Variety (January 1953)

58 PICTURES Forty’Seventh ZS/jfZfETY Anniversary Letter Found in a Bottle at Sardi’s • • • • ■ ■ Continued from page 39 - '- 1 a lane, Jack and Merle Albertson and Mickey Schiller. And while on the subject I hope I can some day also re- pay those loyal talented singers, veterans of our endless living room circuit—Barbara Ashley, Jack Albertson, Mimi Benzell, Mimi Cabanne. Kay Coulter, Ruth McVayne, Katrina Van Oss, Mickey Schiller and Martha Wright. Some sang once, some a dozen times, the record holder Kenneth Remo, who sang his optimistic heart out at over 35 auditions, the faithful Mark Dawson giving up his one night off from “High Button Shoes” to not only warble Nasl/s lyrics but charm the ladies over the cock- tails and chopped liver. We all got in there and charmed at the next two audi- tions held at the home of and under the auspices of Danny Melnick, treasurer of Billy Rose’s Ziegfeld Theatre. In two evenings we raised $55,000 completing the financ- i n gi t Jose, Helen, Stewart and I were all walking on air that crisp March day as we ascended the rooftop ladder to Stewart’s penthouse apartment for our first produc- tion meeting. A rehearsal date was set and we imme- diately began looking at the cream of New Yorks mu- sical comedy talent to select a supporting cast. In my trunk of notes I find a typed paper headed: Talent Audition Wednesday, March 2, 1949 11:00 a.m.—45th Street Theatre 11:00 p.m.—Howard Hoyt Office (Shirley Bernstein—Agent) Estelle Loring Kay Ballard Edna Skinner _ . Virginna Gorski (now Gibson at Warner Bros.) Betty Jane Watson Nancy Andrews 12 00—Dorothea McFarland (Recommended by Rouben Mamoulian); Jane Kean (Recommended to Ogden Nash by Felix Jackson ). 12:45—Dorothy Claire ( Liebling & Wood). 1:00—Lester Shurr Office (Mr. Shurr or Miss Deacy ). Kyle MacDortnell Steven Douglas Martha Wright Ronald Graham Eugenie Baird Iva Withers Nan Wynn . , . _ . Max Showalter (now Casey Adams at Fox) Anne Anderson Joan Diener . , . , T My penciled notations after their names which I scan wistfully read “Skillful comedienne,” “v.g.” “volume and clarity/’ “a comer,” “my God watta chest! etc., etc. I pick up another page titled: TALENT AUDITION Thursday, March 10, 1949 2:45 p. m.—46th Street Theatre 2:45—George Keane (“Brigadoon”) „ 3:00—Anne Hathaway (works at Cafe Society —no rela- tion to Billy Shakespeare). 3 :00— Deborah Coleman People. Marilyn Day Barbara Perry George Irving 3:30— Hoyt Office Sheila Bond Helen Gallagher Anne Andre Evelyn Ward Arthur Partington Don Leberto 4:15—Marilyn Ross (Vernon Duke said o.k.). 4:30— Deborah Coleman People Larry Douglas Carl Reiner ..... After “Sheila Bond” I find the notation “nice legs and diction.” „ , , , . . All were really the cream of young talent who have since gone on to occupy featured and star dressing rooms in the various entertainment fields. (I restrained-my- self, if you’ll notice, from using the word media—I haven’t got the guts yet.) . , Ullir If this blow-by-blow is running as long as Mourning Becomes Electra,” why not—the whole thing ended like a Greek tragedy. Mr. Melnick suddenly appeared with a manila folder containing the $55,000.00 in checks. (I’ll never forget that folder. I still see it in nightmares.) But, in addition, bearing business demands Stewart couldn't see us grant-' ing. > The scene changed sadly from the theatre to smoke- filled lawyers’ offices. Behind closed doors, percentages and Mr. •Melnick’s request for associate producer billing were discussed. 1 use the word discussed loosely. At one point, Mr. Melnick objecting to our terms withered our attorney with “I must remind you that Chaney and Englund aren’t Hammerstein and Rodgers.” Someone—I prefer to for- get who—withered right back, “And you’re not Leland Hayward.” Stewart was confident Danny would return to the fold, a That night I dreamt only of the manila folder. The next morning on my room service tray was the N. Y. Times. I turned' idly to Sam Zolotow’s column to read, “Due to business disagreements with Chaney and r iglund. Danny Melnick announced that he is withdraw- ing the $55,000, last money he had . promised to invest in ‘He and She.’ Englund could not be reached for con- firmation.” A second later Lester Shurr called—could I sign David Wayne’s contract pronto—Fox was bidding madly for his .. services and could he leave the show after six months? [ Anothe r Chorus | The next second Jack Robbins, the man who was going to publish our music, called to complain that Vernon Duke refused to cut out an octave jump in one of the ballads. “That crazy stubborn White Russian!” bellowed Jack, “I had the same trouble with him on ‘Banjo Eyes.’ Can the man in the street sing such an octave jump? No, but will he listen? They didn’t listen to me at Metro when I told ’em how great ‘The Pagan Love Song’ would be. Guess how many copies that sold.” I tried to guess, but I was off by several million. Then* Stewart called, “There’s no need for panic, Ken,” he said in *a trembling voice. “I have a wealthy woman I’ve been holding in reserve. Who needs Danny Melnick? “We do,” I answered. “Just one more audition ” “Oh, no!” I screamed gently. “That last one was my farewell performance. I’ve invested a year of my life and $10,000 and I’ve got just enough left to buy the sponge to throw in. Chalk on' my luggage the word ‘Quitter’ if you will as I crawl to the airport The only time Twill repeat my nauseating collection of jokes is for the Men- ninger brothers and that at least will be lying down.” “Now listen, Ken—never say die.” “Why not?” , , T However, with a promise to think things over calmly I hung typ and decided to clear my mind. But I couldn’t, which is even worse. The phone again and Vernon. He was shocked at my attitude. There was still time to get the last money and if I’d only do this one more audition everything would be in the hag. Knowing I was a book collector, he promised me cajolingly a rare book of his that he had paid $15 for if I’d just do one final pitch. He almost clinched it by reminding me that the King and Queen of Yugoslavia had their heart set on coming to rch6cirsdls I said I’d take an Alka Seltzer, lie down and think about it. The phone rang again. It was Sam Zolotow. He was in an upbraiding mood, “I thought jmu promised to call me first when anything important broke?” “But I only learned the Bad news from you,” I countered. “Chaney says you’re getting the dough somewhere else. True or false?” “We face the future unafraid.” “Say, you’ve had more than your share of trouble, haven’t you? But cheer up—there aren’t more than a half dozen producers in New York that can raise $165,000. Investors are getting wary because of the number of flops. It took eight months to raise the coin for ‘Kiss Me, Kate/ Ray Golden had to audition ‘Alive and Kicking’ 26 times —but don’t think you hold the record—there’s one musi- cal about the old South that’s been around longer than the Civil 'War. How about writing a piece for us about your experiences? But keep it funny.” I made a dyspeptic noise, excused myself, said I’d think about it and hung up. As I lay dawn on my bed of nails there was a knock on the door. It proved to be merely a bellboy with a wire that read: KEN ENGLUND ESSEX HOUSE MARCH 21, 1952 DEAR KEN: HAVE SET UP AUDITION WITH WEINTRAUB WHO DEFINITELY WANTS TO COME IN AND ANOTHER $50,000 INVESTOR FOR TO- NIGHT MONDAY AT NINE O’CLOCK. HAVE PROMISED THIS FOR DAYS AND OUGHT TO GO THROUGH WITH IT. IT LOOKS REALLY PROM- ISING. AM COUNTING ON YOU. DON’T BE DEPRESSED. WE’LL MAKE IT. PLEASE CALL OFFICE. STEWART. $50,000. Like the old firehorse with the broken leg I answered the call to duty and appeared in Vernon’s apartment look- ing like Dorian Gray on a bad day. Vernon was his irre- pressible self—I didn’t know how Ogden was except that he was back in Baltimore in the bosom of his family— and Stewart looked chipper and confident as he introduced me to the Lady Bullfighter and her Mother, both of whom I had met before, and a strange but affable gentleman with a Smiling Lady who just nodded her hello. “Play to her,” whispered Duke across the piano. I re- peated the instructions to Kenny Remo, our only singer left. | An Audition in Braille [ Sing he did and ad lib I did, glassy-eyed though I was. I noticed on several occasions that the Smiling Lady laughed in the wrong places but I put" it down to the simple fact that I was probably losing my mind. Then suddenly I realized the woman couldn’t understand Eng- lish! The room became Daliesque as I rambled on between songs—I saw endless living rooms dripping not with soft watches but with manila folders stuffed with chopped chicken liver. And the phones were ringing so loud I couldn’t make out what Vernon was playing. My colleagues shook me out of my trance with the happy whispered news that the lady had come through!”—“She’s definitely promised 800.” “Thousand?” “No, hundred—but—at tomorrow night’s audition—” However, by this time I was safely back in my trance. Sometime later, I found myself outside of Sardi’s. Sud- denly I was an Emil Jannings character as it started to rain. I wanted to don the doormans uniform so I wouldn’t be recognized but before I could put this excel- lent plan into effect, Joe Ferrer came out of the restaurant with Phyllis and I reported our minor setback with Mel- nick in what must have been hysterically casual tones. He looked at his pocket calendar which he always carries for just such occasions and deemed it too late in his consid- ered opinion for us to come in. “You’re safer with this kind of a show, Ken, bringing it in next fall.” Charlie, the assistant porter at the Essex House, loves the theatre and knows more about it than many pro- ducers—particularly me—and there were real tears in his eyes as he packed the dog-eared copies of “He and She” and called a closed carriage that was to whisk me secretly to LaGuardia Field and «exile to my Hollywood Elba. “You’re really sure you’re never coming in?” pressed the devoted porter. - “Never,” I replied tight-lipped settling back in the ; „car- riage pulling my greatcoat around me. “Viva la Broad- ! way!” he cried, gallant old warrior \that fie was, and single-handedly kept back the crowds of onrushing creditors beating them about the head with art old pros- pectus, as the driver whipped up the horses. The four motors made a lulling whirr in my ears as I settled back in my .plane seat,. I had asked for a ticket steerage but TWA told me that service had been discon- tinued, so in spite of my humble mood of defeat I was still travelling first-class. This heartened me somewhat aftd, emboldened into action like a Hemingway hero, I took out our two years' lease on the office and lit a match to it, defying fate. I also inadvertently lit the lady’s hat in front of me and was forced to transfer to a plane be- longing to a rival airline. As I finally took off I looked out of the window to se« Wednesday, January 7, 1953 Post Morte s of 1952 By ALBERT STILLMAN f Rhymes Out of the B'way Nursery fFor Variety's 47th Anniversary November fourth,, as was expected, The .33d President was elected. The resignation of O’Dwyer Brought consequences less than dire. The Flying Enterprise set sail And capsized in the storm and gale, But not before her gallant Capt. Had the whole world tense and rapt And when, at last, it sank at sea, He got relief—and so did we. The savings banks increase in rates— One half percent in maiiy states— Though held by some in high regard, No way affects this Bankrupt Bard. Those V-Dolls’ expensive capers Were covered by lots of family papers. Drew Pearson, who has strong convictions. Made a coupla wrong predictions. The Tax Collector made out fine With the firm of Rodgers & Hammerstein. Bing and Peggy didn’t hurt “Little Jack Frost Get Lost/’ (Advert.) “I Went To Your Wedding,” A song I was dreading, Got under my skin like the bugs in the bedding. The first persop pronoun made the grade In Milton Drigo’s Serenade. I resented the Xmas hit because It impugned the morals of Santa Claus. From Maine to, let’s say, Alabama, The movie talk is Cinerama. The treasured Times, that Seat of Virtue, Prints only news that cannot hurt you. *Tis rumored on the Metro lot That Walter Scott is plenty hot. From N. Y. C. to Golden Gate Miss Monroe’s calendars marked the date. “Because You’re Mine,” his latest stanza. Was healthy, but not boff, for Lanza. The slickest chick in many seasons Was Rita Gam,* for two good reasons. A darb, a pippin and a dilly: The Evening I spent with Beatrice Lillie. “Wish You Were Here.” with few well-wishers. Was made by a record of Eddie Fisher’s. And something tells me I don’t need a Ticket for the new “Aida.” But I’m doffin’ both my last year’s hats To parodies by Mickey Katz. Casey won again, and there was gloom, As usual, in the Dressen room. Australia took the tennis crown,— ’Twas hands across the sea, hands down. I never understood too well How “GI turned G-I-R-L.” A baritone named Johnnie Ray Set out to prove that teardrops pay; Though now, it seems, this moist sensation Has reached the point of saturation. A gal whose singin’ style is warm. Miss Sunny Gale, kicked up a storm. Hillbilly music stole the show, And pretty nearly all the dough, With Rose-Acuff and Hill & Range The Centre of the Corn Exchange. 'On Tuesdays we must choose between Milton Berle and Bishop Sheen. Th‘. Sunday Trib is 20c. . . . And that takes in the Big Events From January to December,— At least, the ones that 1 remember. with some surprise that the clouds were pinker than I im- agined. In spite of blood, sweat, tears and a nervous tic that was quite becoming—I had no regrets. During the whole year-long adventure I had met and worked with a delightful and wonderful galaxy of talented, insanely fascinating, bizarre group of human beings. It would take a dozen chapters to touch on them all. I wish now I had mentioned Kyra Petrovskaya, the beautiful actress-singer and refugee from the amorous arms of Stal- in’s boy, Vassily—who was one of Russia’s first lady snipers in World War II, now happily married to an American Red Cross official, I’ll always remember her singing Russian songs to me on Christmas Eve in Ver- non’s apartment, hoping for a role in “He and She.” Like Shepherd’s Hotel used to be—Vernon’s apartment was the crossroads of the world—lady bullfighters, lady snipers, kings, queens, and the League ^ Forgotten Music, played by a g.oup of wild-eyed cello players—I met enough to fill a book. But before this turns into one let me close by merely reporting that after I went back to Hollywood: Janet Blair went to Rodgers & Hammerstein and v into “South Pacific .” ?'•“ Davie Wayne flew to Fox. VerrVfrn Duke to Warner Bros. Ogden Nash back into the,pages of the New Yorker « Helen Tamaris into “Touch and Go” and TV. Jose Ferrer on to further fame and fortune. Stewart Chaney to more artistic triumphs. Dick Maney to Tallulah. And I went to the cleaners and back to my Mother who took one look at me—gray in the face and the bank—and exclaimed with considerable pique, “I didn’t raise my boy to be a producer!” I could go on and on> and I will in the next chapters: • The Bobbsy Twins at Mrs. Howard Cullman's and Anyone for Broadway?