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It was a glorious holiday, and I feel sure that the relaxed, carefree summer was one of the reasons I never missed a performance during the eighteen months I was in
Camelot.

J
UST BEFORE DEPARTING
for New York, I drove down to Ockley to spend a day with Dad, Win, Johnny, and Shad. It was a Sunday, and Dad was playing cricket for the home team. He was passionate about the game and played every weekend that he could. He often said how much he wished I would come and see a match.

The family sat on the grass under a tree, Leith Hill in the distance providing a perfect backdrop for the village green and its smooth-as-velvet cricket pitch. We lazed and chatted and watched the game progress, the afternoon heat, the click of the ball, the occasional cry making one inclined to nod off. But when Dad came out of the pavilion and walked onto the pitch, we all perked up. He looked dashing in his whites, and I am sure he was acutely aware of our presence, and he must have hoped to play a respectable game. Indeed he did. The runs began to mount up: thirty—forty—would he make fifty? Johnny and I looked at each other; we were in an agony of expectation and nerves. Forty-eight, forty-nine—we held hands—and suddenly fifty runs were on the board. Good old Dad!

We felt hugely relieved and happy. Clapping enthusiastically, we heard “Howzat?”, and at fifty-one, Dad was bowled out. But by then it didn’t matter. We piled into the pavilion for tea. Win was helping out that day, as she often did, her homemade cakes and cookies set out for all to enjoy.

That evening, over drinks and dinner at the pub, it was sweet to watch Dad, a pint in his hand, flushed and rosy, chatting up the afternoon with us and his pals.

The local garage owner, another cricket enthusiast, had promised every Ockley member who made fifty runs or more a half gallon of free petrol. Dad duly got his.

It was one of those pastoral, English summer days, perfect in every way—and I will always remember it.

TONY AND I
departed for New York in late August. We traveled with Shy, and immediately moved into a sunny, furnished apartment overlooking the East River. It was very different from the dark little ground-floor flat we occupied during
My Fair Lady,
and the view of the river with tugs and cargo barges plowing up and down and the 59th Street Bridge close by was a soothing pleasure.

My assistant, Alexa, was with us. She had her own room in the apartment, and she quickly got to work, finding us a young lady named Lilly Mae, who cooked and cleaned for us, and going on shopping blitzes, buying necessary bits and pieces for our comfort and a new typewriter for herself. Tony commandeered our small study and made it his work studio. I began costume fittings for
Camelot.

From day one, we kept up a steady stream of correspondence with Tim White, and he with us, and our letters were filled with enthusiasm for all that was happening concerning his wonderful book and its becoming a major Broadway musical.

A fine cast had been assembled. Richard Burton, the charismatic theater and film actor, was King Arthur. Robert Goulet, a Canadian newcomer at the time, who had a magnificent baritone voice, was Lancelot. Robert Coote played the bumbling King Pellinore, and Roddy McDowall was the evil Mordred. Though his role was not large, Roddy had lobbied passionately for the part, and would brook no argument, wanting to come aboard for the joy of it and to be with chums. John Cullum, now a star in his own right, was a member of the chorus, and an actress called Mel Dowd played Morgan Le Fay. Once again, Hanya Holm was our choreographer, Franz Allers our maestro, and Abe Feder our lighting designer. A lovely gentleman named Robert Downing was our stage manager, and Bernie Hart assisted him. I was among good friends.

REHEARSALS BEGAN IN
New York on September 3, 1960, and members of the company worked once again in the rooftop theater of the New Amsterdam on 42nd Street, while the principals rehearsed and blocked the show at the old 54th Street Theater.

As with
My Fair Lady
, I superstitiously looked for omens as I drove to work that first day, and I spotted a couple, so it seemed all was in our favor. Good!

Moss had kindly invited spouses and close friends of the principals to the reading, so including the sixty-odd members of the production, there was quite a crowd sitting in the audience.

Oliver Smith’s luminous designs, which brilliantly evoked the illustrated manuscripts of the Middle Ages, were on display. Moss had asked Adrian, one of the most eminent names of Hollywood costume design, to conceive the wardrobe for the show. He was the first of several casualties suffered as the show progressed. He died from a heart attack before completing his work, but he had designed the bulk of it, and his original exquisite sketches were also on display. A devotee and assistant of his, Tony Duquette, was brought in to oversee the costumes and to design the remainder.

The first reading was truly exciting. I was introduced to Richard Burton, and was immediately enthralled, as was everyone present, by his charm. He was simply one of those charismatic people who attracted the attention of every man, woman, child, or animal the moment he walked into a room. Richard
was
King Arthur—his voice a magnificent instrument, mellifluous enough to make any woman swoon. It was a major part of his unique appeal. That, and his piercing gray-green eyes and full, beautiful mouth.

Alan and Fritz performed their lovely songs that day. The melodies were regal and evocative, and I marveled at Fritz’s ability to write for any genre:
Brigadoon
(Scottish),
Paint Your Wagon
(Western),
My Fair Lady
(English/cockney), and now, with
Camelot,
a sense of the Age of Chivalry. Alan’s lyrics were, as always, superbly crafted, with meticulous attention to the “voice” of each character.

Moss, ever warm, funny, and welcoming, presided over the event as
if it were a party. And it was a party, in a way. Everyone was happy to be present.

Tony attended the read-through and loved what he heard, as did Richard’s wife, Sybil. She was an attractive, petite Welsh woman with a lovely countenance, her chin tilted high. She had an easy, outgoing air. Roddy knew just about everyone present, and it was exciting to see him again. Robert Goulet, devastatingly good-looking, was probably as nervous as I that first day, but he was instantly friendly.

We all knew we had monumental work ahead of us, for the musical was a hugely ambitious piece.
Camelot
is a tragic three-way love story; Arthur, Guenevere, and Lancelot care deeply for each other. The king hopes to use his power, his sword, and his intellect to create a better world for mankind. “Might for Right” is how he describes it, and Lancelot and Guenevere support his vision. Arthur is aware of his wife’s and Lancelot’s mutual attraction, and though pained by it, he tries to turn a blind eye, since he loves them both so much. All three friends do their utmost to remain steadfast, but the presence of Arthur’s illegitimate son, Mordred, who wants the throne for himself, is their undoing. He contrives to bring their idyllic world to an end. By the finale of the play, Guenevere is to enter a nunnery, Lancelot is banished, and Arthur is left on the battlefield to pass on his dream to a young page named Thomas Mallory, who will one day write the great book of Arthurian legends. He exhorts the young man to run, run as fast as he can, away from the conflict, saying, “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief, shining moment, that was known as Camelot.” It was grand theater stuff, and for those of us who remember, the theme was adored by John F. Kennedy, and it came to symbolize his presidency.

That first reading of the musical ran far too long, but we all felt its enchanting potential.

Like an exquisite tapestry that captures the heart of anyone who gazes upon it,
Camelot
cast its mantle over us all, binding and enfolding craftsmen, actors, musicians, technicians. There was an indefinable, yet indelible, aura about the show that sprang from the book and its important themes of chivalry, honor, love, idealism, and hope.

We were to be tested many times as the weeks passed, and we gave of ourselves over and over again.

What was obvious as rehearsals continued was the marked difference between Act I and Act II. The play begins so lightly. The first scene is a mini-play in itself, and is beautifully constructed. There is a joyous romantic feeling to the first act, but the second act descends into darkness as it tells of the disintegration of the Round Table, and the show’s ending is heart-wrenchingly sad. This is what Tim’s extraordinary book is all about, but there was a concern that audiences might not like being led down one path, only to find themselves on another.

In the original work, Guenevere was not chaste. She and Lancelot had a passionate love affair—though they were guilty and miserable about deceiving Arthur. During the five weeks that we rehearsed, it became obvious that Richard (Arthur) was so damned attractive that Julie (Guenevere) was going to be roundly despised by all if she transgressed. This was not helped by my virginal, squeaky-clean image. Robert Goulet was undeniably attractive as Lancelot, but there was no doubt that the piece was not going to work unless Guenevere remained faithful to Arthur despite her passion for Lancelot.

The script was therefore revised, and oddly, it served to make the outcome of the play stronger and even more tragic. The evil Mordred schemes and plots against the three friends, and in spite of their attempts to remain faithful and hold everything together, he still manages to entrap the would-be lovers and bring about the downfall of Arthur’s kingdom.

One day during rehearsals, Moss approached me.

“You’re a bit quiet, Julie,” he said. “Are you planning to sing that softly all the time?” I knew what he meant. I had been gently easing my voice back into a daily routine.

“No, Moss,” I replied. “I think the effort of
Fair Lady
was so huge that I became neurotic about my voice. I’m just testing the waters and making sure it’s there for me. I know it will strengthen in time.” Mercifully, it did.

Richard was having no such problems. His singing was a revelation; those warm Welsh tones, honed by years of Shakespeare, gave him an
enviable vocal ease. The first time I heard him sing Alan’s beautiful ballad, “How to Handle a Woman,” I simply melted, and there was hardly a night during the run when I didn’t pause to enjoy his rendering of the gentle phrases and lovely melody.

SVETLANA CAME TO
New York with the Royal Ballet, and Sudi was with her. They attended the last run-through before we departed for Toronto, which was where we were to begin our out-of-town tryout. Afterward, a happy, four-part letter went off to Tim White:

Saturday 24th September 1960

 

EXULTATION. We had the unique privilege of attending Julie’s run through of CAMELOT this afternoon. In order of preferences, after we had gloated in the glorious lightness and abundance of Julie, the contained weightiness of Burton’s Arthur, and exulted joyously and tearfully in the subtle aestheticism and emotion of Camelot, we suddenly recovered our wits and recollected the mammoth human who is the real father and mother of it all—TIM JEE. (Sudi)

 

 

Thumbs up! There will be never a dry eye or a louder cheer than on the first night of CAMELOT for which after we have congratulated and thanked Julie and Burton and all concerned, we must once again thank you. (Svetlana)

 

 

…The run through today felt quite good—and although we need to cut
at least
one hour from the show—it means that (with luck) the three hours left will be really something! Tons of love. (Julie)

 

 

 

 

…They wrote this last night while I was at the theater. I was absent due to VALMOUTH lighting…
We
open officially October 6th. I’ve just seen my heavenly Julie off for Toronto. SO IT BEGINS. And how tense and exciting it all seems. (Tony)

 

As Tony indicates in the letter, he was recreating his lovely
Valmouth
designs for a New York production, so he was unable to travel with me to Canada.

Camelot
was to inaugurate a brand-new theater in Toronto called the O’Keefe Centre, and this posed its own set of unique problems. The theater had an enormous auditorium, the stage seemed vast, the acoustics had yet to be tested, the orchestra felt miles away, and the audience somewhere beyond that. Everything smelled of sawdust and fresh paint, and workmen were constantly hammering, drilling, installing seats, carpets, and lights—doing all the last-minute things in the rush to be ready for our opening.

To complement Oliver Smith’s glorious scenery, Abe Feder decided to use airport floodlights in order to throw enough illumination onto the stage to create the brilliance of the ancient
Book of Hours
. Abe’s lights were banked in tiers between the flats on either side of the stage, and when one walked onto the set, and was blasted by an additional barrage of light from the front, the result was a visual blackout. We simply couldn’t see a thing; there was such a blur of brightness that we literally had to look at our feet to get our bearings, and had to be careful where we were going. We got used to it over time.

I occasionally went to sit in the front of the theater during the odd moments I wasn’t needed. The combination of Oliver’s sets and Adrian’s costumes, superbly lit by Feder, was so breathtakingly radiant, I felt, and still believe, that I was seeing one of the most beautifully designed musicals ever.