Brass Diva: The Life and Legends of Ethel Merman (44 page)

The gypsy from the Call Me Madam revival who noted Merman's distance from the cast-a singer named Ed Zimmerman (no relation)remembers an incident in Florida in the r96os. Ethel came up to him out of
the blue, asking, "So, how do you spell Zimmerman?" and when he told her,
she said, " `I spell it with two n's,' as if to say, because I'm not Jewish."31
Today it seems as many people believe Merman was Jewish as maintain she
was anti-Semitic. That second misconception is somewhat more complex
than the first: yes, Ethel joked about "kikes," jokes that are unsavory by
today's standards-or even by genteel society of her time-but that might
also suggest a relaxed attitude about ethnic difference as much as an insensitivity to it.

Cointreau says that Ethel corrected public reports of her being Jewish simply to set the record straight and wasn't motivated by strong feelings or biases.
"Any anger wasn't out of anti-Semitism at all; it was her pride in being Episcopalian," he says.32 Religious differences, for instance, were not an issue for her
when she married the Jewish Levitt and their two children took his name. And
then there was her frequent work alongside Jewish performers, businesspeople,
and other personnel over her long career; there were also the benefits she did
in the 193os and'4os for Jewish war relief efforts, et cetera. In all, Merman's relationship to anti-Semitism was as complex and conflicted as it was in American culture more generally. After World War II, for instance, as the Cold War
simmered, the government viewed the progressive activities of many liberal
New York Jews with suspicion and, with the help of people like Winchell, targeted Jews for suspected Communist activities. Ironically, General Foods, the
sponsor of Gertrude Berg's popular TV show The Goldbergs-the first to
feature a Jewish family-pressured Berg to remove blacklisted Jewish actor Philip Loeb from the cast, and when she refused, CBS canceled the program.
(Loeb killed himself five years later.) Actor Farley Granger and choreographer
Jerome Robbins also had their Jewishness-and the threat of being outed
sexually-used against them. In McCarthy's America, being Jewish was a
detriment to being a "true American"-ironic in light of the fact that the U.S.
had just helped defeat a regime wanting to eradicate the Jewish race.

An Image of Toughness

Other features of Ethel's public image were changing. Her personal achievement and autonomy had always been part of her persona, but they were
being interpreted differently. Ethel was no longer a stenographer sprinkled
with Depression fairy-tale dust; now her success was seen as a product of hard
work and an extremely strong sense of self. Ethel had made it on her own, and
"Ethel was very proud of that," says Cointreau.33 Unlike women such as
Mamie Eisenhower, with whom she enjoyed good relations, Ethel had acquired her position not through connections to a man but through her own
work and talent, and this was an important feature of the public Ethel Merman. Levitt Jr. believes that other celebrity women with whom Merman interacted also appreciated his mother's having achieved such success on her
own. "Mom and Mamie Eisenhower talked on the phone, sometimes late at
night, and my mother was pleased to do that, pleased to be a consoling friend
who had enough self-generated status to make a President's wife feel comfortable. "34

By midcentury, the image of Merman as ultraprofessional had also taken
root. Here was a star who was always on time, who always gave too percent,
who took notes during rehearsals and enjoyed working with other big talent.
Betty Allen, the understudy in DuBarry, called her an "iron horse" for missing so few shows.35 During the same show, an interviewer noted, "She has
great respect of her ability to put over a song, but she doesn't think her talent gives her a right to be temperamental or late for appointments.... Ethel
Merman is known as a'good egg.'" Disciplined to extremes, Ethel was nononsense about her tasks and conserved her energy while working, not going
out on nights before matinee days and not signing autographs between matinee and evening performances.36

Merman's work ethic scarcely made her an angel, and some of her astonishing discipline was centered around control issues, according to family members. Says Barbara Geary, "Ethel had trouble letting others be the center of attention, and when you're a kid, that's hard, because kids also need to
be at the center sometimes."37 Some people saw her refusal to make changes
in rehearsals ("Miss Birds Eye") or getting "upstarts" such as Paula Laurence
fired as forms of hostile indifference to her coworkers; to others, this behavior was simple self-preservation, which allowed Ethel to perform at her best.
The latter seems closer to the mark, even if it did activate a truly tough part
of Merman's personality. David Lahm describes her as "just like the Roman
Empire, justifying conquests to protect her perimeters."38

To fans, Ethel said:

So far as I know, I only blow my top when someone hurts the show. Up there,
I'm a working girl, just as much as I ever was in the old days when I pounded
a typewriter from nine to five. If someone fluffs a cue, comes on drunk, or
misses an entrance while I'm there beating my brains out-sure, I'll blow. And
if I'm shredding my larynx over a song and there's horseplay in the ensemble
or if a guy in the orchestra pit is rustling the Daily Racing Form, I'll damn well
do something about it.39

According to Tony Cointreau, Ethel said she broke out of character only
once, during Annie Get Your Gun when she chided two "loudmouth no-goods"
who were drinking and being obnoxious in the audience.41 More famous is a
tale Elaine Stritch told in her 2002 show At Liberty, in which she claimed that
once while Ethel sang "Can You Use Any Money Today?" in Call Me Madam,
a heckler kept screaming smart-ass answers. After some time and no action on
the part of the house management, Merman herself walked into the audience-
midsong-and physically heaved the man out before returning to the stage to
finish the note. Cointreau says Ethel denied that this ever occurred, but for the
Merman legend, the truth is almost immaterial, for, by now after the war, the
tale was fully compatible with the toughening Merman image.

Ethel's lack of stage fright was also assuming legendary proportions. Ethel
never experienced it, not even as a child; that part of her fearlessness was the
real deal. "Ethel sweats ice water," said agent Lou Irwin;41 for producer Vinton Freedley, "She is so sure of herself she steadies the whole cast."42 By the
1940s, the press was giving that lack of nerves even more coverage and started
reporting the famous Merman lines in earnest: "Why should I be nervous on
opening night? The people who paid $4.40 for a new play, they're the ones
who should be nervous." Or, "What's there to worry about? I know my lines." Or, "Mermo, aren't you nervous tonight?" "What the hell should I be nervous
about, for Chrissake? They came to see me. I didn't come to see them."43

Her relaxed confidence stunned other professionals. After all, stars like
Lily Pons in opera and Laurence Olivier in theater were known to get so nervous that they actually vomited before going on. Merman's guts seemed to
be made of iron. A typical work day would have her resting in the late afternoon, after which she would dine on a steak sandwich or raw hamburger several hours before the show (as "enthusiastic with a knife and fork as she is
with a song,"44 said a pressman who interviewed her in her dressing room).
Once at the theater, the ritual was simple. Belter Klea Blackhurst: "How did
Ethel warm up? [clears her throat] That's it."45

Cole Porter explained Merman's lack of stage fright with charming simplicity: "She comes from very healthy stock."46 Ethel knew there was no point
getting worked up about what she did. Her self-confidence merged with her
pragmatism: she arrived on time, did her work, and went home. "I sing honest," she said. Irving Katz, her investor and close associate, agreed, saying, "She
was confident, not arrogant. "47 "[Ethel's] nerves were manifested differently,"
Tony Cointreau recalled later. "They came out in her perfectionism."48

Still, by the 1940s there was some grumbling and mixed responses. Some
found Merman less than helpful to her colleagues and said she had trouble
sharing the spotlight. In his "Little Old New York" column, the usually supportive Ed Sullivan wrote, "Paula Lawrence [sic], who started picking on
Ethel Merman in Something for the Boys, is learning what other novices have
learned."49 Merman's habit of not looking at colleagues onstage was also receiving attention. George Abbott, her director in Madam, said, "She would
take direction perfectly in rehearsal and play it that way on opening night.
Then she changed to her old way to sing to the audience and did so, much
to the distress of her leading men."50 At the same time, people were noting
the strong and very enthusiastic support Ethel was giving to other performers, especially emerging women singers. When Lena Horne sang Ethel's anthem, "I Got Rhythm," in a 1943 nightclub act, she was right there in the audience applauding; she also made a point of catching as many Judy Garland
performances as possible and later supported a young, long-haired Liza Minnelli with visible affection and pride.

Another contradiction emerged from Merman's ability to combine a raucous, almost vulgar spirit with innocent wholesomeness-all in the name of
a flaming good time. Characters like Eadie, Hattie, Nails-"dames" though
they were-contained that same wholesomeness deep down, walking cliches
of the tough gal with a heart of gold. Ethel carried off these roles effortlessly onstage, but after a while the public seemed to want to attribute those features to her persona off the boards. This was quite at odds with how Ethel
thought of herself and how close friends such as Tony Cointreau describe her:
as a shy woman at heart. "I remember in the 1970s, Ethel and I went to see a
colleague of hers in a show," recalls Cointreau. "I had to convince Ethel that
it would be all right to go backstage and say hello."5' The stories with public sticking power, though, are the ones that make Ethel Merman into a
brassy broad, ones that point to outrageous, obstreperous, often indecorous
behavior or remarks that have taken on a life of their own. "That's probably
what I spend the most time doing when people want to know about the `real'
Ethel Merman-talking about that reserved, shy side of her," says Cointreau.51

Family and Career

As soon as Something for the Boys was over, Ethel told reporters, "I'm going
to have another baby right away."53 Combining parenthood, romantic relations, and celebrity has always been hard for female celebrities, and the press
didn't treat Ethel that much differently from other women, especially the
women whom they viewed as "independent." In "Sobol Discusses Success
Gals," Louis Sobol writes: "I suppose there will always be a place for a man
in the lives of these ['highly capable sisters'] who don't need a fellow for the
household expenses he can dole out-but it is a shuddery truth that we dominant males must face-they can do without us.... I tip my hat to these
queens."54 Along with Ethel, he singled out Martha Raye and Mary Martin,
adding, however, that "probably the foremost anti-marriage career disciple on
the Main Stem was Ethel Merman," showing how little Sobol knew the real
Merm.55 But that was the image that gained currency. In 1941, Sobol said that
Ethel "was generally accepted as the typical bachelor girl-until her surprise
marriage last year to Bill Smith, Hollywood agent."56

Merman's scrapbooks preserve conflicting, often hysterical accounts of her
purported attitude toward men, marriage, and romance. One came from a
simple card she received from "Doc Lou Clement" and Harold Hoffman,
family friends who'd just taken in Something for the Boys. They wrote:

A social column had fun inserting a bit of romantic intrigue into Ethel's secretarial past:

Ethel Merman, when a stenographer, fell in love with Rudolph Valentino. And
she wrote Rudolph a five-page letter every day to which she received no answer. After she had written 1,142 five-page letters, all unanswered, Ethel became discouraged and included the correspondence with the following: