Ethel Merman: A Life (41 page)

The figure of $800,000 surprised many of her friends, who had assumed all along that she’d amassed a great deal more than that. They were right—the amount reported by the
Times
did not take into account the vast fortune that she had set aside, from
Gypsy
onward, in the American Entertainment Enterprises, an amount that ran into the millions.

Ethel’s private service, organized by Bobby, was a quiet, low-key affair in the chapel at St. Bartholomew’s. The Reverend Bruce Forbes officiated over a straightforward Episcopal service with no theatrical trappings whatsoever, apart from a framed photograph of her next to an enormous bouquet of red roses—seventy-six in all, one for each year of her life.

Broadway has a long history of honoring its departed giants with tributes that for sheer theatricality sometimes rival the shows in which the stars appeared. Normally they take place at one of the theaters associated with the actor. Several of Ethel’s friends planned a proper, Broadway-style memorial tribute but were dissuaded from going ahead with it by Anna Sosenko, who boasted of plans to produce one of her own. Two memorials would cut into each other, Sosenko complained, assuring all concerned that she would give Ethel an appropriate tribute sometime in the next six months. For whatever reason the tribute never took place, though in 1985 Sosenko did finally produce a kind of valentine to Ethel. Once again it was a benefit for the Museum of the City of New York, and the stars on the program included Elaine Stritch, Carol Channing, Dorothy Stickney, Maria Karnilova, and Benay Venuta, but it was not by any stretch of the imagination a genuine memorial service.

On October 10, 1984, a public auction of Ethel’s great store of possessions was held at Christie’s East, including her collection of paintings, her furniture, bric-a-brac, and theatrical memorabilia. The prop rifle from
Annie Get Your Gun
by itself brought $1,500. The total amount derived from the auction was in excess of $120,000.

For those who work in the theater, life assigns few crueler fates than the passing of time. Throughout her career Ethel had been the embodiment of the rambunctious, audacious spirit of New York as it was expressed in the music of Gershwin and Porter and Berlin. But the wised-up, straight-shooting, and sentimental musical heroine she represented was a type that had passed out of fashion by the time of her death, supplanted by the creations of Sondheim and his musical age of anxiety, and by the bland, cardboard figures of Andrew Lloyd Webber, who exist only as pawns in a mammoth visual spectacle. The great age of personalities had long since faded, and although Ethel’s vocal powers had miraculously never abandoned her until her final illness, she came face-to-face with a different sort of march of time, one that ran parallel to the actual passing of the years: the blazing genius she had given to the world would have had difficulty maintaining a home for itself in modern show business. A kind of stasis had crept over her professional life: as a performer she was forever looking back. And although she cherished her own glorious past and would never have wished to be born at any other time, she would not have wanted to live to see her brilliant record fall into neglect, the victim of the ignorance of new audiences and the very different concerns of the new Broadway.

But the final victory was inarguably hers. The titanic talent and iron discipline and fearsome work ethic she possessed all assured her a place in theater history that is unassailable. As Donald Pippin remarked, “Merman belonged to an era that is gone. We have no one near her skill and what she represented in the business.” Her retirement from Broadway created a void that has never come close to being filled by the many talented, big-voiced stars who came along in her wake. Her specter lingers over revivals of her best shows, whether on Broadway or in regional theater. Others may succeed in investing the roles with something unique of their own. In the 1989 Broadway revival of
Gypsy
, staged by Arthur Laurents, Tyne Daly gave a rich, persuasive, multilayered performance as Rose. But no one has ever approached the vocal magic that Ethel brought to the score. An actress starring in a revival of
The Sound of Music
or
South Pacific
can easily escape comparison with Mary Martin; an actress taking on
Call Me Madam
or
Annie Get Your Gun
is doomed to confront the shadow of Merman.

The New Yorkers who loved Ethel could hardly be blamed for feeling that perhaps she stood for the best part of themselves—the most democratic of stars, born and bred in the most democratic of American cities, a woman who could bring an audience to its feet one night and be glimpsed the next day shopping at Lamston’s or enjoying a bowl of split pea soup at the Skyline Coffee Shop. Those who had branded her temperamental had missed the point: her talent was so immense that she was incapable of playing the game any way but hers.

New York’s own uniqueness, the brashness and brilliance and flouting of convention that was once such a source of pride, continues to do a slow fade. With banks, Starbucks coffeehouses, and chain stores rapidly replacing ethnic restaurants, secondhand bookshops, and other small businesses that were once such a vital part of Manhattan’s character, New York seems increasingly to embrace the subdued, well-ordered blandness of other American cities. So it seems all the more heartening that this far-from-pretty girl from Astoria, this essence of the irregular weave, could once make the choices she made and lead the life she did. For in the end, the thing that many people appreciated most about Ethel was her honesty. She believed in the sentiments of her time, the honest sentiments expressed in her songs and her shows. And that raucous, outsize voice, which could be received with offense by the ears of non–New Yorkers, was the truest expression of the woman behind it.

The legend of Ethel Merman the tough broad will never die. Tough she certainly was. But it is important to remember Margaret Whiting’s observation when she went to visit Ethel one day at the Berkshire.

“One look at that Christmas tree she kept on the hall table,” said Whiting, “and I knew exactly who she was.”

B
ooks are often born out of unexpected, almost casual comments or happenings. This one certainly was. As the features editor of
Opera News,
I was working on the magazine’s second annual “Divas” issue, when I decided that it would be a good idea to include an article on one Broadway diva among all the operatic ones. Clearly the first choice was Ethel Merman, and to write the piece I called on a fine writer, Barbara Seaman, whose excellent biography of Jacqueline Susann,
Lovely Me,
I had admired very much. Barbara accepted the assignment, then withdrew; the publisher of the book she was then writing had moved up her deadline, and she could not fulfill her commitment to
Opera News.
Since not much time was left until the magazine’s deadline, I decided to write the article myself. Barbara called to compliment me on the end result, and during our conversation I mentioned that someone should write a proper biography of Merman. “Why don’t you do it?” said Barbara. I was momentarily stunned at the thought—then I was off and running. I am grateful to Barbara for setting me on the path toward writing this book.

My dear friend Helen Sheehy, the accomplished biographer of Eva Le Gallienne, Margo Jones, and Eleanora Duse, also prodded me to take on this project. Another fine biographer, Barry Paris, sent me mementos and other intriguing tidbits on Ethel, cheering me on every step of the way.

Others, too, offered encouragement. I spoke with two of our leading American musical-theater scholars: Robert Kimball provided welcome positive reinforcement, and Miles Kreuger gave me a fascinating glimpse of theatergoing in the age of Merman. Ron Bowers, former editor of
Films in Review,
gave me access to his vast personal library, no doubt saving me hundreds of dollars at Strand Book Store.

In 2004 I spent several days in New Orleans, carefully going through the exhaustive collection of Merman’s video appearances owned by George Dansker. Over the next two years, George generously provided me with new video footage that came into his possession. Thank you, George.

Joel Blumberg, host of the WGBB radio series
Silver Screen Audio,
spent a wonderful day with me, giving me an insider’s tour of Astoria, the New York neighborhood where Ethel was born and grew up. At her alma mater, William Cullen Bryant High School, I received assistance from principal Christopher Pellettieri and teacher and archivist Alyson Roach.

I received assistance from many of the most important performing-arts archives in the country. Ethel’s career memorabilia was left to one of Manhattan’s great institutions, the Museum of the City of New York. My thanks to Martin Jacobs, curator of the museum’s theater collection, for his advice, answered questions, and many kindnesses. I would like to thank the staffs of the Lincoln Center Library for the Performing Arts, the New York Historical Society, the Queens Historical Society, the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Collection at the University of Texas at Austin, the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University, the DeGolyer Library at Southern Methodist University, the Film and Television Archives at the University of California at Los Angeles, the Harvard Theater Collection, the American Musical Theatre Collection at Yale University’s Music Library (special thanks to Richard Warren), and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Both Rebecca Paller and Richard Holbrook at the Paley Center for Media guided me through the center’s rich collection of Merman video appearances. One of my biggest finds came at the University of Southern California Cinema and Television Archive, where Ned Comstock turned up various treasures, including unpublished transcripts of interviews that Pete Martin had conducted for the 1955 memoir he wrote with Ethel,
Who Could Ask for Anything More?

Many thanks to Bill Braun for his support during the formative stages of this project. Also helping out in a variety of ways were Clifford Capone, Erik Dahl, Elizabeth Diggans,
Opera News
’s tireless editor in chief F. Paul Driscoll, Lauren Flanigan, Craig Haladay, Al Koenig, Terry Marlowe, Arlo McKinnon, Eric Myers, Karen Kriendler Nelson, David Niedenthal, Patricia O’Connell, Robert Osborne, Fred Plotkin, Carl Raymond, Lisa Ryan, John J. D. Sheehan, Sam Staggs, Tracy Turner, Tom Viola, and Oussama Zahr. Special thanks to Louise T. Guinther and Maureen Sugden for their superb copyediting.

Most of all I am deeply indebted to the following people—a few of them, sadly, no longer living—who spoke with me about various aspects of the life and career of Ethel Merman. They include Edie Adams, Kay Armen, Dr. Albert Attia, Bobbi Baird, Kaye Ballard, Mary Ellin Barrett, Arthur Bartow, Warren Berlinger, Alex Birnbaum, Klea Blackhurst, Betsy Blair, Ken Bloom, Forrest Bonshire, Patricia Bruder, David Brunetti, Bruce Burroughs, Marilyn Cantor, Ronn Carroll, Marge Champion, Vivian Cherry, Sandra Church, Steve Cole, Carole Cook, Marilyn Cooper, Anna Crouse, Leslie Cutler, Jack Dabdoub, Arlene Dahl, John DeMain, Phyllis Diller, Richard Dyer, Marta Eggerth, Harvey Evans, Nanette Fabray, the Reverend Bruce Forbes, Robert Gardiner, Betty Garrett, Virginia Gibson, Dody Goodman, Dolores Gray, Richard Grayson, Jess Gregg, Tony Gribin, Don Grody, Svetlana Grody, Barbara Hale, Sheldon Harnick, Kitty Carlisle Hart, Hal Hastings, June Havoc, Jerry Herman, George S. Irving, John Kander, Jane Kean, John Kenley, Jack Klugman, Eric Knight, Tom Korman, Rosemary Kuhlmann, Lynn Lane, Lionel Larner, Arthur Laurents, Jack Lee, Sondra Lee, Brenda Lewis, Marcia Lewis, Don Liberto, Biff Liff, Terry Lilly, Patti LuPone, Jacqueline Mayro, Donna McKechnie, Jayne Meadows, Dina Merrill, John Montgomery, Bruce Moore, Karen Morrow, Jerry Orbach, Paula Palma, Joan Patenaude-Yarnell, Donald Pippin, Alice Playten, Seymour “Red” Press, Donald Preston, Seth Riggs, Rose Marie, Donald Saddler, Bob Shaver, Jeannie Jones Snow, Stephen Sondheim, June Squibb, Richard Stack, Gloria Stuart, Margaret Styne, Carol Swarbrick, Tom Troupe, Lewis Turner, Bob Ullman, Carleton Varney, Marie Wallace, Susan Watson, William Weslow, Margaret Whiting, Helene Whitney (a.k.a. Helen Miles), Lou Wills Jr., Jane Wyatt, Gretchen Wyler, and Mark Zeller.

Of all those I interviewed, I am most deeply indebted to a select few. Bob Schear, whose friendship with Ethel stretched back to her days in
Gypsy,
was an invaluable resource, never too busy, night or day, to ponder my questions.

Barbara Geary, Ethel’s granddaughter, supported this project from the start and was unfailingly helpful throughout the writing of the book.

Tony Cointreau and James Russo were the two people without whose cooperation I never could have written the book that I envisioned. They met with me many times at their home in New York and cheerfully fielded my long stream of phone calls when they probably wanted to sit back and let the machine pick up. Tony and Jim were of the greatest assistance in helping me separate fact from the Merman mythology, in weeding out many of the stories that, however funny, are also apocryphal.

For their ongoing personal support, thanks to my parents, Jack Kellow and Marjorie Kellow; my brother and sister-in-law, Barry and Kami Kellow; and my nephews, Trevin and Morgan Kellow. Also thanks to Omus and Jessica Hirshbein, for being there, always.

I want to express my deepest gratitude to those who sent my book out into the world. For my brilliant agent, Edward Hibbert, his colleague Tom Eubanks, and the staff of Donadio & Olson, I have nothing but praise. Edward is a writer’s best friend—a shrewd adviser, a tough editor, and an unfailing encourager.

At Viking, I have had the pleasure of working with Ann Day, Laura Tisdel, and Francesca Belanger. Their efforts have made me feel that this is “our” book rather than “my” book.

To my editor, Rick Kot, my profound appreciation for his keen perceptions, sound judgment, warm friendship, and unshakable integrity. Rick was behind this project from the beginning. To have him as my editor means more to me than I can possibly express.

Brian Kellow
New York City
December 2006