In jazz, the movement is generated from a feeling of inward coolness, a kind of inner rebellion that sneaks up on the body, expressing itself through unpredictable twists and turns that surprise rather than please with beauty.
Fosse’s movements were expressions of the man himself. He liked to have mischievous fun, and although he was obsessive about his work, he rarely turned down a good time, good drugs, good jokes, or good women. His choreography depicted those aspects of his experience that had formed him and he was fearless in expressing himself. Yet he thought of himself as a character out of Peanuts. He’d come to work with a Mickey Mouse lunch box and a baseball cap with Donald Duck on it. He sometimes lisped like a small child (usually when he wanted something) and when he really wanted something, he’d apologize.
“Forgive me,” he’d say. “But I’d really like you to try it this way.”
In fact, he conducted rehearsals as though he was apologizing for being there—yet when I began to tally up what was actually happening, I could see that with his apologetic approach he was putting us through more grueling physical repetition than most choreographers would.
In fact Fosse was the king of “Forgive me, but once more from the top.”
We’d do it again and he’d pace back and forth, dressed in his black slacks and button-down black shirt, his cigarette dangling, writhing in indecision as to what he should change.
He was choreographing a number that closed the first act. It was called “The Picnic.” In it he was able to indulge all his childhood movements of mischief.
Carol Haney had been hired as the lead dancer, brought from MGM at Fosse’s recommendation. She had worked with choreographer Jack Cole for many years and Cole’s style was obvious in her movements, which were hard-driving lunges close to the ground, supported by thunder thighs of strength. There was a lot of oppositionary arm work associated with Jack Cole’s style. The torso went in opposition to the arms. Difficult to do. Fosse had been a Jack Cole dancer too. Therefore, they both understood that it was necessary to develop a new style. Jack Cole needed to be out. Bob and Carol needed to be “in.”
The “Picnic” number was rambunctious and freewheeling with cartwheels, long running glides, and pixielike wiggles. It was exhausting, which was part of the point, because not only were people supposed to be having a wonderful time at a picnic, but we also closed the first act. That meant Fosse didn’t have to worry whether the dancers had any wind left or not…. Intermission would take care of that.
At one point he choreographed a section that entangled the arms and legs of all the dancers in complicated, fun-loving, and intricate ways. A little like the way he saw relationships!
A few days into the rehearsal my not-yet-husband, Steve, took me to a party, and, thinking I was drinking fruit punch, I chug-a-lugged several glasses of what was mostly fruit-flavored vodka. It was the first time in my life I had ever been drunk. Steve took care of me and carried me to a cab. I was nineteen years old and I guess it was about time to experience a hangover. It lasted three days. Three days of nausea, vomiting, and searing headaches. Steve nursed me.
So there I was in the middle of a pile of intertwined dancers’ bodies, trying to hold down waves of nausea while attempting to execute Bob’s strangling, fun-loving movements. I felt like I was trapped in a drunken picnickers’ orgy, not unlike Bob’s actual fantasies. The memory makes me ill even today.
Carol Haney led the enthusiasm in the number and was fabulous. But that was nothing compared with her stamina and body strength in “Steam Heat.”
“Steam Heat” was a classic number, devised by Fosse to open the union meeting at the top of the second act. It was with this number that Fosse made his mark. Haney, Buzz Miller, and Peter Gennaro were the trio of dancers. Fosse used to direct their movements by explaining that each movement should come from the pit of their stomachs, where warm brandy bubbled.
The number was done in black tuxedos and ties, black jazz shoes, and derbies. Fosse loved hats. He used them as props all the time. Hats inspired movement that was eye-catching and magical, a studied sleight of hand.
He worked with moves that required incredible strength in the thighs … Deep, dragging lunge-falls coming up to pixie, gaminelike poses.
Buzz and Peter were the finest jazz dancers of the day, but it was Carol who carried the comic intention of the number.
Fosse forced the trio to execute the hat tricks in the basement of the theater until, sometimes, two or three in the morning, explaining that technique had to be second nature. The tricks must be effortless so that the attitude of their execution could bleed through.
Fosse and Robbins worked together on staging other musical numbers. They never got in one another’s way. Whenever a line needed to be sung by a chorus dancer, Fosse would suggest they give it to me. If a bit of comedy business needed executing, he asked me to do it. I think it was mostly because he had seen me in Joan McCracken’s acting class and she had told him she thought I was talented. Such is the nature of show business. If someone you love and respect puts a bug in your ear, you pay attention. Robbins paid attention to Fosse. Fosse paid attention to McCracken. I was the beneficiary.
Robbins and George Abbott also watched the genius of Fosse develop. They left him alone. It was just as well because when we had our first preview in front of an invited audience, several things became evident. The audience laughed at Carol Haney, and she was just doing the dancer’s role of Gladys. Charlotte Rae, the comedy lead, was playing the part too broadly. Too many faces, too much slapstick. The audience didn’t laugh at her. Abbott tried to hold her down, but she found it difficult. So he fired her and combined her part with the dancer’s part that Haney was playing. The result was one of the most sought-after Broadway roles for comedy acting dancers in the business.
Usually, after that, whoever played Gladys in the national or road company’s production of Pajama Game went on to do bigger things—Neile Adams, Juliet Prowse, and Debbie Allen, to name several.
We, in the meantime, were treated to seeing a star born because Fosse had choreographed Haney into a comedy dancer and subsequently Abbott directed her into a comedy actress. Her foghorn voice and understanding of comedic movement were unique.
The question then arose, who would understudy her? That’s when I came in. I had no notion that I was capable of doing it. It was Hal Prince, one of the producers, who suggested that I take home the script, go over the words, see if I liked acting, and then audition for the understudy’s role. Hal helped cue me so I could get the hang of how to memorize dialogue. When the audition day came, I was ready.
Three people sat on high stools watching as two of us from the chorus auditioned. The three men were Abbott, Robbins, and Fosse. Hal Prince didn’t rate a chair. He was just the young producer. Carmen Alvarez was the other dancer who auditioned with me that day. Carmen was tall (5′8″) and big boned, a striking Puerto Rican beauty with a long, dark pony tail and swaggering body movements. She was not the obvious type to play Gladys, but she was funny and she could act.
We went through the scenes with the stage manager reading the other characters.
I had had a long red ponytail in Me and Juliet, but the stage manager told me it was distracting on the stage. One day he dunked my head in the sink of the basement chorus dressing rooms, turned the water on, and when I came up for air he chopped my hair off into a strange bowl cut. I didn’t object really, and I’ve had the same haircut ever since.
So hair-wise I looked more the Gladys type. Haney had a bowl-shaped pixie cut too. Such a hairstyle is necessary if you’re a dancer who sweats a lot and works with hats as part of the choreography.
In my audition I tried to give the part a little extra something instead of doing exactly what Haney was doing, which wasn’t easy because she was so wonderful. Then Carmen did her audition. She was funny and spontaneous and good, but my resemblance to Carol’s physical type was a big advantage. I got the part.
I got the part, bu
t I couldn’t seem to get a rehearsal.
There was no time. We were playing in Boston and ready to come in to New York. Fosse was busy with last-minute changes and he needed his assistant with him all the time. The only way I could learn the part was to watch from the wings. That is what I did, which is where the story started that I psyched Carol out.
As a matter of fact, I never expected her to miss a show. She was a gypsy of the first order. She’d go on with a broken neck. Fosse thought so too. What was the point of having a rehearsal for the understudy?
Even so, I wanted to be as prepared as possible. So I got a derby and found that I became more obsessed with the “Steam Heat” hat tricks than any other part of the role. Fosse had said such tricks had to become second nature. It was necessary to be able to do them while carrying on a conversation or reciting poetry.
No amount of work can prepare you for the moment when they tell you, “You’re on.”
The show had opened in New York. It was a huge hit, earned great reviews, and a new star was born in the person of Carol Haney, a new choreographer discovered in Bob Fosse, both newcomers to Broadway by way of Hollywood.
Two or three nights after the opening, during a Saturday matinee, Carol fell and badly sprained her ankle.
I, in the meantime, had applied to the company of Can-Can to understudy Gwen Verdon. Gwen was out of the show from time to time. Perhaps I would get a chance to go on for her. I was positive Haney would never be out.
I had the application in my pocket when I left the subway—fifteen minutes late for my half hour call before curtain—and turned the corner to the stage door of the St. James Theater.
The stage manager, Abbott, Robbins, and Fosse were lined up waiting for me!
“Where have you been?” said Fosse.
I lamely explained that the subway door had gotten stuck in Times Square.
He said, “Haney’s out. You’re on.”
My heart plummeted. And my first thought was that I would drop the derby in “Steam Heat.” Then I called Steve at our apartment.
I rushed to my dressing room in the basement, and was summarily told to go to Carol’s dressing room, where the costumes, props, and shoes were.
I remembered a pair of sneakers I had in my tote bag. Quickly the wardrobe mistress dyed them black so I could wear them in “Steam Heat.” I luckily had a pair of heels with me, so I could wear them the rest of the show.
The orchestra conductor asked me what key I sang in. I hadn’t the faintest idea. John Raitt, the male lead, tried to help. We decided he should sing some of the songs I had never rehearsed. I felt fairly secure about the dialogue, knowing I could make it up if I got into real trouble. For some reason, neither the dialogue, my acting talent (none at that point), nor even the songs made me nervous. I was nervous about what I knew how to do best—dance. I didn’t know enough about the other aspects of performing to be anxious and the dancing was what I naturally concentrated on. It was the most difficult dimension of the character anyway. As for the comedy, either I was funny or I wasn’t. No amount of preparation would help much anyway.
Haney’s costumes fit me. My hairstyle was enough like hers that the hats were fine. The shoes were my own, as well as the tights and the bras.
I did some plies and stretches and ran through the hat tricks, then went down to the stage.
I was ready to go on. It was as though my entire life had led to this moment; all the dancing lessons, singing lessons, and fledgling acting lessons; all the years of understanding movement and working with teachers and choreographers since I was three years old. All the days and nights of traveling on buses and streetcars to and from rehearsals and classes and performances … the depressions when I’d fall off a pirouette during a critical variation; the frustration that I didn’t possess a natural turnout or beautiful insteps on pointe; the anxiety over losing my balance in an adagio without understanding the fundamental reason.
I breathed deeply and said a prayer. The stage manager turned on the microphone and announced that Carol Haney wouldn’t be performing. The crowd groaned and whistled in displeasure. Then he announced my name. The noise was even worse. Some people threw things onto the stage. Carol was the new star on Broadway and she wasn’t there. I swallowed hard. Humiliation was not my idea of a good time.
The stage manager hung up the microphone and went out to clean up the stage.
The conductor took his place and the overture started. The strains of “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes …” rang in my ears. Even today, when I hear that song, my stomach turns over and I feel slightly nauseated.
The curtain opened and I was on.
The audience didn’t scare me. The cast did. They were lined up in the wings, some standing on each other’s shoulders, watching with mixed shock and awe to see how I would do. Someone had torn a long strip of paper roll and quickly passed it around the company for everyone to sign good luck wishes.
I found that paper roll a few months ago, after my mother passed away. I had sent it to her and she kept it. As I sat in her attic poring over past treasures I could feel it all happening again.
I suppose the audience identified with the underdog me. They were wonderful. The more they responded, the more relaxed and attuned to them I felt.
The first act barreled along. John Raitt was supportive, Janis Paige sympathetic and really sweet, Eddie Foy, Jr., funny and thankfully lighthearted. Then came the “Picnic” number. I led it, and by the time the midway point came, I thought I was going to die of exhaustion. When you’re leading a stage full of seasoned, trained, strong dancers, the impetus to stay out of their way is a question of survival, which meant I had to be stronger and possessed of even more stamina. Carol Haney had those attributes. I didn’t. I was a good dancer, but I wasn’t stage smart. I didn’t yet know how to pace myself. I hadn’t learned the trick of never breathing in—only breathing out, which will save you from collapse. I was also dancing full out, as though this were the only number I had to do. When the end of the number came and, as choreographed, we all fell down, I really meant it. I could hardly get up.
The stage manager rushed to me, picked me up, and the cast applauded.
I staggered to my dressing room to rest and prepare for “Steam Heat,” which opened the second act.
I put on the dyed black sneakers. They were still wet. The dye ran all over my feet. Never mind.
I dressed in the black tuxedo and did a few hat tricks. How, I wondered, would I be able to see the hat with the spotlight in my eyes?
The spotlight is the biggest adjustment a performer must make on the stage. You are used to a rehearsal-hall mirror and daylight. The performing conditions are entirely different. Because of the spotlight, your front vision is nothing but black. You lose your balance because there is no identifying landmark in the midst of the black mass except for the exit signs and a few red emergency lights. The spotlights are so blinding that you almost feel protected in your exposure. You know that every inch of you is being observed, but you also know that the lighting makes you beautiful. You can see no one. Your reactions are as though you are playing to yourself because you can’t see the audience’s reactions. That is why performers develop a sense of feeling relating to sound and movement. You learn to sense with other faculties. You learn to feel the people somewhere in your heart, but more specifically, in your guts. You know when it’s working and when it’s not, and when it’s not you change your approach, your attack, your rhythm. If that doesn’t work, you experience what’s called flop sweat. It’s an awful feeling. It is sheer, unadulterated humiliation, reminiscent of all the times in your childhood when you felt completely helpless to do the right thing in order to be loved.
So, I stood behind the curtain waiting for the second act overture to finish. Fosse never left my mind. It was his number, his creation, his obsessive craziness that motivated such a classic as “Steam Heat.” I couldn’t brush his cigarette, his eagle eye, his authoritarian apologies,
his hunched-over pacing and prancing from my mind! He hadn’t given me any direction except one—“make the part, the dancing, and the comedy your own.”
A dancer rarely dances for himself or herself, though. We dance to please the choreographer. That face is forever in the front of the dancer’s mind. A face of delight or anger, depending on how you’ve done. Every dancer I know, including me, apologizes to the choreographer if we make a mistake. It’s a bond of such symbiotically powerful threads that the synergy is palpable.
The director of a film elicits somewhat the same acquiescence, but there’s not the same degree of submissiveness because acting is not as hard or as physically painful as dancing. A director deals with more individualized human passions, and that requires diplomatic cajoling and loving manipulation. A director knows he or she won’t get the scene if the performer feels hurt or violated. With a dancer, a choreographer concludes that the art itself is based on human suffering, because it is indeed painful; just because a dancer is an artist does not mean that he or she isn’t also a combat soldier in training. And so the relationship between the two is more that of drill sergeant and private, regardless of how talented the dancer might be.
The curtain went up. The clang of “Steam Heat” sounded. I went into the number with Buzz Miller and Peter Gennaro.
I had never rehearsed with the spotlight. In fact I had never even rehearsed the number. I had just watched it. Slowly I adjusted to the bright light in my eyes. Then came the first hat trick. When the hat crossed the spotlight beam I lost sight of it for a moment. I panicked, but it found its way back into my hand. I could feel Fosse smile.
I relaxed a smidgen, but not enough to lose control of my muscles.
Then came the tour de force hat trick. I stepped up to the light, threw the hat into the air and the spotlight seemed to swallow it up. I couldn’t find it. Hours seemed to go by. Then I saw the hat descend. I reached up for it, rather than trusting it would find its way back to the precise spot Fosse intended. My fingertips caught it for a moment and then I lost it again. I had dropped the hat! My worst nightmare in life. Fosse would kill me, I was certain. Feeling as though I had betrayed the entire world of dance, to say nothing of how I had let Fosse down, I said out loud, “Shit.”
My Lucky Stars Page 16