be Ethel. She had not worked with Robbins since he’d danced in the chorus of
Stars in Your Eyes,
and although she acknowledged his subsequent success in the business by her respectful treatment of him, there was an unspoken understanding that he wasn’t to try any of his temperamental stunts with her.

Ethel had absolute approval of everything Robbins worked out for her, and when something wasn’t to her liking, she was perfectly clear about it. Choreographer/dancer Donald Saddler observed rehearsals of Ethel’s first number in the show, “The Hostess with the Mostes’ on the Ball,” and as he recalled, “Jerry said to me, ‘This morning I have to stage this song for Ethel.’ And he was always in awe of her. I could tell he was apprehensive and nervous about it. He showed her something, and she tried to do it. And she said, ‘Nope. Jer—what else have you got?’” Robbins did a slow burn but swallowed his anger and went off to work on a new bit of business. “When he gave her something she liked,” said Saddler, “she took it and locked it in solid.”

All of Ethel’s shows over the past decade-plus, from
Du Barry Was a Lady
through
Annie Get Your Gun,
had been smoothly assembled; everyone connected with them felt from the outset that they were bound to be hits. So she was understandably troubled when rehearsals of
Call Me Madam
got off to a slow start. Berlin, in his series of neatly tailored suits with the jacket thrown over one arm, nervously paced back and forth as he watched what was happening on the stage of the Golden Theatre. Early on there was tension between Lindsay and Crouse and George Abbott, particularly after Lindsay complained that too many of their lines were being changed. Abbott called them aside and coolly informed them that a great many changes were necessary and that he would brook no interference. Paul Lukas was exceptionally nervous about singing Berlin’s songs, and no amount of encouragement from Ethel would quell his fears. Like Bert Lahr, Lukas suffered from a kind of performer’s paranoia, and Ethel grew irritated with it fairly quickly, going so far as to make fun of him behind his back for the benefit of the chorus girls.

Ethel had worked harmoniously with Berlin during
Annie Get Your Gun
’s development, but this time she was underwhelmed by parts of the score, in particular two numbers, the repeatedly orphaned “Mr. Monotony” and “Free,” a heavy-handed windbag of a song, intended to shine a light on good old-fashioned American principles. Ethel knew a dog when she heard one, but out of respect for the composer she kept her head down and went to work, trying her best to make something powerful out of it.

At this point the performer who was shining brightest was Russell Nype. A native of Zion, Illinois, Nype had become a radio actor while still a teenager and the previous year had received some attention in the Broadway presentation of
Regina,
Marc Blitzstein’s operatic adaptation of Lillian Hellman’s
The Little Foxes.
There he had played Leo, the slimy nephew who commits theft to finance the family’s shady business venture. Nype jumped at the part of Kenneth because it would prevent him from being typecast as a villain. When he auditioned, Harold Prince remembered thinking, “I hope this guy can sing and act, because he’s the only actor in New York that looks like a Harvard graduate.” Later on,
Mademoiselle
magazine would decree that he had “A.S. (Academic Sexiness).”

At some point the acutely nearsighted Nype was allowed to wear the horn-rimmed glasses he’d been trying to do without, and his mop of hair was trimmed to a crew cut, giving him an attractive/brainy look. Nype handled his big number, “It’s a Lovely Day Today,” so well that all concerned agreed his part should be built up. Ethel liked him as much as she loathed Galina Talva; she told the show’s apprentice press agent, Bob Ullman, that Talva “always looked as if she sniffed bicycle seats.”

As was now standard practice for a Merman show,
Call Me Madam
had its world premiere at the Shubert Theatre in New Haven, on September 11, 1950. Ethel must have had misgivings about the opening, since she went to a local Episcopal church to take communion beforehand. There were congratulatory telegrams from many of Ethel’s show-business friends and colleagues—
DEAR ETHEL: I KNOW YOU WILL BE BRILLIANT TONIGHT IN OTHER WORDS FOR MERMAN YOU’LL BE DOIN’ WHAT COMES NATURALLY—LOVE JUDY GARLAND.
And:
THEY MAY CALL YOU MADAME[sic] BUT I THINK YOU’RE VERY GREAT AND VERY WONDERFUL—MARY MARTIN.

The first act was in good shape: “The Hostess with the Mostes’” got things off to a rousing start, and all of Ethel’s other songs landed with the audience. Russell Nype stopped the show with “It’s a Lovely Day Today.” The second act was something of a desert. Neither “Free” nor “Mr. Monotony” worked. The latter wasn’t a bad number; in fact, with its dark, jazz-inflected undercurrents, it was rather interesting, and a departure for Berlin. But it wasn’t a song for Ethel, and when she announced that it was out, she met with little resistance from anyone. The bombastic “Free” was also cut. When Ethel informed Berlin, “We gotta have something to lift the second act,” she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know, and he proceeded to barricade himself in his room at New Haven’s Taft Hotel to come up with a new number.

Ethel wasn’t surprised when the reviews turned out to be mixed. “Will probably not go down in the record as a great musical production. As of now, show inspires warm applause rather than cheer,”
Variety
offered. The
New Haven Evening Register
found it “no
South Pacific
” but thought that Ethel “again displays all the vocal brass and personal brashness which are her particular charms.”