B00AZRHQKA EBOK (50 page)

Back to the stage. The company, for the most part, had finished with the too-much food.

“All right, now,” Larry called out. “All together now. Anything left take home for your dogs or cats or canaries.” The company applauded. “Here’s the situation. Our Star is not feeling well—as you all observed. I’m sure She’ll have recovered by showtime tomorrow—but just in case, we’re getting Patti ready. That means a call at twelve noon tomorrow. And we’ll be running Nora stuff only—from the top, each scene or number twice—so you can time your arrivals accordingly. Here she is, here’s Patti.” The company applauded. Patti looked as though she were sleepwalking. “Just a few more general notes and comments, and we’ll dismiss, except for staff, Patti, Calvin—if you don’t mind.”

“Delighted,” said Calvin.

“The rest of you who are concerned with Nora’s material—we’ll deal with tomorrow. For now, just a few things to think about tonight—in your sleep. Those of you who’ve worked with me before know that I’m not in the habit of deceiving myself or the company. Insofar as possible, I always try to face the facts, even when they’re unpleasant. But the facts about
Shine On, Harvest Moon
are pleasant indeed. A strong, literate book—with a moving story and a powerful theme. A lovely, authentically period score—with variety and a haunting melodic line. Everything else: sets, costumes, orchestrations, choreography, lighting—plus plus plus. And a nonesuch company—
you.
What’s wrong, then? Simply this: the elements haven’t yet fused in this house. Why? A good question, and I wish I had a good answer, but I don’t. No matter. I’m convinced that they will, that you’ll
make
them. You can and you will. What I said earlier, about playing the show, and in addition—Listen, the missing ingredient is rhythm. R-H-Y-T-H-M. Every single one of you individually possesses that marvelous and ineffable quality—what we haven’t yet achieved is a
communal
rhythm. I went out to Ivan’s house in the country one weekend, and found him doing a painting of that same copper beech tree that he’s done dozens of times in every season and from every angle. I said to him, 'Ivan, tell me—what’s so fascinating about that particular tree?’ And he said, 'You don’t see it? That tree has rhythm!’ I confess I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but later, it occurred to me. There are many, many words for rhythm—for the idea of rhythm. Think of some between now and noon tomorrow—write them down. Here, let me start you off. Rhythm, form, balance, tempo, equilibrium, beat, cadence, rhyme, meter, poetry, form, swing, pace, momentum, timing, shape, structure, routine, organization, symmetry, harmony, accord, control, arrangement, proposition, agreement, equality, regularity, precision—”

“Good God!” said Gene.

And the company—for some reason—applauded.

“I’m sure you can think of many others.”

The company laughed.

“But it’s the
idea
that matters. When this show finds and hits its own rhythm, stays with it—is carried along by it—the audience will be, too. When I was with
Hello, Dolly!,
I used to go out front regularly to check the show, and often, I’d see Irving Berlin standing at the back of the house. He used to drop in from time to time—always at eight-fifty, when the 'Hello, Dolly!’ number went on. One night he turned to me in the middle of it and said, 'My God! How did they ever find that rhythm?’ Think of it—here was one of the incomparable masters of the popular song—still involved with the magical question. Well, then, that’s the bedtime story. Clay—everyone dismissed, except as previously discussed. Thank you all. Get some sleep. Leave the carousing for next week, right?”

Clay. “Scene One, please. From Nora’s entrance!”

The company had begun to disperse. Patti takes her position onstage, ready to make her entrance. Larry, Gene, Art, and I go out front through the pass door. As we take our seats in the fifth row, we notice something strange. Very few of the players have left. All the girls in the first scene with Nora are on.

“I guess they didn’t understand, huh?” I say. “Aren’t they dismissed?”

“They understood all right,” says Larry. He turns to me. Tears have welled up in his eyes. “Actors!” he says. “Actors and actresses!”

The scene begins. Patti seems a bit subdued, but there is no question that she has mastered the material. She knows every word, every note, every move.

Art sits slumped across the aisle from us, completely dejected.

Phil is at his place on the podium, conducting Buzz at the piano as though he were the full orchestra.

When Patti finishes “Nightfall” with Calvin, he embraces her, kisses her, and the company applauds from both wings. We join in. Not Art.

Skip to Scene Two. Patti has gained confidence and is warming up. (Working up a sweat?) At the end of Scene Two, Larry goes down to the pit and says to Patti: “Good, sweetie. Real good. Now enjoy yourself more. Have a good time. Come on. You’re a star!”

Jump to where Nora comes in in Scene Three. Larry walks up the aisle to the back of the house. We follow him. Art joins us.

“She’s no star,” he says, glumly.

“Who said she was?” asks Larry.

“You
did. Just now. I heard you.”

“I said it to
her,
Art. Not to the world. She needs the confidence. We’ve got to treat her like a star if we want her to behave and perform like one.”

“One thing sure,” says Art, “I don’t want to be around here if somebody’s going to go out and announce the bad news. I can take only so much. I can see a stampede for the refunds now.”

“Now, now, Art. Take it easy. There are ways and ways. Techniques. I’ll show you how to do it when the time comes.”

Art is startled. “What do you mean
'when’?
You mean, 'if,’ don’t you?”

“Who knows?”

Art turns to Gene, pleadingly. “What do you think, Gene? Is She gonna blow it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“I know you don’t
know,
for Chrissake! I’m askin’ you what you
think!”

“I’m new to all this, remember? I’ve had no experience with people like Star and Val and her Brain Trust. I can’t get a handle on it.”

“I think She’s bluffing,” said Larry.

“But if they put her in the hospital, like they said?”

“Not so easy,” said Larry. “According to Equity—you’d have a right to have
our
doctor examine her.”

“I would?”

“Of course.”

“But what if they
made
her sick? Gave her something. I wouldn’t put it past those shits!”

“Come on, Art. If
you
owned the Golden Goose—would you take a chance on killing it? Or even damaging it?”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“My best guess,” said Larry, “is that She may stay off tomorrow night—”

“Oh, my God!” said Art. “What makes you think?”

“First, it’s only a preview—so what? Second—and this is the big one—She would like to prove to you that you’ve got no show without her.”

“We
haven’t!”

“I’m not so sure. Show-business history is full of stories of losing a star and gaining a show.”

“Not this one!” cried Art. “I’m sure not! I wouldn’t’ve
done
it without her.”

“So what it comes down to,” said Gene, thoughtfully, “is this: if She goes on tomorrow night, well and good—”

Larry.
“If
She plays the show.”

“Right. If She
doesn’t
go on—it’s in the balance. If it looks like a show without her—She has to come back and behave. If it falls off the stage and proves to be a nothing without her, She’s got us by the balls.”

“Exactly,” said Larry. “And that adds up to quite a few balls. So I better go back and see what’s doing with Patti—just in case.”

“I can’t look at it,” said Art. “I can’t face it. She’s
got
to go on, that cunt. I bet a million bucks on her. How can She do this to me? Why? What’d I ever do to her except put a great show around her?”

“Listen, Art,” said Larry, heatedly. “Those are questions you should be asking
her,
not us.”

“God damn right,” said Art. “And that’s what I’m going to do. Right now! You go ahead and do what you think you have to do—I’m going to see that She gets her dumb ass up on that stage tomorrow night!”

“Good luck,” said Larry.

“I don’t need luck,” said Art. “I’m a power! I’m a barracuda!” He had worked himself up into a considerable frenzy, and added, “You want to bet She goes on? I’ll bet you anything! I’ll give you odds!”

“No bet,” said Larry. “We all
hope
She goes on. Why would I bet against it?”

“Don't underestimate me, buddy. I’ve still got a trick or two!”

Gene was about to say something, but Art was gone.

We went back into the theatre and stayed there with Patti and some of the company until 2:15 a.m.

Then Gene took us all to The Brasserie. It turned out to be a rather tired and somewhat worried party. But the food was good, and welcome.

56

What was it Art said last night? “I’ve still got a trick or two!” Well, he could have used three.

Thank God for Larry and his experience.

The rehearsal began at noon—Patti in costume, wigs, and shoes, the rest of the company in street clothes. Sets. Lights. No orchestra, which worried Phil. He was afraid that the full sound might jar her in performance, but Art would not approve the expense of an orchestra rehearsal. Gene offered to pay for it, but Art got stubborn and intractable and hysterical. Still Gene did not give up until Patti assured him it was not important to her. All was going well, the major problem turning out to be the costume changes. Larry suspected that Star’s maid, Bonnie, was not providing full cooperation, and sent her home. He substituted two dressers. But the difficulty was solved ultimately by Calvin—who had watched the changes from the beginning and was able to assist most efficiently.

“Isn’t it lucky for all of you that I’m a devout voyeur?” he said. “Truth is, the most fun I’ve had on this show has been watching those changes night after night.”

At about 1:00 p.m., Val turned up with two hampers of food, which he slowly and systematically unpacked and placed in Star’s dressing-room refrigerators.

A jubilant Art came in half an hour later.

“You can stop,” he said to Larry. “We’re all set. She’ll be in. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I think I’d like to finish,” said Larry. “Just to be sure.”

“I’m
tellin’
you sure, you stubborn bastard. You get your jollies out of spending my money? This is costing me a fortune! Call it off!”

“Not a chance,” said Larry. “And stop griping. Send me the bill.”

“Don’t think I won’t!”

“Not the whole bill—just what it costs from now till we finish.”

“I will!”

“You see, Art, I’m not sure I believe this ploy. This could be their way of getting us off-balance—and leaving us unprepared.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Art. “How can you enjoy life with a mind like that?”

“I don’t very much, if you want the truth. But 'Be prepared’ is my motto—ever since I was an Eagle Scout.”

“Yeah? Well, right now you’re an Eagle Asshole! And you’ll get the bill, all right.”

“Fine.”

“He was just here—I think he’s
still
here—putting all that garbage She eats in her room.”

“I know.”

“How do you know? You’re out here.”

“Midge told me. Midge tells me
everything.”

“So?”

“An act maybe? Like her phony faint?”

“Jesus!”

“Midge, go ask the doorman if Val usually stocks the fridge at this hour. And ask Stu—Clay—anybody who might know.”

Art began to laugh as I went off.

The doorman. No, he’d never
seen
Mr. Belmonte around the theatre at this hour. Stu? No, never. Out of town? “No, not that I can recall.” Clay? “Of course not.” The standbys? One by one. “No.” “No.” “No.”

I return to Larry with this information.

“Figures,” he said. To Art: “Now I’ll tell you what I think. They’re going to keep you going until half-hour—and then not show. And
now,
if you want to make a bet, I will.”

“How much?” said Art.

“The cost of this rehearsal.”

“You got it! You’re a witness, Midge. O.K.?”

“O.K. I hate bets and betting.”

“So what’s it your business?” he yelled at me. “Mind your business.
Shut up!”

Larry looked at Art. “You know what makes you a king-sized prick, Mr. Clune? I’ll tell you. You scream at Midge. At the kids. At Stu. At waiters. But not at stars or bigshots or the ones you
think
are bigshots—and you’re usually wrong, by the way. You’ve never said 'Shut up’ to me, have you?”

“No,” said Art, “but you said it to
me—
and it cost you, didn’t it?”

“What it cost me, I can spare. And by the way, if my name isn’t up on the house boards by six o’clock tonight—I’m leaving for Saint-Jean-Cap Ferrat.”

“Where’s that?”

“Where my wife is.”

“What am I? A sign painter? They told me yesterday—so what can
I
do?”

“As you so often have said to me and to other members of my staff, 'That’s
your
problem!’ Now get away and let me do my work—”

“Don’t tell me—”

“And
shut up!”
yelled Larry.

Art stormed up the aisle—clearly on his way to give someone a bad time with reference to the delay on the house boards.

At 5:30, Bonnie came in and began to get the dressing room ready for Star.

At 6:30, noise backstage. Bonnie refuses to let Patti into Star’s dressing room.

“You got a dressing room, lady. Get up there in it! Way up! This here one is ourn!”

Larry takes charge.

“Go downstairs, Bonnie, and wait. As soon as your lady turns up—
if
She turns up, you can come back. I’ll let you know.”

“You don’t push
me
around, Mr. Charlie. I got a
union!”

“Move!” said Larry.

Bonnie pointed at Patti. “Don’t you touch nothin’! Not one damn thing!”

“If you don’t move,” said Larry, “I’m going to touch
you!”

“Fuck you!” yelled Bonnie. “Motherfucker!”

She went off.

“Not a word of truth,” said Larry, “in that accusation.”

Patti went in and began to get ready, Gloria acting as her maid.

Larry and I went out onto the stage.

“I’m getting a bad feeling,” I said. “Or is it a good feeling?”

“What?”

“I think She
is
going to turn up.”

“Why?”

“Bonnie. She’s no kind of actress. And she really expects her. That’s why she got so excited.”

“Yuh,” said Larry, “I thought of that, too. But on the other hand—they could have this plan and not let
Bonnie
in on it. They could be bullshitting
her
the way they are Art. It’s still my guess She’s going to stay off. And, by the way, Hy agrees with me.
He’s
been to a few of these fires before, too. In fact, he’s so sure, he’s bringing Dick Zanuck and David Brown to the show tonight.”

“He is?”

“Yes, he figures if it’s Star—fine—so they’ve seen a preview. But if not—which he hopes—they’ll see Patti. Hy’s doing a picture for them—and there’s a part.”

“I’m upside down,” I said. “Now I hope it
is
Patti.”

Three minutes before half-hour. Stu dashes in.

“She’s here!” he shouts. “Limo just drove up.”

We all move to the stage door. In marches that redoubtable single file: Val Belmonte, Alan Balaban, Foley, Westman.

By the fourth man, we know what the situation is. No Star. She would never, under any circumstances, be in the vanguard. They troop onto the stage. We notice two new faces. A semicircle.

“Where’s Art?” asks Val. “Get Art!”

Art is summoned. We join the group.

“This here,” says Val, “is Doctor Timothy Franklin, the diagnostician. And this here is Doctor Joseph B. Wakefield, the neurologist. I’m sorry, Art, but they say She can’t go on tonight. Doctors’ orders. Two doctors. Here it is in writing. They both signed it. She’s in Doctors Hospital right now. That’s the name of it.”

Art exploded. “Don’t give me that horseshit! You fuckin’ snake! You promised! You told me six o’clock She was going to make it! You
told
me! You promised, you dirty bastard!”

“Doctors’ orders,” Val repeated.

“Doctors’ shit! You get her back here in thirty minutes—forty, the most—we’ll hold the curtain.”

“Impossible,” said Dr. Franklin. “The woman is—”

“The woman! The
cunt,
you mean.”

Dr. Franklin left.

“I would not advise—” began Dr. Wakefield.

“I
would!
I would advise you to watch your step, you quack! I’ll report you! I’ll report you to the AMA for full of shit. She’s gonna be examined by two other doctors in the next ten minutes—they’re right there now—at Doctors Hospital!’ He pulled a paper out of his breast pocket and read: “Doctor Burness and Doctor Hataki—You know ’em? Ever hear of ’em?”

“Of course,” said Dr. Wakefield, shaken. He looked at Val with considerable apprehension.

“Equity says! That’s the rule—the law!”

Val. “What makes you think we’re going to allow you to—”

“Allow,
you shithead?! Allow? I’ve got a court order—you wanna see it?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Wakefield.

“Here’s a
copy,”
said Art. “The doctors’ve got the original. Signed this afternoon. See it? Jude Kupferberg?”

The doctor handed the document to Val, who read it with difficulty. His hands were trembling.

“This is nothing,” he mumbled.

“Nothing?
You pisspot! You may have yourself a lawsuit that’ll keep you broke forever—and her too, the phony little bitch!”

“Exhaustion,” said Dr. Wakefield. “She’s suffering from complete exhaustion. I’m sure my colleagues will concur.”

And Christ Almighty! Damned if they
didn’t!
The report came back from the hospital just as the overture struck up.

A moment before—Larry had walked out onto the stage and said: “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m Larry Gabel, the director of
Shine On, Harvest Moon—
and I’m afraid I have bad news. [A groan from the audience.] Yes. You’ve guessed it. Our Star is indisposed. In fact, hospitalized. Please keep your seats until after I have finished. The performance will go on. The part of Nora will be played by a remarkably talented young player—Miss Patti Rolph. Now I know that many of you, perhaps most of you, came especially to see our Star—so here is our offer. Please stay for Act One: if at that time you wish to make an exchange for a later date or get a refund, the box office will be open to accommodate you—or you can make arrangements by mail or through your broker. Just be sure you keep your stubs. Ladies and gentlemen—who knows? This may turn out to be a memorable evening in the theatre. Thank you.”

A surprisingly big hand. About eight or ten people left. No more.

The performance began. Patti, having been given a rousing pep talk in the dressing room a few minutes earlier, came on in high. There was nothing tentative or shy about her attack—which so relieved the audience, that her first number damn near brought down the house. I suspect that Larry’s skillful curtain speech did a good deal toward smoothing the way, too.

In any case, she went from strength to strength throughout the evening.

I stood between Larry and Gene at the back of the house, watching. We said little, but it was clear we each had thoughts.

Toward the end of Act One, Gene said, “Here they are, The Star Mafia.”

We looked across the rear of the auditorium, and indeed, there they were: Val, Alan, Bud, and the rest. They left just before the end of Act One, and returned a few minutes after Act Two began. They looked grim.

I have no way of knowing what they thought, nor what Larry or Gene thought—my own feeling was that the show needed Star. Patti was good and game and talented—but that added dimension, that “star quality” was absent. Of course, I had seen dozens of performances with Star, some of them excellent. Suppose I put it this way: Patti was better than Star at her worst, but nowhere near as good as Star at her even less than best.

The audience, on the other hand, had no such frame of reference. They loved Patti, they loved the show. They felt they were in on a happening. At the intermission, with the Star Mafia watching—only four tickets were exchanged. Four out of 1860—not bad.

At the curtain, a definite ovation for Patti and the show, and when she took her solo call—a standing ovation. The cast applauded, she wept. It was something. And I prayed that Star would stop malingering or that She would recover—because more than anything, I wanted to see that dirty, no-good-stuck-up, stinking, rotten bitch as Nora once again.

We went back to see Patti, who looked as though she had lost fifteen pounds. She looked old and exhausted. I wondered if
she
would next be put into Doctors Hospital.

“Super!” said Larry.

“Congratulations,” said Gene.

And I knew they thought what I thought.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” said Patti. “You’ll see.”

At which Larry and Gene exchanged a meaningful look.

Art jumped into the room—I said jumped—yelling, “Four returns! Two pair! Seventy bucks out of thirty-two thousand five hundred and fifty. Holy Jesus! You know what that means? It means every performance She misses, we make more money. Holy Jesus!”

He was gone.

“Get a good night’s rest, Patti,” said Larry.

“Thanks for everything,” she said.

As we left, Hy was bringing in Dick Zanuck and David Brown—all three beaming.

“A star is born,” said Hy. “Hey! Song title! The fellows are mad about her—aren’t you fellows?”

“Mad’s the word,” said Zanuck.

“Ditto,” said Brown.

“Jesus,” said Hy, “history repeats. This is Shirley MacLaine and Hal Wallis all over again. Remember that one?”

“And this girl’s got youth!” said Zanuck.

“So did Shirley,” said Larry, “when Wallis signed her.”

“That’s right!” said Brown. “You know he’s perfectly
right?”

It was cold, but we walked uptown anyway.

“What’d you think, Midge?”

I told him.

“That’s about me, too,” said Gene. “Seems ungracious in view of the fact that she kept the curtain up, kept the show alive. But what the hell—fact’s a fact. What’s your guess, Larry?”

“Fifty-fifty chance for tomorrow. If She misses, we’d better postpone.”

“But you think She’ll open sometime?”

“I’m sure of it. Just as soon as She’s eaten everyone’s nerves to the bone.”

In the lobby of The Plaza, Gene asked, “Oak Bar?”

“Not me, thanks,” said Larry. “I’m still beat from
last
night.”

He got into the elevator.

“What about
you,
partner?” asked Gene.

“Algonquin,” I said.

“Good.”

We walked there, had a slow drink, went upstairs and spent a quiet reflective time as we prepared for bed. Once there, I clung to Gene—my life raft. We slept for half an hour or so, then awoke and made love, a new kind—gentle and comforting—a quintessential expression of friendship. Glorious.