Me and Orson Welles
Page 12
Then the principals.
And loud applause for Orson—oh, you felt the power of his rising star then. (The noblest Roman of them all!) He was the famous one, the one they’d heard on the radio, the star presence who had pulled them into this old theatre.
After the show, people milled around onstage—everywhere the smiles, the hopes for a hit. In his black military coat and black gloves, Orson seemed happily out of breath, fully aware now of what he was about to bring to birth, talking to ten people at once, giving notes to the actors as well: “George, I’m begging you to play down the oration. I know you won’t listen to me—but you have to bring it up to that level.”
“Photograph, Mr. Welles?”
“Get my good side.” A flashbulb fired. “And Muriel, sweetheart-darling, light-of-the-New-York-stage?” He pointed to her skintight costume and her earrings. “This is a masterpiece, not a Minsky’s piece.”
She sneered: “How long did it take you to think up that one?” She turned on her heel.
“And no jewelry!”
“I hate this show!”
“Junior?” said Orson with his hand on my shoulder. “You sounded as nervous as I felt.”
He laughed. I didn’t.
A photographer caught the moment.
Houseman was pushing through the actors. “Orson! A word alone.” He pulled Orson into the wings, and I was close enough to hear them. “Brown loved the show!” Houseman whispered urgently. “He wants to meet you. It’s a complete violation of every canon of the critic’s art; it will completely destroy the objectivity of his review, and I told him you’d talk to him in five minutes. He’s waiting in your dressing room.”
Orson laughed. “Is there any other profession so deliciously fraudulent? C’mon, Junior.” He walked me toward the dressing room. “It’s too absurd if I walk in there alone, eyes lowered, waiting humbly for him to tell me how wonderful I was—so we walk in together—talking—and then he can tell me how wonderful I was.”
Sam Leve came up to Orson with a freshly printed Playbill in his hand. “I have to talk to you, Mr. Orson Welles. There’s a mistake here, and it must be corrected immediately.” Leve was genuinely angry, trying hard to hold it in check. “A mistake in the wording—my name has been completely omitted here.” He pointed to the Playbill. “There’s no mention here at all that I designed the sets and the lighting, and I insist that it be completely reprinted before the opening. As it stands now, this document is an artistic misrepresentation.”
Orson looked at him calmly. “Every moment of this show is mine, Sam. The concept is mine. It’s my work. It existed long before you came onboard. John’ll vouch for that.” The photographer was still firing away. “You did a fine job in a technical capacity, and I’m sincerely grateful for your help, but there isn’t enough room to print the name of every carpenter and—”
“Carpenter!” said Leve. “You insult me, Mr. Orson Welles.”
Orson turned from Leve and walked me into his dressing room. He altered his entire tone as we entered. “Now, Junior,” he began. “I see the Lucius/Brutus scene in terms of a purely musical retard; we’ve had two very grandissimo scenes: the funeral oration and the tent scene, and what we’re looking for now is pianissimo—shut the door, will you?—an interlude which—oh, hello! What a surprise!” said Orson to John Mason Brown, who had risen from his chair. “How wonderful to see you again, Mr. Brown. We met at the Theatre Guild luncheon. Give me one minute, will you?” And then Orson sat me down, and for three minutes, without a pause, lectured me how the Lucius/Brutus scene must be played pianissimo, and how the friendship of Brutus for the serving boy was the key scene in the psychology of Brutus. Yes, that scene and his brief scene with Portia, while musically pianissimo, and lacking the theatrical crescendi of the rising action around it, were vital elements in the music of the play whose whole theatrical energy was a matter of tempi increasing poco a poco.
It was the single greatest load of horseshit I’d ever heard—delivered with a perfectly straight face—and half of it in Italian! I listened and I nodded: the perfect performance of the disciple at the foot of his maestro. “What we need to do,” said Orson, “is go over the scene line by line in terms of tempi. Stay here for a little longer. Now, Mr. Brown, I apologize for ignoring you, but I am still trying to tighten the performances—fine-tune them if you will.”
“Fascinating to hear you work,” said John Mason Brown. “I feel as if I’m getting a glimpse into the very crucible of the artistic process. And, as to your play, Mr. Welles, even in preview, let me tell you—off the record—that it is, quite simply, a theatrical miracle. It’s as I imagine the Elizabethan theatre itself must have been: unimpeded with the trappings and hokum of four hundred years of hackneyed stagecraft. What I felt here tonight was a dramatic immediateness, an electricity I haven’t felt in New York theatre in years.”
“I only wish you could see it tomorrow,” said Orson humbly.
“I saw greatness this afternoon—and a theatrical power and purity that we critics usually just dream about. Acting at a level that equals anything the Group has done, anything anybody has done in this city. Not a wasted gesture. Every moment, every scene, every inch of the play filled with the audacity of your imagination. And—as you were saying to this talented young man—what a sense of music you bring to it! The rhythm! The pacing! Your Caesar is, quite simply, an opera—an oratorio in which every note blends with every other to produce a symphonic totality of tempi.”
Brown stood up to leave, but not before shaking Orson’s hand twice more. Houseman had entered along with Sonja. They stood in the open doorway, and Brown practically repeated the whole speech again. “. . . the tonality, the tempi!”
After Brown left, Orson and Houseman looked at each other for a second. Then they broke into laughter. “Somebody go by the Post and slip that son-of-a-bitch five hundred bucks!” howled Welles.
“A thousand!” said Houseman.
“Quite simply!”
Sonja gave me a thumbs-up, and mimed a kiss.
And then Sam Leve was standing at the dressing room door. His face was red. “Mr. Orson Welles, we must rectify this, or else you will have a lawsuit on your hands. And a union violation. A clear breach of contract.”
He was waving the Playbill in his hands. There in the credits it read simply: Entire production designed and staged by Orson Welles.
Orson glared at the program. “It says ‘designed and staged by Orson Welles’ and that’s exactly what I did. There’s nothing to discuss.” He turned back to Houseman. “Can we get an advance copy of the review? Do we know anybody at the Post? Maybe we can pull some lines for the poster.”
The photographer’s flashbulb fired off again.
“And my blueprints? And my set design?”
“What set!” laughed Orson, and he turned to me. “There’s no scenery!” He turned back to Leve. “Do you want a special citation for no scenery? ‘Bare stage constructed by Samuel Leve’?”
“Then I’ll start pulling down the ramps I built on the bare stage right now,” said Leve. “I’ll start ripping out the platforms I built for your bare stage, and I’ll fill in the holes I cut. And you can really play your play on a bare stage and see what the hell you’ve got!”
“Sam, you’ve been paid,” said Orson. “Frankly, I don’t see what we’re arguing about.”
“My name!” said Leve. “I’m arguing about my name. The money is immaterial to me, Mr. Orson Welles. I’ve done artistic work here, and I demand the credit to which I’m entitled. And if I don’t get it, I will call the union; I will close down this show—and don’t think I can’t do it. I’m not scared of you, Mr. Orson Welles. I’ll rip out every platform I built. I’ll repaint the back wall the way I found it, and good luck with your opening night, Mr. Orson Welles.”
“The Playbills are printed, Sammy.”
“Then they’ll have to be reprinted.”
“There’s no way we can reprint them by tomorrow.
”
“Then I’m tearing down my set.”
“For God’s sake, Sammy, we open tomorrow. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; there’s no printer on earth who can redo these by tomorrow. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable? Receiving no credit for my work is reasonable? I’m tearing down the set.”
“John, for God’s sake talk to him.”
“It was an oversight, Sam,” said Houseman in his best English-gentleman’s manner. He touched Leve’s shoulder. “You understand that. I’m sure we can get this rectified by Friday.”
“Sure, put my name in Friday when no critics come!”
“My God,” said Orson, “I can’t believe you’re pulling this bullshit twenty-four hours before we open. Everywhere I turn—people determined to steal my show.”
“Steal your show!” shouted Leve. The veins were protruding from his forehead. “Look at this.” He waved the Playbill wildly. “ ‘Entire production designed and staged by Orson Welles.’ That’s stealing, Mr. Orson Welles! You’ve stolen my work.” He tapped his chest. “My reputation. For four years I studied at Yale, Mr. Orson Welles. Then I worked for the Federal Theatre. I not only designed the sets, I designed the costumes!”
“Sammy, you’re a wonderful man, but any skilled technician could have done what you did, and nobody but Orson Welles could have done what I did, and that’s what this Playbill reflects.”
“It was an oversight,” repeated Houseman.
“It wasn’t an oversight,” said Orson darkly. “It accurately reflects the credit for this show. But if you’re unhappy with it, Sammy, then I’m big enough to reprint it for you. You want it to say that you played Brutus, too? You want it to say that you wrote the script? Fine. I’ll print anything you want. But this is the Playbill we open with tomorrow night.”
“Orson!” said Houseman. “Will you stop making it worse? The man has an authentic concern as an artist. He has his own reputation to consider.”
“Go ahead! Take his side like you always do! You’re another one waiting to steal my credit for this show! Good God, it’s every man for himself in this company—now that you smell a hit.” Orson turned to me. “You know the only one I trust? This kid! C’mon, Junior, let’s get something to eat; we’ll work on our scene.” He began leading me out of the dressing room.
“We’re not done here, Mr. Orson Welles,” said Leve. “You’re the big expert on Shakespeare? Do you remember what Iago tells Othello?” And here Leve recited in his thick Jewish accent. “ ‘Who steals my purse steals trash. But he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him—and makes me poor indeed!’ ”
“Get the hell out of my theatre!”
Leve continued reciting, and his face was dangerous. “ ‘Good name in man and woman, my dear lord, is the immediate jewel of their souls!’ ”
“The man is deranged.”
“I’m going out there with my hammer right now,” shouted Leve, “and I’m tearing up that set board by board.”
“Do it and I’ll have you arrested!”
Houseman moved between them. “We’ll change the credit, Sam. By Friday it will be corrected. I give you my word as a gentleman.”
“You are a gentleman,” said Leve. Then he pointed to Orson. “There’s a word in Yiddish for what he is—a chazar! A pig!”
Orson turned. “I am Orson Welles,” he said in his iciest tones. “And every single one of you stands here as an adjunct to my vision. C’mon, Junior, you’re the only one around here I can talk to.”
I followed him out to the stage. Orson was whispering to himself in an angry torrent. He was enraged and nearly out of control. “Production design and lighting design! Credit-stealing, son-of-a-bitch Jew.”
“Don’t call him that.”
Welles turned on me. “I called him a credit-stealing, son-of-a-bitch Jew because that’s exactly what he is. Does that statement bother you?”
“Yes, it does.” And I realized as I spoke that what filled me with an instant, visceral compassion for Leve was that he sounded so much like my grandfather. They carried the same prideful sense of their Jewishness. And what so infuriated me about Welles was his near-remorseless annihilation of anyone in his path.
“Then I’ll fire your ass, too. I don’t need any of you!” Welles was playing to the whole company now. “Listen, you want a career in the Mercury Theatre and in everything else I plan to do, then remember one simple rule: I own the store. You don’t like the way I work here?” He pointed to the back of the house. “There’s the door! Find somebody else to star you on Broadway. Now, you’ve got something to say to me, Junior? Start talking.”
I met his eyes. “All I meant was that you didn’t have to treat people like that.”
He goaded me. “Go on.”
“He’s a human being; he doesn’t need to be humiliated and demeaned to make your point. He deserves some respect.”
“He’s nothing,” said Welles. He turned to the company. “Ladies and gentlemen, we open tomorrow, and I’m proud of every member of this company. Every single one of you has come through. You’re a magnificent company—on par with any theatrical company in the world. And by Friday morning every literate person in this city is going to know who we are, and they’ll be lining up for the privilege of seeing our work.” He clapped his hands. “John! Sonja! Longchamps—my treat. I’m absolutely starving to death.”
“I’ll meet you there, Orson,” said Houseman quietly.
Sonja gave me a gesture that said: What can I do? and she followed Welles as he walked up the aisle. He was still wearing his military coat and gloves.
“Sam, I am so sorry,” said Houseman. “Words fail me. You see the way he is. He’s not in his right mind. You can’t talk to him now. Let me calm him down. I’ll talk to him, and if I can get him to reprint it by tomorrow night, I swear to you I will. If not, I’ll try to do an insert.” Houseman took Leve’s hand. “He’s under an enormous amount of pressure. We all think he’s unbreakable, but he’s near the breaking point. If this thing fails it’s all on his shoulders. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“He knows exactly what he’s saying,” said Leve. He was staring down the aisle.
“Sam, I know what you’ve done for this production. We all do. There would be no production without Sam Leve. And, believe me, even Orson knows that. You saw him in one of his crazy moods. Sam, he wants to be everything: the writer, the star, the designer. He knows this moment isn’t going to come again for him—and he sees you as a threat.”
Leve shook his head, stared down at the stage floor.
“He’s young, Sam—talented and ambitious as hell. Forgive him that. When his mother died he was raised by a Jewish doctor; he adores the Jewish people: their compassion, their generosity, their sensitivity to the arts. Believe me, he’s out of control now, but that’s not who he is . . . . Sam, I promise I’ll do what I can for you.”
Leve finally met his gaze.
“Thank you.”
Houseman sighed and hurried off to meet Welles.
“Mr. Leve, I’d like to buy you a coffee,” I said.
His eyes were watching the retreating Houseman.
“What?”
“I said I’d like to buy you a—”
“Thank you.”
He put his hand out, and I shook it.
“Yiddisher?” he asked.
Sixteen
We found a deli on Broadway, and with my last handful of change I bought us a coffee, a tea, and a baked apple.
We sat there for an hour talking about nothing but Orson Welles.
“He’s a mishugunah,” said Leve, shrugging his shoulders. “But he’s a genius.”
“You know,” I said, “I was with Welles the other day over at CBS, and there was a sign on a door there that said TALENT ONLY—meaning, I guess, that only performers could enter that way. But I keep thinking about that with Welles—that it’s talent only. That the only thing he has is talent—that all
other human virtues: generosity, decency, loyalty—whatever—are missing. And because people are so hungry to be part of his success, they’ll endure anything from him. Any kind of behavior is acceptable, no matter how demeaning, as long as he keeps bringing in success. I respect Welles as an artist; I really do. I’m in awe of him. But, as a man, he seems to me more and more a kind of monster.”
“We live in a world where the monsters get their faces on the covers of the magazines, my friend,” said Leve, and he took another forkful of his baked apple. He smiled at its taste. “Besser kennet zoyen. Do you know what that means?”
“Better it couldn’t be.”
“How do you know that?
“Are you kidding? I had to do my whole Bar Mitzvah speech in Yiddish: Meine taiera elterin und verte farzamalte. Zeit alla begriest!”
“That’s very good!” laughed Leve. “Listen, I have a theory about my work, about our work. I want you to hear this: ‘As in the synagogue we sing the praises of God, so in the theatre we sing the dignity of man.’ What do you think?”
“I like that: ‘In the theatre we sing the dignity of man.’ ”
“It’s what I believe. And all my religious friends who tell me why do I deal with all the schmutz and dreck, all the filth of the theatre? I answer them that the purpose of my art is to sing the dignity of man.”
“And what does Orson Welles know from the dignity of man?” I asked.
He made a guttural sound of distaste. “Orson Welles knows from Orson Welles.”
When we parted he said, “I thank you, my young friend, for the tea; and I thank you for the baked apple; and I thank you for being a human being.”
“It doesn’t cost anything to be a human being.”
“Don’t be so sure. Gai gezint.”
Welles had decided there had to be more musical underscoring, and with two hours to go before the curtain of our final evening preview, he insisted upon reworking the entire musical score. He stood on stage with the composer, Blitzstein (a little sharp-nosed guy with a mustache), and Epstein, the organist, and the score pages were flying in the air. Blitzstein would play a figure on the organ, and Welles would yell either, “Great!” or “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”