6
Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
“He . . . set theatrical fire to the theatre, to 44th Street and Broadway, and to all of New York before the first week was out.”1
Who was the young man responsible for such an incendiary performance? Twenty-eight-year-old Gene Kelly, better known on stage to his friends and foes as Pal Joey.
Gene’s casting could not have come at a more fortuitous time. Indeed, it coincided with what was, as far as the show business world was concerned, the end of the Depression. According to film scholar Mark Vieira, 1939 had been “a watershed year. The Great Depression was barely over, but America was again feeling the chill winds of change. Politics, economics, and art braced for war. There was a lull before the storm and Hollywood, as if expecting to be judged by posterity, produced a portfolio of classics. . . . In 1939 every week was a cinematic cornucopia.”2 Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Babes in Arms, and Wuthering Heights were only a few of the year’s notable releases. The following year, 1940, Broadway theatergoers enjoyed a similar “cornucopia.” Ethel Waters starred in the all-black show Cabin in the Sky, Ethel Merman belted out Cole Porter tunes in Panama Hattie, Monty Woolley was an acerbic curmudgeon in The Man Who Came to Dinner— and Gene Kelly was a heel with a heart in Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart’s Pal Joey.
Pal Joey, arguably the most innovative and fresh Broadway production since Show Boat (1927), seemed tailor-made for Gene. The following passage, penned by writer John O’Hara, could have been written for him: “I don’t know whether you’re the right man for the job or not,” nightclub manager Mike tells Joey at the opening of the play. “This job calls for a young punk about your age. About your build—about your looks. But he has to be master of ceremonies . . . he has to introduce the acts, such as they are—he has to have a lot of self-confidence. He has to be able to get up and tell a story. He has to be sure of himself in case he gets heckled.”3 Although he had been unable to cope with hecklers as a fledgling dancer, Gene had grown markedly more self-assured now; he had even acted as master of ceremonies in Westport the previous summer. Gene, for all intents and purposes, had been working toward Pal Joey for his entire career.
Richard Rodgers, with his partner Lorenz Hart, took on the task of writing the score for the musical adaptation of two short stories by John O’Hara. Rodgers later wrote that the idea of doing a show with a hero who was not “a conventional clean-cut juvenile” would “open up enormous possibilities for a more realistic view of life than theatregoers were accustomed to.” They had never before written a show like Pal Joey, but Rodgers and Hart proved to be ideal composers for the production. Rodgers claimed that Hart had spent “thousands of hours” in clubs like those depicted in the play and thus was “thoroughly familiar with the Pal Joeys of the world.”4 The blend of Rodgers’s refined melodies and Hart’s harder-edged lyrics succeeded in capturing the characters’ attempts to enter high society without first reforming themselves.
Pal Joey is set in a cheap nightclub on the South Side of Chicago. “Not cheap in the whorehouse way, but strictly a neighborhood joint,” O’Hara explained. The play depicts the manner in which Joey Evans rises to prominence as owner of his own posh nightclub by taking advantage of the affections and patronage of Vera Simpson, a wealthy, married, older woman. He has little respect for women, whom he refers to as “mice,” and never stops to consider their feelings (in this aspect, Joey is a complete departure from Gene, who felt protective of women). Joey is undeniably a heel whose heart, in the words of the show’s only likeable character, Linda English, seems to be “asleep.”
Yet somehow, the audience feels sympathy for Joey. He is gullible, desperate for approval, and oblivious of the malapropisms he uses in his efforts to sound intelligent. He invents elaborate stories about himself to impress Linda and Vera, and he is the only one who does not realize the transparency of his tales. After trusting a shady agent, losing his club, and being abandoned by Vera Simpson, Joey’s heart finally awakens. He finds himself penniless and, only half joking, declares that he plans to imitate Larry Renault, John Barrymore’s character in Dinner at Eight (which he incorrectly calls Dinner at Eight Thirty), by committing suicide via gas. The new manager of the club demands that he leave immediately. As he slinks out, he is aware of Linda looking on. He tries to retain an air of bravado as he accepts her invitation to supper at her sister’s house.
After dinner, Joey and Linda walk past the pet shop where they first met. Joey is still spinning tales, though he now lacks conviction as he tells them. He plans to enter “those big New York shows.” Continuing with a shrug, he states: “I don’t know. They [Broadway plays] might bore me . . . I may shoot you a wire and let you know how things go.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Linda says. “Goodbye.”
As Joey leaves her, he utters his first sincere words. “And thanks. Thanks a million.”5
Rodgers, in his concluding theory on Pal Joey, wrote, “While Joey himself may have been fairly adolescent in his thinking and his morality, the show bearing his name certainly wore long pants and in many respects forced the entire musical-comedy theatre to wear long pants for the first time.”6 The most sophisticated aspect of the play was its use of lyrics in place of dialogue to move the story forward and define characters. “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” serves to characterize Vera Simpson while the title song shows Joey the Heel. “I Could Write a Book,” on the other hand, allows a small glimpse into his human side. In the first verse, he admits to Linda that he “never learned to spell and never learned to count” but that he wishes to write a book about how to make “two lovers of friends.”7
The show’s dances served to create atmosphere and further deepen characterization. Certain numbers that were representations of entertainment at the nightclub were “shows within shows.” For instance, the song and dance routine “Chicago” represented the low caliber of the club at which Joey works before Vera sponsors him. The dance steps are tired and the lyrics are clichéd. More refined dances take place after Joey sings the title song. He launches into a dream ballet illustrating the grandeur of “Chez Joey,” his own club.
It’s going to be the right club for the swell gentry
It’s elementary
I’ll wear top hat and cane
in Chez Joey.8
When Robert Alton was hired as dance director for Pal Joey, he immediately thought of Gene for the title role. Rodgers was of the same opinion. After seeing Gene in The Time of Your Life, he informed O’Hara that “we had our Joey.” Gene received a call from his agent, Johnny Darrow, urging him to find a singing coach as soon as possible. He would be auditioning at the Century Theatre before producer George Abbott, Robert Alton, John O’Hara, and the composers. The fact that he would have two allies in the audience, Robert Alton and Lorenz Hart (with whom he often drank at his haunt, Louie Bergen’s), boosted his confidence. When Gene arrived at the theater and noted that Hart was absent, he claimed to have felt suddenly terrified. Rodgers, O’Hara, and Abbott did nothing to defuse Gene’s anxiety during the audition. Their faces remained immobile as he sang “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was,” a tune from the Rodgers and Hart catalogue. Gene had not stopped to consider that he had made an enormous error in his choice of audition song. “This kind of thing looks like you’re currying a favor,” Gene dryly acknowledged years later.9
When he finished, Rodgers was the first to respond. “Sing something with a faster tempo.” Gene nodded and launched into “It’s the Irish in Me,” a “lively ditty” he used to perform in cloops. Only after Gene sang the last note in the Irish tune did O’Hara show a sign of life. “That’s it. Take him!” he burst out.10
And yet, in spite of O’Hara’s overwhelming approval, Gene had not yet secured the part. Abbott was hesitant to sign a dancer who had never carried an entire show himself. Discouraged, Gene escaped to Maine for his semi-annual vacation. Three weeks passed. Gene heard unse
ttling rumors that another dancer had already been signed as Joey. However, Abbott surprised Darrow when he called with an offer to sign Gene for $350 a week. Darrow was aware that such a figure was too low for a leading part. But the agent recalled the unsuccessful negotiation he had tried to make for Gene with the Shuberts in 1938. He did not argue with Abbott: he accepted the offer. Gene rushed back from Maine upon hearing Darrow’s good news. Accepting the role did mean he would have to leave the cast of The Time of Your Life just as it was ready for a national tour. The producers were at a loss as to who could fill the role of Harry the Hoofer as ably as Gene. Gene knew of one dancer who could: his younger brother. Fred Kelly successfully took over the part, much to the relief of William Saroyan and all involved in the play. Indeed, Fred secured permission from Saroyan to add five new dances to his part; he went on to win three Donaldson Awards (precursors to the Tony Awards) for his performance.
Harry the Hoofer and every other stage role Gene had filled thus far were decidedly supporting parts; Joey Evans was onstage for almost the entire running time of Pal Joey. Though Gene explained in 1990 that he “was not intimidated” by the role of Joey, because he was young and “grateful just to be getting a chance,” he admitted that “once I started playing it, I found it was a very demanding role . . . there were so many songs and dances in that show that I had to keep in training like a boxer.”11 Gene found the singing especially trying. The part required him to deliver five songs, one of which was a solo, “I Could Write a Book.” “There is no use my trying to let my voice out because there is not enough to it to show,” Gene sighed.12
Gene, as dubious as he may have felt about his capabilities, was a stage veteran compared to other members of the cast. Only Vivienne Segal, who filled the role of Vera Simpson, was a truly seasoned performer. Leila Ernst, as Linda English, had appeared in only one previous show, Rodgers and Hart’s Too Many Girls (1939). Also in the cast of Too Many Girls had been twenty-four-year-old Van Johnson, who was engaged as a dancer in Pal Joey. Alongside Johnson in the chorus and in a small walk-on role was sixteen-year-old Stanley Donen. Donen, though he was later Gene’s protégé and close collaborator, dispelled the rumor that he and Gene became fast friends during the run of Pal Joey. In actuality, they hardly crossed paths or spoke during rehearsals.
During the run of Pal Joey, a small community similar to that fostered by Vincente Minnelli and Ira Gershwin among Broadway’s elite formed among the young members of the cast. Van Johnson and Stanley Donen lived in the same building as Gene’s acquaintance from his summer at Westport, composer Hugh Martin, and another young songwriter, Ralph Blane. On many nights after rehearsals, Van took chorine June Allyson out to dinner at the automat. June was currently performing in Panama Hattie with another up-and-coming dancer, Vera-Ellen. June happened to share a room at the Henry Hudson Hotel (only women tenants permitted) with Betsy Blair, who was also dancing in the chorus of Panama Hattie.
Billy Rose had been dismayed and angry when both Betsy and Gene left the Diamond Horseshoe for better jobs. “You’ll never work on Broadway. I can stop you. And you won’t be receiving your last paycheck!” Rose had screamed at Betsy. “You keep the money. You act as if you need it!” Betsy retorted. She fled to Louie Bergen’s, where she was to meet Gene. Eventually, they “fell about laughing” over the entire incident. Then, growing serious, he raised his drink to her and said, “You’re some brave kid.”13
Gene, as the eldest in the crowd of the new “kids” on Broadway, was an inspiration to the younger performers. But he too had yet to cement his place in New York. “We all shared a wonderful camaraderie, Gene was just one of us,” Van Johnson recalled. “Trying to get along and loving his work, every minute of it. Gene was always very serious, very tense, very bright, about his work.”14 Gene’s intensity, however, did set him apart from the others. Arguably, the only other young hopeful with his level of ambition was Betsy Blair.
For a time, it seemed that Gene’s and Betsy’s careers were in sync. When one found a role in a bigger play, so did the other. Thus, the two found themselves continually drawn together. “It developed gradually, our romance . . . over after-theatre suppers at Bergen’s,” Gene explained. “And we found out we liked the same things . . . and each other.”15
Betsy Blair may have only been sixteen years old, but she already knew what many adults never discover: what she wanted from life. Born on December 11, 1923, as Elizabeth Boger, she was raised in a large Catholic family in a diverse neighborhood in Cliffside, New Jersey. Betsy’s interest in politics was cultivated in her childhood due to the juxtaposed ideologies of her parents. Her father, William, was an insurance broker and a staunch Republican while her mother, Frederica, was a schoolteacher and a Democrat. Betsy more often than not followed her mother’s beliefs, partly because she grew disillusioned with her father from an early age. After he became aware that Betsy knew he was carrying on an affair with another woman, he became hypercritical of her. Frederica, however, was Betsy’s strongest supporter. She was as hard-working as Harriet Kelly in her efforts to keep her family together. But Mrs. Boger, unlike Harriet, was far less outspoken and kept her feelings to herself.
In this way, Betsy did not wish to emulate her mother. She strove to establish her independence at as young an age as possible. She saw herself doing this by becoming a dancer/actress. Because of her single-minded vision for her future, Betsy sped through her childhood, entering high school at age twelve and graduating at age fifteen. Throughout her adolescence, she honed her dancing skills and regularly modeled in catalogues. Betsy was most often the youngest member in whatever group she found herself, but she thrived in the company of more experienced show people. Consequently, Betsy was thrilled when her parents gave her permission to live in New York and work at the Diamond Horseshoe in the summer before she would presumably enter college.
In that summer of 1940, Betsy explained, she felt “everything was possible. And besides, it [the hotel where I lived] was two blocks up and three blocks over from Gene’s hotel. I was in heaven.” Gene, barely showing signs of fatigue after his long hours rehearsing for Pal Joey, would invite her out on the town almost every night with Dick Dwenger. “I was their project. Oh, lucky girl that I was,” Betsy remembered.16
Gene yearned to pour into her young, untutored mind all the culture and philosophy he had absorbed and was impatient to share. One of his first missions was to escort Betsy to the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Then he took her on a tour like that in the famed opening of his 1949 film, On the Town. He showed her every area of their “wonderful town”—the Battery, the docks, Little Italy, Chinatown, the Village. Betsy remembered many a night that she, Gene, and Dick attended the Apollo Theatre and the Cotton Club in Harlem and enjoyed performances by Gene’s acquaintances Cab Calloway, Buck and Bubbles, and the Nicholas Brothers. She sipped ginger ale while Gene drank beer. Other nights, they frequented the Vanguard in Greenwich Village to watch Gene’s friends Betty Comden and Adolph Green perform with the Revuers.
Gene did not neglect to show Betsy the opulent side of New York at clubs such as the Copacabana, the El Morocco, and the Rainbow Room. When Gene brought Betsy to the Rainbow Room, he was slated to make an appearance at the venue. However, the club’s choreographer, Jack Cole, recalled that Gene “just wasn’t suited for so sophisticated a spot.”17 According to Betsy, her and Gene’s “best place” was the Polish Folk Hall. There, Gene utilized a few moves he had learned during his summers in Chicago—most notably the mazurka and the polka. Betsy reflected that, in taking her to every conceivable corner of the city, Gene gave her New York.18
It was often six o’clock in the morning before Gene would return with Betsy to his and Dick’s room at the Woodward Hotel. Gene would proceed to make tea and toast for everyone. Many nights, he played hours of classical music on their turntable after discovering that Mozart, Beethoven, Copland, and Stravinsky were “just names” to Betsy.
Had she not met Gene
, Betsy may have attended Sarah Lawrence College, where she had already been accepted. But she did meet Gene Kelly “and lived instead the life that housewives and young girls alike paid money to inhabit, via the silver screen, for two hours at a time.”19 Betsy wrote that she guessed “it was obvious to everyone but Gene and me that I was besotted.”20
Betsy claimed that while Gene nourished “the romantic, dreaming part” of her, another actor and regular at Louie Bergen’s, thirty-three-year-old Lloyd Gough, rounded out another part of her “education.”21 The most passionate member of Gene’s left-leaning friends, Gough habitually bombarded Betsy with questions about current events such as the Spanish Civil War or asked her if she had read liberal texts such as The History of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union. Without Gene, she attended Marxist study groups at Gough’s apartment every Wednesday and Friday.
Though Betsy was easily drawn in by the ideas and lifestyles of those close to her, she still maintained her own opinions and an independence remarkable in one so young. However, at sixteen, she found herself torn between self-reliance and becoming dependent on a man—Gene. She reflected in her memoir:
Although I wasn’t conscious of a big hole in my life, I sure set about filling it quickly. I’m not saying that I saw Gene as fatherly. . . . He was too vital and sexy to be cast as a father. But I find myself wondering over and over why that twenty-eight-year-old man wanted the child I was at sixteen. . . . Gene was a natural carer, a smart, creative, and benevolent boss type. . . . [Yet he] enjoyed my spirit and smiled with indulgence at my quirks and radical ideas. But it was his life that I was becoming part of, not my life nor even our life, but his.22
He's Got Rhythm: The Life and Career of Gene Kelly (Screen Classics) Page 11