“Gimmick” and Tessie and her colleagues now conformed to my vision, they were now an integral part of the story, and that made a remarkable difference to the second act. In its other versions, it had always been considered just a notch below the first act; now, for the first time, it was raised to its level. The taint of melodrama and glitz had been removed. It had as much emotional intensity, if not more, because its scenes went deeper and carried more weight. Totally unexpected.
There was one factor above all others that made this Gypsy extraordinary. Roll your eyes if you will, but the production was driven by love, beginning with Tom. That was what had made him urge me to do the show with Patti. Mine for him made me determined this Gypsy wasn't going to be like any Gypsy I or anyone else had directed before. When he died, loss told me more about love than I had ever known. For me, nothing in life is more important. Nothing in this production was more important.
Gypsy was always about the need for recognition—which is also a need for love of one kind or another. It reaches its climax in the very last scene of the play, between Rose and Louise, when Rose admits she did it all for herself and then answers why: “Just wanted to be noticed,” she says.
“Like I wanted you to notice me,” says her daughter—meaning “Like I wanted you to love me.” Wanted, past tense; and Rose, the no-longer-wanted mother, breaks down in tears.
Love was always the subject; it just needed a spotlight.
Love for Gypsy was shared by everyone in the rehearsal hall. Not the love the company had when it arrived—the love of the show as a favorite musical. Once we began work around the table, discovering there was so much more to be mined than they had suspected, the actors fell in love with Gypsy—really in love. That made the work better, and that made them better. Not just this player or that—everyone. And the better they got, the more they loved what they were doing; and the more they loved their work, the better the whole show got and continued to get, until the first audience told us it was even better than we had thought.
Love was driving everything. I'd never been happier in rehearsal, because of the mutual love affair with the company. It began, as it had to, with Patti—a lightning journey from testing each other the first day to mutual trust and enjoyment of each other by the third. Seeing that, Boyd and Laura came along, the others followed like groupies, and the rehearsal hall was suffused with love that transformed the time and the place and the work. When the company moved into the theatre, that love flooded the stage, poured over the footlights into the audience, which bathed in it and sent back waves of its own night after night until the night it wouldn't go home.
How could that Gypsy not be extraordinary?
The City Center run was limited to three weeks, the first of which was largely previews. The adulation excited during those three short weeks paled beside the citywide love affair after it closed. Only a ticker-tape parade was lacking. I might even have begun to believe I was really that good, but I left for Quogue immediately after closing night to prepare Tom's memorial.
It was to be on August 24, his birthday and our anniversary, under a tent in his park—his park because he had turned acres of what had been a dark jungle of trees strangled with bittersweet into the most serene place on the planet. What he called “rooms” were small areas of variegated plants and shrubs and flowers separated by sunlit corridors formed by so many different trees: birch, maple, evergreen, tulip, and the sequentially blossoming fruit trees—pear, cherry, apple. The park was what he created, year after year; the summer day of his memorial was so perfect he must have created it, too. He had to have been there; he was there. All the people who spoke felt his presence; all the people who strolled through the “rooms” after the ceremony to discover more of him felt they saw him as I remembered him: wearing his torn straw hat to shield his fair skin while riding his lawn mower around his park. There was no mention of Gypsy at the memorial other than the presence of three friends who had been involved with it at one time or another: Bernadette Peters, Tyne Daly, and Scott Rudin. But it had come into my mind at an odd moment for an odd reason.
When I spoke at the memorial, I held on to the tent pole the way I later held on to the proscenium of the St. James when I spoke at the invitation dress rehearsal. I looked at ease, but I was holding on in both cases, because my legs were shaking badly. At the St. James, they were shaking because I was embarrassed by the prolonged applause when I came on stage. At the memorial, they were shaking because even though I believed what I said—that he was there in the park and his spirit always would be—at that moment, I missed his physical presence so badly I literally couldn't stand it.
After City Center, London with Patti had been the plan, but no acceptable theatre was available for at least a year. No one seemed to care. The excitement at home in New York had turned everyone's eyes toward Broadway. Surprise? Hardly. No matter what the artistic level of Broadway, it is always the goal, the prize, the brass ring on the merry-go-round. Everyone in the theatre community said Gypsy belonged on Broadway; it had to go to Broadway now to show the audience what theatre can be. Producers were ready; theatres were offered; the company was available and half out of its head with desire. But there was a catch. In this world, obviously there would be, and obviously it would be money. The financing wasn't there—for one equally obvious, time-honored reason:
Considered a summer production, the show had not been reviewed by the magazines, but the newspapers that did offered unanimous raves for the show. And were ecstatic about Patti's passionate, risky performance. But not unanimously: the exception was the New York Times. In the event that a Times reader didn't believe in reading reviews, the paper put its reservation about her in a big headline over the review. Complain if you will, as you will, about the power of the Times, or claim it doesn't have the power it once did, the belief in the New York theatre is that no show can survive a negative review from the New York Times. It doesn't matter if that's true; it doesn't matter that exceptions can be found. What does matter is that investors in shows believe it's true, and theirs is the power to put a show on Broadway or keep it off. Protest; argue how word of mouth can bring them in, and just listen to the buzz about Gypsy—listen to descriptions of its audiences literally shouting and screaming throughout the show every night, standing up every night at the end of Patti's “Rose's Turn”—but (forgive the interruption) did you see Brantley's review?
Nothing revealed more how Tom's death had changed my perspective on the theatre and on what mattered in life than my reaction to the fevered speculation over Broadway for Gypsy. I didn't care about going to Broadway. I had done what Tom wanted me to do, and I had accomplished what I wanted to accomplish. Well, not entirely: Patti still hadn't fully realized her potential, although you'd never have known it from the hysteria she caused in the audience. Gypsy as a show, however, had been the event I promised it would be—bigger, actually, than anyone's dream. I was proud how well my work was received; that was enough for me. I didn't need money or Broadway's validation.
And there had been a lovely bonus: my relationship with Patti. A piece of paper couldn't come between us. She was on the road, doing concerts on what she called her Pay-Off-the-Debts Tour. We e-mailed constantly, her notes always asking, “Any news about us on Broadway?” The designers called now and then. They had counted on London to finally bring some money for their work. That work had been even harder than it would have been in a Broadway production, because they had to spend so much time and call in so many chips to make magical bricks out of discount straw. They didn't ask about Broadway, but I knew. To the actors who had never been on Broadway, some of them never even been in a show, Broadway was an impossible dream, but they dreamed it anyway and I knew. The actors who were not neophytes but had never had parts this good and had never been as good—I knew. But when Patti had to face that not only were dreams of going to Broadway gone but hope was gone, Gypsy was not going to Broadway or anywhere else, she was devastated, and I didn't want to know th
at. Patti LuPone is a raw life force; she must not be devastated. But she was. It was awful to behold, and I couldn't. So I went to work to get Gypsy on Broadway, even though I thought of Broadway as Chernobyl.
Among the small group of producers who had contributed enhancement money for the show at City Center and who were supposed to do it in London, there was one who was quietly passionate about theatre—what he himself thought was theatre, not necessarily what he was told was theatre. No nuance of this production of Gypsy escaped him; he loved it unequivocally. He was also the most likely to take a risk for what he believed in, the most likely to have the lottery number that could get Gypsy to Broadway. Uniquely, he was a producer you could trust. As anyone active in the theatre reading this already knows, his name is Roger Berlind. Roger is responsible for Gypsy playing on Broadway. I promised him and all the producers that I would make the New York Times change its mind about Patti LuPone. It's what critics praise, not what they pan, that antagonizes and depresses the theatre community. Even Hamlet has flaws. I wasn't just pitching the producers when I said I could make the Times change its mind; I believed it, and I believed I could because I agreed with the objections.
If I had admitted that to anyone, I would have been stoned; but to know what is wrong, even just to think you know, makes it easier to get it right.
The hardest thing to get in New York is a theatre for a musical. We had the St. James, where I had done Gypsy with Tyne Daly in 1989—a good omen. But during the time it took to get the financing, we lost the St. James. The breath-holding period during which a London transfer seemed set to supplant us took its toll on Patti. When the St. James was once again ours, solidly this time, her relief was too enormous. Patti LuPone, Star, made her appearance with a litany of complaints and demands. I didn't want to face rehearsals for a Chernobyl venue with a diva, however talented. I invited her to dinner.
“What's wrong?” she asked, her antennae out. Oh, she knew me and she knew herself.
Part of being a director is being a therapist. Patti's diva behavior stemmed from student days at Juilliard, when she felt her talent wasn't given the full recognition it deserved because she didn't look like the conventional idea of a leading lady. Even a nontherapist would know it dated farther back than that, but Juilliard is as far back as I'm going.
Dinner was at a table in the window of Chez Josephine on Forty-second Street's Theatre Row, rain really slamming down outside. A long hug—we were genuinely glad to be together again—hello-hello with the owner from both of us, drinks ordered and served, and then a conversation that was largely a monologue from me:
Her complaints and demands were her prerogative as a star. I had worked with many stars; stars didn't interest me. Artists interested me, and she was one of the few artists in musical theatre. When she was the artist, I loved working with her; it excited me, it inspired me, it got cylinders firing that hadn't fired in years. This was why Tom wanted me to do Gypsy with her. Behind her demands, one—that there be no opening night on Broadway— exposed the fear behind almost all: the New York Times. She felt the Times had never really liked her, she was sure it never would; she didn't want to experience that pain again. She wouldn't, I said. No? No. Why was I so sure? Because I was sure I knew how to get the Times to change its mind about her.
Patti LuPone is not very trusting, but she trusted me. She believed I could make the Times change its opinion of her. Why she did, I have no idea. It may have helped when I told her it had been my goal that she fulfill her potential and admitted I'd failed.
“Not this time,” I said.
At that moment, we were sitting at our table in the window, which was apart from the other diners, and the rain outside was coming down so hard we couldn't see or be seen through it. The privacy made us feel as though we were in what used to be called a “love nest.” We both relaxed, and I stopped worrying about the diva. She was gone.
The first mistake at City Center that had to be corrected had been mine. Her wig was unattractive, and since there hadn't been time to make a new one, I had asked her to wear her own hair. Without hesitation: “Okay.” The result was she looked like Patti LuPone, familiar star, not Rose, stage mother from hell. A big mistake. I admitted it was mine and apologized. A wig this time. The suggestion made her as happy as a child and receptive to what was next:
The Jocko scene is really a prologue to the play whose first scene and song in the kitchen either shoot Rose out into orbit or start her out on a wrong foot from which she can only partly recover, no matter how great her “Rose's Turn” is. At City Center, she had started off on the wrong foot. Patti LuPone knows how to deliver a song, and her audience goes wild at the first high note. The screaming and shouting made it easy for me to pretend all was fine and dandy—but it wasn't.
That summary of the situation didn't throw her; it wasn't entirely news. Over the months since City Center, she herself had figured there was something wrong in the beginning; she even knew it was the way she was doing “Some People.” But what was the right way? How should she do it? With Rose-like energy, yes, fine, sure; but where would the energy come from? Not anger. She didn't want to play an angry Rose all night long. Nor did I want her to. Granted, anger was always raging underneath, but it had to be kept there except at chosen moments—as when June leaves and the boys think the act is washed up.
A director should never bring up a problem without being sure of the answer. If not anger, then what was the source of the energy needed?
“Joy.”
That caught her; I explained. The world can be content to sit on its ass, but not Rose. Rose wants to travel in her mother's footsteps: go places, do things, get herself noticed. She's on a high when she brings her kids back home to the kitchen. Not angry at Jocko, she's finished with him, happy because she's moving on as directed by one of her dreams—a new act for her beloved Baby June. They're going to get out of Seattle and conquer the world via the Orpheum Circuit. This Rose is a dynamo who's taking life by the tail and laughs.
Patti latched on. Her Rose was going to be fun.
Her second big song, “Everything's Coming Up Roses,” also had to be rethought and redone, from the first line of the speech leading into it. She had started out racing through that speech, through the song itself, slowing down only for the coda, where she used all the vocal power she had and finished to cheers as the first-act curtain came down. As Rose herself says, “If you have a good, strong finish, they'll forgive you for anything.”
Not everybody. Barbara Cook, an old friend who arguably knows more about singing theatre songs than anyone else, had seen Gypsy at City Center. She too felt Patti had a potential she hadn't yet fulfilled.
“Why do you think that is, Barbara?”
“She goes too fast.”
Validation from Barbara Cook. Did I need it? Who doesn't have insecurity? Recently, I told Patti she was racing and rattling again.
She grinned. “I've been told that my whole career.”
The grin was a happy one because Patti is an actress who always wants her director, if she trusts him—if she doesn't, he's her nanny—to come back to her dressing room and give her notes.
“The crazy thing is, I don't know I'm rattling. I have to be told.” The next performance, the rattling was gone. She was exhilarated: slowing down had helped her find a new moment in the scene. She loves finding new moments.
That's how it works when the theatre is in yesteryear hands: during the run of a show, the director checks the performance regularly and the actor is still at work exploring the role.
With “Roses,” Patti knew the reason she was racing was that she was unsure what Rose was feeling and where she was heading. Even with her racing, the notes she hit were full-throated and glorious and the curtain came down to insanely thunderous applause. Who could ask for more? Well, I was now, and now I had to break down the speech and the song for her. She interrupted: she wanted to explain how she worked as an actor, because she thought it would help me with her
. It did. That explanation changed our relationship, professionally and personally. “I'm not stupid, I'm just slow,” she said.
I always hear her saying that. It's pure Patti LuPone. Other actors wouldn't go straight to that point. As close as we had become, she brought us closer by exposing herself, telling me in effect how to get to her, telling me what she needed to know to play a scene as I wanted, as she wanted, ultimately as we both wanted. That trust was the foundation of an enduring relationship that couldn't be categorized. Working together was and is an endlessly creative joy.
The tone for a song is very often set by a speech leading into the song; the tone for the speech is set before a word is spoken by what's going on inside the character. That's axiomatic, but it's too often ignored.
The second of Rose's big, defining numbers starts with her lead-in speech; the tone for that speech is set by her internal reaction to the letter she is reading on a railway-station bench—a letter from her daughter June, her star, her bread and butter, a letter telling Rose the act was never any good, she was never any good, she isn't needed anymore, she's nothing. At first, Rose is stunned and bewildered; then shock turns to anger and simmers to a boil as she speaks until she is ready to kill. Kill she does, and as she does, her need for revenge right now, this minute, shatters all sense. She goes around the bend and we have a temporarily crazy woman singing and believing “Everything's Coming Up Roses.”
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