Streisand

by Anne Edwards

  After the cast party Marty Erlichman hosted a festive late supper for about twenty guests including Diana, Shelley and his wife and the Starks. Streisand seemed wistful. It had become more and more difficult for her to appear in public. People rushed over to her for autographs in restaurants, stores, on the street. She could not even go to the ladies’ room in a public place without being approached for an autograph and several times an over-enthusiastic fan had thrust a piece of paper and a pen under the closed door of the cubicle she occupied. She had lost any semblance of privacy and she claimed she still saw herself as a victim. ‘Ya know, why me? Even my success makes me a victim. I think, “Oh, God, don’t envy me. I have my own pains. Money doesn’t wipe that out.”’ And she told Shana Alexander, ‘The only happiness I know is real is the happiness I get from eating coffee ice cream.’ Stardom had been her dream and there was no way she was going to let it slip from her grasp, but she had discovered early that everything has a price – in many ways one she hugely resented paying.

  She was feeling the pressure and having difficulty getting through her performances every night. A large wall calendar hung in her dressing room and she would cross off each day at the end of a performance and jot down how many more were left. All the publicity, the massive press coverage had made her crazy. How was she going to maintain this fame? What was going to happen next? She didn’t want to hurt Elliott and she thought her celebrity would do this. She suffered severe stomach pains and a doctor put her on large doses of Donnatal, a prescription drug.

  Her relationship with her mother had not improved much. Diana, who still worked in a Manhattan high school, viewed her daughter’s extravagant new style with a critical eye and a dire warning that fame and money could disappear as fast as it came. Diana was unable to say the things that Streisand wanted to hear – that she was proud of her, that she was terrific, that she had turned from an ugly duckling into a silken swan. When Streisand appeared on a magazine cover it was either, ‘Why were you wearing your bangs down over your eyes?’ Or ‘You can see the turn in your eye,’ or ‘The neckline of your dress is cut too low.’

  ‘I wish I could give you the terrible problem I have with my ears!’ Streisand once roared at a fan who told her she wished she could be her. And unless Elliott’s career took off soon, she was aware that there would be serious trouble ahead in their marriage. At Cis Corman’s husband’s suggestion, she started therapy sessions three times a week with a psychoanalyst. She would continue therapy on and off, but mostly on, for the next thirty years, but these were the sessions where her childhood and youth, so painful to her, were still fresh, smarting wounds, where her resentments toward Diana were constantly dissected and discussed. Unable to shed the past she carried it around with her like an injured child.

  These problems were pushed aside when Erlichman negotiated an astronomical contract for her to receive in excess of $5 million for ten television specials for CBS. An even higher fee could have been commanded, but Erlichman had insisted on her retaining complete artistic control and choice of material. She formed Ellbar, a production company which included Elliott as an executive partner. As no acting offers were forthcoming they decided that it might be best if he kept an eye on her business interests and helped to scout suitable projects, not necessarily requiring her appearance, for their company. At the Tony Awards dinner in May 1964 she lost to Carol Channing but soon afterwards received a Grammy – Best Vocal Performance–Female – for the People album, for which Peter Matz also won a Grammy for Best Arranger. Competitive by nature, being passed by a second time for a Tony ate away at her. Was she really not as good as Carol Channing? Did the theatre community have something against her? She fretted about such things, turned them over and over in her mind.

  In October, Elliott was cast opposite Lesley Anne Warren in Drat the Cat!, a musical with a score that Streisand admired. Two songs, ‘He Touched Me’ and ‘I Like Him’, would become part of her repertory. In Drat the Cat!, a throwback to the mock-melodramas of the 1930s, Elliott played an inept policeman in love with a kooky, criminally minded heiress. It opened to negative reviews, survived a single week and closed leaving him back where he was before – without a job.

  ‘I thought a lot about what I should do,’ he recalled. He told Streisand that he wanted to strike out on his own, maybe try Hollywood. ‘I need you,’ she cried. ‘You’ve got to be there to protect me.’ It was the affirmation he wanted to hear and he remained in New York. They were most happy late at night when her entourage had finally departed and they could have a few quiet hours to themselves. She could be like a child at those times, clinging to him. She harboured many fears. A naked wire hanger in a closet terrified her and had to be removed. Half-lowered window shades resembled lidded eyes and seemed evil to her. These were phobias she was unable to admit to anyone. Elliott was different. He was her one true friend; the only person with whom she felt completely safe and with whom she could be herself, artifice shed, fame of no consequence. The problem was, she did not like the person their absence revealed and sometimes that made her angry with Elliott for exposing the nothing she feared she really was.

  Her contract with Ray Stark to appear in Funny Girl had also included the stipulation that she make four films for his company, Rastar. She had only wanted to do Funny Girl, but Stark refused to make a deal with her unless she acceded to his terms. ‘I remember Marty Erlichman saying to me, “Look if you’re prepared to lose it, then we can say, sorry, we’ll sign only one picture at a time,”’ Streisand has said, adding: ‘I was not prepared to lose it.’ This agreement would cause many future problems in her relationship with Ray Stark, which vacillated alarmingly between hate and love, regard for a mentor and resentment because of his hold over her. She called him ‘a character, an original’. He was a smart promoter, a tough businessman and he had, in her view, taken more than he had given. Her contract with him had guaranteed her star status but it had cost her high – her freedom.

  Work began on her first television special when Funny Girl was midway through its New York run. She dashed between the television studio, the Winter Garden and back to the studio late at night to listen to playbacks and view the results of the day’s filming with Dwight Hemion, her director. She started the enterprise knowing very little about the medium; a week later she was acting like an expert. Her contract with CBS gave her complete artistic control and she exercised it fully. CBS executives had fought her with all their corporate muscle to get her to have guest stars on her show as other television specials did. In the end, her resolve was so strong that they backed down. The show would be a one-woman production with a full orchestra and an occasional chorus to support her.

  The title, My Name is Barbra, was taken from Leonard Bernstein’s song cycle, ‘I Hate Music’.1 Peter Matz arranged and conducted the music. The production numbers were conceived, staged and choreographed by Joe Layton, Elliott’s director on both On the Town and Once Upon a Mattress, and recent Tony Award winner for his work on Richard Rodgers’ No Strings. Streisand was in good hands but she never let the control slip from her own. Her involvement in every phase in the making of the show was intense.

  She was quick to respond to the reputation she was gaining in the industry as a ‘ball breaker’, a ‘control freak’. ‘Well, control means artistic responsibility, being completely dedicated to a project, having a total vision, being interested in all aspects down to the copy on the radio commercials,’ she countered. ‘I want to be responsible for everything I do in my life, whether it’s good or bad. I have visions in my head. I hear music; I dream. It’s very rewarding to have them materialise.’ She thought for a moment. ‘If a man did what I did he would be called thorough, while a woman’s called a ball-breaker. I resent that.’

  Playing to the camera was a thrilling and satisfying experience for her. She fell instantly in love with the medium of film, the process of editing, the ability to refine and correct what she did not like in the way she moved or looked or sang. S
he learned quickly what angles showed her to her best advantage, that her left profile photographed better than her right, and that if she lifted her chin it made her nose appear shorter.

  My Name Is Barbra was filmed in black and white and aired on 28 April 1965. ‘There’s a play on Broadway,’ she told her unseen audience, ‘Funny Girl. I kind of like it. In fact I go there every evening,’ and instantly established a rapport with the millions of people who were seeing her for the first time. ‘I can’t believe this is my own show!’ she told them. Divided into four musical segments, My Name Is Barbra was cleverly set so that commercials would not be obtrusive. One was a view of childhood involving a chorus of off-camera children screaming, ‘Crazy Barbra! Crazy Barbra!’ that recalled Brooklyn and being called ‘Big Beak’. In this personal reminiscence, she used giant-size props which dwarfed her and wore children’s clothes. In the second segment she moved seductively among the tuxedo-clad members of the orchestra as she segued smoothly from number to number: ‘Lover Come Back to Me’, ‘How Does the Wine Taste?’, ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’, and ‘People’. Next, she took a whirlwind tour of her favourite Manhattan department store, Bergdorf Goodman, modelling outlandish furs and singing a medley of Depression era songs: ‘Second Hand Rose’, ‘Brother Can You Spare a Dime?’, ‘Nobody Wants You When You’re Down and Out’. She saved a stylish concert for last, singing on a dark stage in a single spotlight to spectacular effect: ‘When the Sun Comes Out’, ‘Why Did I Choose You?’, ‘I Am Woman, You Are Man’, ‘My Man’, and closing with ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’.

  ‘The result was a pinnacle moment in American show business, in any form, in any period,’ wrote the reviewer for United Press International. ‘She is so great it is shocking, something like being in love ... She may well be the most supremely talented and complete popular entertainer that this country has ever produced. She simply dwarfs such contemporary stars as Julie Andrews, Elizabeth Taylor, Judy Garland and Carol Burnett. Anything they can do, she can do light years better. She is alternately gamin-like, sexy, mischievous, innocent, confident, insouciant, girlish, and radiating warmth. So she touches you, to your toes and then she knocks you out.’

  The show won two Grammys–Outstanding Program Achievement in Entertainment and Outstanding Individual Achievement by an Actor or Performer. Ratings were higher than any other variety show released that year. CBS’s network’s executives wanted her to start almost immediately on a second special that could be released at the beginning of 1966. Streisand could not help but be elated at her instant success in television. Her confidence was bolstered with the knowledge that she could project well on camera and sustain an hour programme that would be seen by several million people. Her goal – to star in a movie – was closer to her grasp.

  Her run in the New York production of Funny Girl was about to end. ‘Truthfully, I couldn’t wait for it to end,’ she later confessed. ‘When it did end, though, on 26 December 1965 [Mimi Hines was to take over from her] I was overwhelmed by the intensity of my emotions; I broke down on stage, and was completely unprepared for the cast and audience singing “Auld Lang Syne” back to me.’ The last performance was also the only time she ever sang Fanny Brice’s famous number, ‘My Man’, at the Winter Garden. ‘I did it for Ray [Stark],’ she explained, ‘because he always loved it. And I did it for Fanny Brice. After all was said and done, it was still her song.’

  CBS agreed that her next special be filmed in colour, which was now employed for most variety programmes. Called Color Me Barbra, it was again produced by Ellbar, her company. Her schedule was fierce: not only the television contract to fulfil, but her record commitments, a concert tour, the London production and, she hoped, the film of Funny Girl. As her income rose dramatically, Elliott was finding it increasingly difficult to adjust himself to their fast-paced lifestyle and his wife’s fame. He was not happy at, in essence, working for her and not at all sure that his job, to look for new projects, was essential. The London production of Funny Girl was to open on 13 April 1966, and Elliott would accompany her and stay throughout the run, but for the moment they celebrated New Year’s Eve, 1965, quietly, Elliott more in love with her than ever, obsessed with her, he would later admit.

  ‘She was so vulnerable, I thought. But I think that was a real trap, and of course, I was taken by it. She used her vulnerability and insecurities as a seduction, like a laser beam. It was very attractive, and that’s part of her art ... her vulnerability is like one of those snowstorms in a globe that you shake; it’s behind glass. She plays vulnerability and has always played it really masterfully.

  ‘She is very cold, smart and acutely business oriented. She was that way from the time of Funny Girl. Maybe before, but I didn’t notice it then. She keeps herself isolated to maintain the status quo of her situation. I told her once, “Everyone is afraid of you, they tell you only what you really want to hear.” She was so afraid of being hurt that she made herself inaccessible. She lacked trust and faith, and being so successful so young, she could make herself untouchable and unapproachable. Poor baby was miserable. She must be the most miserable person I’ve ever known. She keeps herself occupied with so many things because she’s so afraid to fail, so afraid of the truth.’

  Sadie, her cherished poodle, went everywhere with her. She cuddled and coddled the small pet. She considered the idea that she and Elliott needed a child. She had no doubt that he would be a good father, but was unsure about her own role as a future mother. These thoughts were not far from her mind as she began the New York rehearsals on Color Me Barbra the same day that Shelley’s daughter, Erica, was born. ‘Hey, whaddaya know? I’m an aunt!’ she announced as she entered the dank studio in the east Seventies, wearing a floppy hat, her mink cape, aquamarine slacks and matching suede shoes ‘with a strip of maroon across the instep’, an observer noted. ‘She was not pretty. It is not, however, the nose. The nose is beautiful. Rather it is her eyes, set too close together and somehow chilly.’

  On board were all the men she had come to count on – Marty Erlichman, Joe Layton, Dwight Hemion, Peter Matz and, of course, Elliott. She felt secure. Her mood was phlegmatic. Mid-afternoon, Sadie arrived fresh from the poodle-parlour. She scooped the small white fluff of a dog, smelling of scented soap, into her arms, kissed her and carried her over her shoulder as she walked through the next phase of the rehearsal.

  A short while later she was asked to sign for a registered package. It contained a jewelled brooch which she immediately pinned to the sweater she was wearing. ‘I’m crazy about brooches,’ she declared. ‘I pass these things in store windows and I say to an assistant, “Go call that guy!”’ Besides an assistant, she now had a secretary, her agent, business manager, accountant, lawyer, dress designer, hairdresser, and press agent, all of whom were at the rehearsal along with Elliott, two CBS executives, the sponsor’s advertising representative, photographers and reporters from three newspapers and two magazines. In the middle of the rehearsal hall was a trampoline that she had to use during one of her production numbers. An instructor, who was giving a demonstration on an intricate leap she was to negotiate, lost her balance and fell through the springs before finally being able to rise to her feet, stunned but unharmed. This did not daunt Streisand, who tried the flip for herself, sprawling awkwardly, crashing to the canvas and almost bouncing out of control. Sadie, sitting haunched on the sidelines, barked and ran around in circles. The brooch came undone and flew across the floor. Streisand got up and tried the flip again.

  Color Me Barbra was to be filmed inside the Philadelphia Museum of Art. After six days of rehearsals in New York, Streisand, Elliott, the entire crew, her entourage, Sadie and the members of the press – about thirty-five people – arrived in Philadelphia on one of the coldest days of the season. With Sadie clutched tightly under one arm, she inspected the hotel suite she was to occupy, pulling up the shades, flicking on the lights, shouting for someone to call room service for a pot of tea and whatever else looked good on the menu.
‘How about I go get some Chinese?’ Elliott offered. She liked the idea but insisted a staff member be sent.

  Food gave her instant gratification. ‘I’m not comfortable sitting down to a formal dinner,’ she told one reporter. ‘I like standing up and eating out of three pots on a stove. I love Cokes, and cones and French fries that taste of bacon, like you get in greasy spoons. I love greasy spoons. Recently, after a late party for Princess Margaret–it was a bore–I had the urge for rice pudding without raisins. Some people like it with raisins, I like it without raisins. Well, I had this urge, and every place was closed, but Elliott found a waterfront diner that was open. We could have gone to the Automat, I suppose. I like the Automat. You put in the nickels and get what you want – pies, cakes, sandwiches. But you know, nowadays, it’s hard for me to go to the Automat. I mean, people know me and inhibit my eating.’

  In a suite on a lower floor Rex Reed, the darkly handsome actor/columnist (soon to co-star in the transvestite role of Myron in the film adaptation of Gore Vidal’s book Myra Breckinridge) was waiting with six or eight of Streisand’s publicity staff for her to come down for his scheduled interview. He waited three-and-a-half hours. ‘OK, you have twenty minutes,’ she told him when she arrived, sat in a chair and began to wolf down some fruit in a large basket on a table near her.