Variety (January 1953)

6 #1n nmn raCTUKES Forty-seventh Anniversary More Pages From My Book By CHARLOTTE GREENWOOD I wanted to go on the stage! So, my chief concern, when I first arrived in New York on vacation from school, was to'meet as many people of the theatre as I could. -For- tunately many of the greats of that day lived in the Royal Arms Hotel, which my mother man- aged—Gertrpde Hoffman and her hus- band, Max; Stella Mayhew and Billy Taylor; James Richard Glenroy (who was known as “The' Man with the Green Gloves"; Charlie Aldrich; Eva Tanguay .and many others. They lived at the Royal Arms chiefly because it was adjacent to Hammerstein’s Vic- toria where most of them appeared, and to, John Considine’s restaurant, a gathering place for all show biz. Hammerstein’s was situated across ^ llx „ u . the alley from-the hotel, and I could Charlotte Greenwood our room an d look into the win- dows of the dressing rooms and see everything—people laughing, someone singing, another playing a banjo or tuning it. The music, the rhythm, the activity—that’s where I wanted to be working. I didn’t want to go back to school—any school. I could visualize myself standing in the centre of Hammerstein’s stage, receiving baskets of flowers, hearing the enthusiastic plaudits of the crowd, reading the glowing newspaper notices in my luxurious suite, being acclaimed .the newest toast of Broadway. Then in the midst of my day-dreaming, I would take a good look at myself. The girl in the mirror didn’t quite measure up to the girl in my dreams—but I wasn’t bothered. I continued relentlessly with my campaign for my mother’s permission. She was nearly always on my side and in the end I won her nod. If, she said, I could wangle my way into the theatre, she would offer no objection. On the Other hand I was not to expect any help from her. As a matter of fact, -I am satisfied that sfog^spoke to Max Hoffman, the great musical conductor, before I did, be- cause, come to think of it, he seemed fully aware of what I was trying to say before I got the first halting sentence out. Then Max began to speak. I can see Max now writing the introduction. There -was no writing paper available. ,Our hotel didn’t furnish pri- vate stationery. So Max, the ever-resoiirceful, merely split a brown bag, and on a piece of it scrawled: r . - ^ “Dear Ned: This will introduce Lottie Greenwood, of whom I spoke to you Saturday for ‘The White Cat * “Sincerely , Max Hof man*.’* This was my passport into paradise, my Open Sesame to a perpetual Arabian Nights that has never lost its fas- cination for me. I grabbed the note, and was off in a flash, racing through the lobby, darting through the traffic of Times Square, my long arms waving like windmills, to the New Amsterdam where Ned Way burn was. rehearsing. Way- burn himself was inaccessible. I knew enough about the .theatre to understand that a producer in the throes of creation is. very much on the untouchable side. So, I entrusted my precious scroll to a reluctant stage doorman who, in turn, passed it on to .the stage manager, who, in turn, passed it on to Wayburn. [ A Job! In due time, he read Max’s signature and stamped “En- gaged—Ned Wayburn” across the face of the note. In a few minutes—they seemed like hpurs—one of his aides came back to the anteroom to find me perspiring with agi- tation. Accustomed to dealing with the vagaries of pro- ducers, he probably realized that Wayburn was stark, staring mad, hiring a chorus girl sight unseen, but he gave no hint of it beyond a rather puzzled look. The ante- room contained several girls besides myself. They were beautiful and hopeful that Wayburn was still hiring. “Which one of you is Greenwood?” he inquired, looking at the beauties, and then, in the same breath, turning to me, “And what do you want?” “I’m Greenwood,” I gurgled and stumbled toward him, tripping smartly over my feet. The man virtually fell in a faint. You. could see—even I could see—his whole world tumbling around him. Here was Wayburn, forerunner of Earl Carroll as the picker of the world’s most beautiful women, hiring this scare- crow for the chorus, not only without a second thought, but without a first look. Happily for me, stage managers do not question the decision of their bosses. The theatre is operated on the same principles of discipline and blind obedience as an army on the march. “Come along!” the stage manager said, when he caught his breath; and before the horrified and incredulous gaze of the beauties I “came along.” Wayburn was preoccupied when 1 took my appointed place in the line. Rehearsals had not been going any too well. The chorus director gave me some printed slips with the words of some of the songs we were to sing, and told me to watch my neighbors carefully and go through the routine. After rehearsal he would explain * the detail of the steps. There was a great deal of excited whispering among the beautiful ladies of the chorus. They were unable to decide offhand whether someone was play- ing a practical joke on Wayburn—a very dangerous prac-. tice—or whether he had completely lost his mind; or whether I was a comedienne in disguise; or a laundress who had wandered into the wrong hall. 1 might have heard all these side remarks but for the- fact that my teeth .were chattering; I was dripping with perspiration;, my. head. ached violently; my eyes were blinded by the lights—and I Was radiantly happy. A paradox, if ever there was one! What matter what people * said—I was in the theatre! I mastered the comparatively simple dance routine; memorized the words to the choruses; and became increas- ingly aware that I had other physical drawbacks beyond’ inordinate height. I was as “flat as a pancake” in all places, where, according to nature, there should have - been bulges. --- Final# I took the matter up with Mama. She didnjt seem surprised that I was not as shapely as my sisters of the chorus and pointed out gently that in time I too would “fill out.” Meantime she had been making some inquiry Into the matter and believed she had hit upon a solution. One morning we took the matter up with Daniels, whose business it was to correct faulty shapes. He suggested symmetricals—pads that gave nice-shapely limbs to girls who had been denied symmetry ny'-nmoire, They strapped around the leg, providing a nice calf of cotton batten and they were embellished with hearts, designed to fill in the vacant spaces that the symmetricals failed to cover. I wondered why Mama was inclined to haggle over the price and agree reluctantly to pay the necessary $9. I couldn’t understand why we should be so strapped be- cause'! was to earn $15 a week in New York and $18 on the road—whenever the show got started. At home I learned the appalling news. Colonel Hull Davidson had sold his chain of hotels and the new management had ideas on its operation that did not include Mama. She was, to put it briefly, fired. I was glad that I had forced the issue of leaving school. Mama needn’t worry any more! The future was bright! She wasn’t quite so opti- mistic. The present required that we part^Kith our last $9. If either Mama or I had known more about the theatre, we would have been aware of a familiar trick of show business in that era—drawing ahead on your salary. Nearly everyone drew as much as the producer would al- low, hoping in this way to insure themselves against dis- charge. In time the need for this bit of chicanery was eliminated by the organization of the Actors’ Equity As- sociation which Required producers to post bonds insuring the players against the fate of being stranded. The Payoff Finally the great day came—the day of the dress re- hearsal! I started toward the theatre with a song in my heart and a tune on my lips. Wouldn’t Mr. Wayburn be glad he had engaged me! Wouldn’t Max Hoffman be .delighted he had recommended me! Wouldn’t Miss Newman, my old schoolteacher, be proud if she could see me now! Wouldn’t the kids in Phoebus and Boston and Norfolk envy me! Me, a Broadway star. I could see my name in electric lights-^“Lottie Greenwood”—or would it be bet- ter to be more dignified andvhtfve it read “Charlotte Greenwood”? Or, on the other hand, would it add tone and" distinction to make it “Frances Charlotte Green- wood”? As I looked up admiringly at this imaginary sign on the marquee my eyes happened to stray to a nearby jeweler’s clock. It pointed to 9:45 and giving a hitch to my sym- metricals, I dashed on to the stage door. Rehearsal was called for 10 a.m. sharp. From the waist down I was now something pretty snug. The symmetricals gave a sort of Mae West flavor from hip to toe. I wish now I had been a little more careful about mooring them, especially the all important hearts. From the waist up, I was something out of a gargoyle collection and the total effect was not only breath-taking but slightly horrendous. I heard the titters of the girls in the chorus room, but didn’t identify them with myself. How was I to know that I was goon from the waist up; glamor from the waist down. Per- sonally I felt fine and dandy! , At last the call came and we trooped onto the stage to take our places for the opening number. In those days of musical comedy opening numbers followed a set for- mula. The girls, all beautiful and buxom, were in skin tights, designed in style and form—the girls not the tights —to appeal to any type of tired business man. It was the routine to start the ball rolling with a sort of marching number that eventually brought the entire line directly in front of the footlight trough. Wayburn was seated in front in the empty auditorium, as the curtain rose te*the blare of the orchestra’s opening number. In those days Wayburn wore elaborate sweaters with the initials “N. W.” lettered on them with all the modesty of a prize quarterback; around his neck he car- ried a whistle on a cord like a football official. And Way- burn’s voice was of that timbre that he could be heard a block away without half trying. As the curtain rose he walked down the aisle, his eyes moving from left to right as he inspected each beauty in the line. Suddenly the whistle shrilled; the curtain stopped in its ascent; the music paused in mid-air; the chorus came to a halt. Wayburn’s eye had fallen on me and he bellowed: “What in the name of God is 'that?’* In all innocence, I turned around to see what was of- fending his artistic sense, but there was no jigj&d. I was in the limelight for the first time, the cynosure of all eyes —in a very loose mannar of speaking. And Wayburn, scarcely pausing for breath or explanation, continued to yell: “Where did it come from? What is it anyway? Why does everything happen to me? Will somebody kindly ex- plain this grotesque practical joke?”—this with acid fair- ly dripping from his jowls. At this point one of his as- sistants reached his side and apparently whispered the • magic name of Hoffrqan. “Hoffman!” Wayburn repeated in a bellow. “That so and so, that such and such!” For what seemed an hour he cursed the house of Hoff- man and all that entered its portals; he hurled impreca- tions at all the Hoffmans past, present and future. Finally, he ran out of oaths and I was dissolved in tears. It is no fun being a protegee when your patron is being excoriated as a fool, a villain, and a blithering idiot. Finally the storm subsided. He still couldn’t bring himself to speak to me Apparently Wayburn did owe Hoffman something; and although I am sure he would have slain him without a tremor of remorse had the hapless' Max been in the im- mediate neighborhood, Wayburn was not one to leave debts unpaid. Take her out of there,” he finally ordered, pointing a raging forefinger at me. “Put her in the Japanese num- ber. And so I.made .my- debut pn Broadway, divested of mj symmetricals, equipped with a. monumental black wig ant garbed in an Oriental robe that reached the floor. Ever Mother had, difficulty, recognizing her favorite daughte] in the disguise. But it was all the same to me. I was ir show business—I was a professional. . !. was : also the tall est Japanese in America! 1 Wednesday, January 7, 1953 Tallu In SpadesT Bestseller and TV By TALLULAH BANKHEAD On Sept, 29, 1949, Mrs. Iva Ikuko Toguri D’Aquino wag found guilty of treason for her wartime broadcasts. i va was better known to most GIs in the Pacific as Tokyo Rose Three years later, to the day, ^‘Tallulah” flowered on the bookstalls throughout the country un- der the dignified imprint of Harper & Bros., a publishing house which in all its long history had never been charged with inciting to riot. If y 0 u are puzzled by the association of the two events cited above, the long arm of coincidence, let me unpuzzle you As a lady only lately exposed to au- thorship I can tell you that this is an example of the confused lead, a diver- sionary antic designed to throw tra- ducers and pursuers off the trail, lull the reader into a false sense of in- security. There may be better, even more virtuous, women about than your correspondent; but I defy anyone to come up with a braver one. Who else who be so rash as to take on both belles-lettres and television within a single year? Not only did I grapple with both these ogres, I have reason to believe I conquered them. Those of you in the booksy set must know that “Tallulah” has been perilously perched at the top of the non-fiction bestseller list for the-past 10 weeks! Non-readers, television addicts that is, must know, too, that since the fateful evening of Oct. 11 when I faced my first TV audience in such assorted company as Ethel Barrymore and Groucho Marx, I liave twice glowed on the 21-inch mirrors and tubes of lesser dimensions, bringing gaiety, shock, alarm, and mayhem into the live of millions who have not seen a stage play since “East Lynne.” I cite my invasion of two new fields only to document my devotion to the democratic processes. When I cater to the doubip-domes with my confessions, I compensate by appearing before their intellectual opposites in such rowdy exercises as piay have the approval of NBC, as- sorted sponsors, native beaters, outriders, vice-presidents, huckstersr^echanics' and dialog writers. No partisanship there, my ^Id one& Tallulah must be all things to all men if her Appeal is to set the masses to throbbing. Princes and paupers, and left-handed pitchers must all be Tallulah addicts if I am to prosper. In Just One Word—Coin Were there other considerations which led me to tackle two new media without so much as warming up in the bull- pen? There “were, indeed, and I can sum them up in a word, a miraculous feat in so loquacious a monologist. The word, Moolah! Don’t be taken in by all that nonsense that I have an underground annex to Fort Kjiox on my acres in Bedford Village. As always I’m just a jump behind the Collector of Internal Revenue. One can do just so much fencing with such .a gentleman, then he starts to wax wrathy, nay even start to .make menacing motions in the directionof the piano. Lest you get a wrong impression, I hasten to tell you I am not a pioneer in the field of autobiography. Au con - traire. Once an actress has achieved billing on the mar- quee she’s looked upon as either an illiterate or a genial if harmless eccentric until she puts her confessions be- tween covers. Gertrude Lawrence, Katharine Cornell, Constance Collier, Eva LeGallieniie are but a few of my sisters who have yielded to temptation. Ethel Barrymore, cited'earlier in this chronicle, even now is writing her memoirs, and in longhand. So is the fabled Maude Adams, just turned 80. Bette Davis? She’s acting out her recollections in “Two’s Company,” scorning so tedious a device as the written word. You remember Bette Davis? Top tennis players contest every year for the trophy named for her. Wants No ‘Lip’ If I may interrupt the uneven tenor of this tract, I'd like to scotch the rumor that Leo Durocher became so numbed after playing a scene with me in the forthcoming film, “Main Street to Broadway,” that he’s threatened to desert the New York Giants in favor of a richer and fuller life before the cameras. I refute that charge in words which would shrivel the pages of this almanac. I have a lot of things on my conscience but I'm guiltless of con- tributing to the delinquency of The Lip. Still, a role in a B-picture might be preferable >to facing the enraged Giant fans should their idols be found wandering around in the second division next July. And that’s where they may be wandering unless Jansen and Maglie regain their ’51 form. (End of digression). Where was I? Oh, yes, talking about Marcel Proust and James Joyce and other obscurantists who have preceded me in the literary ring?- As I’ve broadly hinted, writing a book and acting in TV simultaneously has contradictory implications. It’s like fighting for both the North and the South in the war be- tween the states simultaneously. It takes a little doing, considerable agility. My n'ext book? I’m dedicated to the adage that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. I’m a* one-book girl. No one asked Gertrude. Ederle to swim the Channel twice, did they? ■ Win-Place-Show Years ago, when Wesley Ruggles and I were making “Sing You Sinners,'* at Paramount, we wepe about to shoot our big horserace sequence and Ruggtep was giving the jockeys a pep talk. “I want this race' to look real,” said Ruggles. “I . want every jockey trying his best and every horse running his fasiesi. ,> “Sure,” said the spokesman for the jockeys. “We’ll give you a legit race just like you see at the meets. In what order do you want us to finish?" .. Claude Binyon.