Act One

by Moss Hart

  The ushers began to shout, “Curtain going up, second act … Curtain going up…” and the audience started to stream back down the aisles with avidity. The pace with which an audience returns to its seats after an intermission is always a dead giveaway on how the play is going. If they linger to chatter in the lobby or sip their orangeades at the back of the theatre, it is always a fairly good sign that things are not going any too well. I am always infuriated by stragglers, but one cannot blame an audience for being reluctant to return for more of the same if what they have already sat through has been dreary and dull. It seemed to me that this audience could hardly wait to get back to their seats.

  Mr. Kaufman’s reception, when the curtain rose on the second act, was the biggest of the evening. That gaunt, saturnine figure, his eyes peering malignantly over the rims of his glasses, seemed to amuse them before he even spoke—and the very first line he uttered got the biggest laugh in the play so far. Indeed, they laughed twice at it, so to speak—once a great roar, and as the roar died down they gave another burst of delighted laughter. Then they broke into applause, completely drowning out his next line, but he craftily waited them out, then signaled with his eyes to Leona Maricle, to give him the cue again. He was quite wonderful in the part and in complete control of the audience. His timing was perfect, he looked exactly what he was supposed to be—a New York playwright venomously dedicated against all things Hollywood—and he played with the resourcefulness and skill of an actor who had been all his life on the stage. In my opinion he never received enough credit for his performance. Not being a “real” actor, he was received by the critics with the good-humored tolerance reserved for a theatrical trick or a parochial joke; but it was far above anything of the sort. Every line he uttered, even some of his pantomime, drew huge laughs, and when he made his exit in the middle of the second act a resounding round of applause followed him off.

  And then a terrible thing happened. An extraordinary quiet settled over that eager, willing audience!

  There were laughs, of course, during the rest of the act but they were scattered and thinnish and sounded as though the audience were forcing themselves to laugh at things they didn’t quite find really funny. It was as though they wanted the play to keep on being as good as it had been and were eager to help as much as they could by playing the part of a still delighted audience. The second-act curtain, nevertheless, descended to a polite but disappointed hand.

  I did not wait for Joe Hyman to come up the aisle this time. With grim foreboding I made my cowardly way to the stage alley around the corner, where I stood miserably biting my nails and saying silently over and over, “Oh, God, is it going to be like Chicago again?”

  I went back to the theatre after the curtain had risen on the third act, to find Mr. Kaufman already pacing furiously up and down. I resumed my own pacing and we passed and repassed each other, though he did not speak to me nor I to him. The third act played more or less like the latter half of the second—scattered thinnish laughs—and finally in the last scene, a scene made all the more lethal because the scene itself was more elaborate in decor and lavish in costume than any other in the play, no laughs at all. It was the scene we had labored hardest on, and true to form, the scene which we both liked the best and were secretly the proudest of. With a silent and disgruntled audience watching it, the elaborate set looked ridiculous and the expensive costumes foolish and a little vulgar.

  A deadly cough or two began to echo hollowly through the auditorium—that telltale tocsin that pierces the playwright’s eardrums, those sounds that penetrate his heart like carefully aimed poison darts—and after the first few tentative coughs a sudden epidemic of respiratory ailments seemed to spread through every chest in the audience as though a long-awaited signal had been given. Great clearings of the throat, prodigious nose-blowings, Gargantuan sneezes came from all parts of the theatre both upstairs and down, all of them gradually blending until the odious sound emerged as one great and constant cough that drowned out every line that was being uttered on the stage.

  I stopped pacing and stared balefully at the serried rows of heads and the backs of necks that stretched straight down to the footlights, as if my fury could spray itself over those heads and throats like an insecticide and make them stop. And my eye was immediately struck by the changed postures of that audience. In the first act they had sat erect in their seats and leaned forward a little, attentive and eager for every word coming over the footlights. Now they sprawled every which way. Some of them had even slumped down in their seats as far as they could get, and their heads rested on the back of the seats. I have watched the same silent spectacle since then, and even without coughs, it is as good and grim an illustration of a disappointed audience as I know of, and another excellent reason why a playwright should never sit through one of his own works. Looking at the heads of an audience from the back of the orchestra will tell him a good deal more than sitting in a welter of well-wishing friends in the third row. I walked away and leaned against the wall, waiting for the coughing to stop, but of course it did not stop. It continued growing in volume for the rest of that lumpish and hulking scene. The curtain finally and at last came down on what at best could only be described as reluctant and somewhat fugitive applause.

  Mr. Kaufman had disappeared at least five minutes before the curtain fell, and I remained where I was at the back of the theatre waiting for Joe Hyman to come up the aisle. I could see his face long before he reached me. It looked sad, sullen, and somehow five years older than when he had come up the aisle at the end of the first act. He reached my side and, never a man to mind putting the obvious into words, said, “You got an act and a half of a hit. What you need pretty badly is the other half.” I stared dumbly back at him without replying. “Shall I wait for you back at the hotel and go home tomorrow morning, or would you rather I went home tonight?” he asked.

  I found my voice, though it sounded squeaky and high-pitched and the words came out almost like a bleat. “Better go home,” I said. “There’s a conference in Mr. Kaufman’s room right away and I think he’ll want to go right to work after we finish. Looks like there’s quite a lot to do, doesn’t it?” I asked needlessly.

  Joe Hyman nodded, and the gentle note of mockery was in his voice again. “While you’re working tonight, just keep thinking ‘Well, at least I’m not up at camp doing “Mrs. Cohen at the Beach.”’ That’ll help.” He held out his hand and I took it. “It’s an awful good act and a half, though,” he said. “I’ll call you from New York tomorrow or the next day. I better run now if I’m going to catch that train back.” And he was gone.

  I waited until the last stragglers had left the lobby and then walked slowly up the boardwalk toward the hotel. I was in no hurry to get there, even at the risk of keeping Mr. Kaufman waiting. Had it really gone as badly as I feared it had, and if so, what would Mr. Harris and Mr. Kaufman do? Sam Harris was no Augustus Pitou, but I remembered I had heard him say to someone or other during rehearsals, “You can’t pinch pennies in show business, but the great secret is to know when to cut your losses. Make up your mind quickly, take your loss and run. Just not doing that little thing has caused a good many managers to die broke.” I shivered a little in the warm night air and found that I was already in front of the hotel.

  Inevitably some of the other passengers were talking about the show as the elevator ascended. “What did you think of that thing tonight?” said a fat suntanned man addressing another fat suntanned man standing next to me. “I saw you in the lobby, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” said the man at my side, “after the first act everyone could have stayed in the lobby. They got a big juicy flop on their hands if you ask me.”

  Who’s asking you, you fat, overfed, overdressed son-of-a-bitch, I thought sullenly as he pressed himself against me.

  “You’re Beacon Sportswear Sweaters, aren’t you?” said the first man to the man at my side. “I’m Ladies Cashmere Woolens.”

  “Yeah, Beacon S
portswear. You know the line?” the man next to me asked.

  I longed to answer him myself, but I lacked the courage. “I know the line,” I ached to say; “and your sweaters are lousy—lousier than our third act. I’m wearing one of them right now. They stretch and they unravel. And if you know so much about plays, why don’t you make better sweaters, you pompous bastard?” I added silently and illogically as I pushed past him to get off at my floor.

  I made my way miserably down the corridor, but in front of Mr. Kaufman’s room I turned away and walked a few doors further down to my own room. Whether because of the tension of the evening or because of what Mr. Sportswear had just said in the elevator, my face and forehead and eyes were burning as if with a high fever. I let myself into my room, and without turning on the lights—I had no wish to be mocked by the little pile of telegrams, stacked neatly on the bureau, which I had opened with such amusement and pleasure earlier in the evening—I walked through the dark room to the bathroom. I filled the washbowl with water as cold as I could get it to run and dipped my face and finally my whole head into it. In the dark bedroom I changed my shirt, which was limp and dank with perspiration, and as I stood buttoning it the telephone rang. With a pang I remembered I had told the family to call me in my room at eleven thirty sharp, before I went to the conference, so that I could tell them how the opening had gone. It rang again, and I let it ring without moving to answer it. There was no point in giving them bad news until I knew just how bad the news might be. Still less point in trying to put a good face on it or attempting to whitewash the evening’s calamity—my mother would catch me out at once. Better to let them think they had missed me.

  I walked out of the room, with the telephone still ringing, and down the hall to Mr. Kaufman’s room again and knocked on the door. Mr. Kaufman’s voice called, “Come in, come in,” and I walked into the room to find no one there, surprisingly enough, but Mr. Kaufman himself. I had expected to see Sam Harris, Max Siegel, the stage manager, the company manager, and even some of the group I had seen talking to Sam Harris during the intermission. Mr. Kaufman’s conferences were evidently not going to follow the prescribed ritual. The wrecking crew and even Sam Harris were apparently barred.

  Mr. Kaufman, in pajamas and bathrobe, was seated on the sofa, the script already on his knees, a pencil poised above it, and a sheet of yellow paper and carbon stood ready at the typewriter. He did not look up but gestured toward a table on which stood a Thermos of coffee and two thin sandwiches. “Those are for you,” he said. “We’ll be working all night, and room service closes at one o’clock.” I stared hungrily at the sandwiches, but another gesture had motioned me over to the sofa. I sat down beside him.

  “You know what didn’t go as well as I do,” he said. “Curing it is another matter. We’ll get to that later. Let’s cut right down to the bone first, to give us a clean look at what we’ve got. It won’t fix what’s wrong, but at least it will improve the good stuff that’s there.” Nothing in his tone or manner indicated that there was any thought of abandoning the play. I could easily have thrown my arms around him and hugged him, and my sigh of relief must have been so audible that he turned to me and said, “Did you say something?” I shook my head. The pencil in his hand began to make quick, darting marks on the manuscript, bracketing the cuts on page after page. It was astonishing to find how much of what we had written was unnecessary, how we had underestimated an audience’s ability to grasp what was needful for them to know without restating it not once but sometimes two or even three times. It was reassuring to find that so meticulous a craftsman as George Kaufman himself still had to learn the hard way the ever-constant lesson of economy.

  There was a knock at the door and I opened it to find Max Siegel standing in the doorway with a number of typewritten sheets in his hand. “Mr. Harris’ notes,” he said, handing them over. “How’s the young author? Not discouraged, I hope.” He waved to Mr. Kaufman over my shoulder and walked away. I presented the notes to Mr. Kaufman. He placed them on the table beside him without so much as a glance. “Later,” he remarked, without looking up from the manuscript, and the pencil darted surgically over the pages.

  I could only guess at the passage of time by the increasingly loud rumblings of my stomach. That large lobster dinner I had eaten with Joe Hyman seemed some years away. Moreover, I had returned it to the sea early in the evening and I was beginning to grow a little dizzy with hunger. I waited until Mr. Kaufman found it necessary to go to the bathroom and then dived for the sandwiches and coffee, stealing a look at my watch at the same time. It was almost four thirty in the morning and we were only just past the middle of the second act.

  Mr. Kaufman, returning from the bathroom, walked toward the bureau instead of going back to the sofa, and rummaging under a pile of shirts he brought out a large brown paper bag. “Fudge,” he said casually, “for energy. Have some.” He held the bag out in front of me and I tentatively picked out the daintiest piece I could find, conscious as always in his presence of my undisciplined appetite. “Have a good-sized piece,” he said sharply, “you won’t even taste it that way. I make it myself,” he added, with a satisfied chuckle.

  I looked up at him in surprise. What was even more surprising was the fact that his eyes were shining with the first hint of pride I had ever seen glisten in them. I had tried once or twice to discuss some of his work that I particularly admired, but careful as I had been to keep any hint of admiration out of my voice, his replies had been so lackluster and his indifference so obvious that I had quickly dropped any mention of the plays and never returned to it. To my astonishment, he was now standing over me, waiting as eagerly for me to taste the piece of fudge in my fingers as he might wait for a notice in the Times the morning after an opening night. I bit into it and carefully let it melt in my mouth before I gave my report, for his eyes were intent on mine and the expression on his face was so childishly expectant that I knew my judgment must be a considered one before I pronounced it.

  The very first bite told the whole story! It was awful fudge—gummy and sickly sweet. I did not have the heart to tell him so. “It’s just wonderful,” I lied. He smiled delightedly and popped a large piece into his own mouth, still looking at me with the look of fevered expectancy that a favored relative fixes on the family lawyer about to read the will. Evidently “just wonderful” wasn’t going to be enough. “I didn’t know you could make fudge,” I said thickly, trying to make the words sound enthusiastic, for the horrible stuff was sticking to the roof of my mouth and had worked its way around my back molars and gums.

  “Can’t buy it this way anywhere,” he said, deeply pleased with himself. “Never the right consistency or not sweet enough. Matter of fact”—he went on chewing contentedly—“This isn’t quite sweet enough either. I’ll make a new batch to take to Brighton Beach next week.”

  Oh, God, I thought … not sweet enough! If he makes me take another piece I’ll be sick right in front of him. “Have some more,” said Mr. Kaufman, helping himself to another piece and holding the bag out in front of me. “Best thing I know of to keep you awake.”

  It’ll keep me awake all right, I thought, as I plunged my hand in the bag and tried to pick out the smallest possible piece. Just keeping it down will keep me awake. “Thanks,” I said brightly, “it certainly does seems to give you energy, doesn’t it?” And I walked into the bathroom. I flushed the lump of wretched stuff down the toilet and emerged from the bathroom falsely chewing away like the traitor I was.

  Through the years the brown paper bag full of that terrible fudge emerged from a good many other bureau drawers. Mr. Kaufman rarely traveled without it. It was as much a part of his traveling equipment as the sharpened pencils, the carbon paper, the typewriter and the special hand soap. And the memory of that brown paper bag coming toward me at four or five in the morning is still enough to engender a slight feeling of queasiness. His staunch belief in the energy-giving properties of his own fudge, however, worked like magic—at least,
for him—for he worked through the rest of the night without so much as a pause or a single yawn.

  It was just after seven thirty in the morning when he closed the manuscript and walked to the windows to draw the curtains and pull up the shades. The bright sunlight made me blink my eyes and made me realize that I ached all over with weariness. “I’ve called rehearsal for eleven o’clock. We never got to Sam Harris’ notes,” he added with a regretful sigh. “Oh, well, we’ll get a chance to go through them between the morning and afternoon rehearsal. Good night—or good morning—whichever you prefer.” He opened the windows, then pulled the curtain and shades to once again and was taking off his bathrobe and making for the bed as I murmured a good night and closed the door after me.

  * * *

  The rest of that work-filled week in Atlantic City was a testimony to the remarkable continuity with which George Kaufman functioned—to the unity of purpose and dogged persistence with which he cut away every superfluous word of the play until its bare bones lay exposed. It was a striking illustration of his dictum “First things first,” for he refused to be swerved or stampeded by anyone, Sam Harris and Beatrice Kaufman included, until he had achieved what he chose to call “A naked look at the play itself—I don’t care if the curtain comes down at ten o’clock.” Indeed, at the Friday evening performance, the final curtain actually did come down at ten fifteen—he had cut a little too deeply, he grudgingly conceded—and some of the cuts were quickly restored for the Saturday matinée; but for that one alarming evening the play must have given the impression to the bewildered and stunned audience of being hardly a play at all, but merely a series of loosely connected scenes strung causelessly together.