by Barbara Cook
When the show became such a big hit, Eddie Hodges and I sang on television’s Your Hit Parade, which meant we were reaching millions of people across the country. And, at the same time, I also appeared on many television game shows. They were a lot of fun, and very lucrative. You did two days of work where you’d tape five shows, for which you received $1,000. That was very good money in 1958, and it’s not bad these days, either.
Our show became the destination Broadway must-see for celebrities in town, and boy did I meet some fascinating people. Former President Truman came backstage with his wife, Bess, daughter Margaret, and Margaret’s husband, Clifton Daniel. Bess was very motherly, and made sure everyone got to shake the president’s hand. I felt the same way about Barbara Bush when I sang at the White House; they were both very warm, maternal women.
For a movie-mad youngster like myself it was a dream come true to meet my childhood idols when they stopped backstage. Dorothy Lamour turned up one night, and, ever suave, I blurted out: “You’re Dorothy Lamour!” Without missing a beat she wisecracked, “Yeah, what’s left of me, honey!” Best of all was Gary Cooper—the divine Gary Cooper. One night during our preshow chat Bob casually mentioned to me: “Coop’s out front.”
“Who?” I stammered.
“Coop. Gary Cooper is in the house tonight, Barbara.”
Very calmly I said to Bob, “If I don’t get to meet Gary Cooper your life isn’t going to be worth a plugged nickel.”
Well, the show ended, and as I was removing my makeup there was a knock at my door, and there in all his glory stood the incredibly handsome Gary Cooper.
“Oh—Mr. Cooper—I’m so happy to meet you.”
His reply? “Gosh.”
I was performing eight shows a week and somehow still had time to perform in a television production of Hansel and Gretel. I had a lot of energy in those days! The show had a score by William Engvick and Alec Wilder, and Red Buttons was my costar. If I was a little old at age thirty to be playing Gretel, Red was really stretching things as a thirty-nine-year-old Hansel! Directed by Paul Bogart, the show also featured Hans Conried, Stubby Kaye, and the wonderful opera singer Risë Stevens as the mother. With Rudy Vallee playing our father, we were definitely an eclectic cast.
Hansel and Gretel was telecast in April 1958, the same month as the Tony Awards, which were held in the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The show would have been telecast in New York, although not nationally, but there was a labor strike at that time, so there was no television broadcast of any sort. As it turned out, we were sitting at the same table as everyone from Look Homeward, Angel, a group that included Jo Van Fleet. She had sent that nice telegram to Bob Preston in Philadelphia, but she was an edgy woman. Just before my category was announced, she said to me, “I’ve heard that you won.” That is definitely not what anyone wants to hear before their award is announced. What if it weren’t true? And if I were going to win, why did she take it upon herself to be the one delivering the news? Well, she was a tough cookie. I once ran into Pat Hingle when he was in a play with Jo and I said, “How is working with Jo Van Fleet?” Pat, a very sweet man, looked at me and said, “Ever been onstage with an anteater?”
They called out my name as the winner of Best Featured Actress in a Musical, and the funny thing is that while I have absolutely no recollection of what my salary was for The Music Man, I definitely remember what I wore to those Tony Awards. It was a beautiful, very simple dress with a flaired chiffon skirt, and a top that was all gold—very fancy and really pretty. I liked it so much that I also wore it to the opening-night party for She Loves Me five years later. I was very nervous when I scurried up to receive the award, and didn’t actually say much except “Thank you.” I suspect it was one of the shortest Tony acceptance speeches in history, but I was very pleased to have won, especially after the disappointment of not being nominated for Candide.
The night got even better because I wasn’t the only winner from Music Man: Bob Preston, David Burns, and our conductor Herbert Greene all won, and the show won the biggest prize of all, Best Musical.
The big competition that year was between The Music Man and West Side Story. Of course I went to see West Side Story and thought the dancing was out of this world; for some reason I remember thinking that the book didn’t work—I don’t remember why, because I certainly don’t feel that way when I see the show now. West Side Story was groundbreaking, no question about it. It’s a brilliant show, with that incredible Bernstein music, Steve Sondheim’s lyrics, the Jerome Robbins staging—wow.
People spoke about a “rivalry” between the two shows, and in the face of all that groundbreaking work on West Side Story, it’s easy to forget how brilliantly constructed Music Man really is. The rhythmic sing/speak that Meredith came up with makes the show flow from the very first scene on. Interestingly enough, Meredith had actually started working with that form even before Music Man, back on a radio program called The Big Show. That show, which went on the air in November of 1950, was hosted by Tallulah Bankhead and may well have been the last big radio show before the demise of radio and rise of television. Meredith was the music director and conductor of the show, and instead of having commercials read, he came up with the idea of having a male chorus speak/sing the commercial—“Buy Camel cigarettes”—in rhythm. It was like rap—but a little cleaner.
There is no question about it—the 1950s were a great time for Broadway musicals. It wasn’t just The Music Man and West Side Story. It was Damn Yankees, My Fair Lady, Gypsy, Guys and Dolls, and on and on. It’s no wonder those shows are consistently revived—they are terrific musicals with strong books and first-class songs. I loved Damn Yankees—such a wonderful Adler/Ross score, and the great Gwen Verdon at her peak. She was a terrific dancer who oozed star quality—audiences adored her. Oddly enough, I was disappointed when I first saw My Fair Lady, not because I didn’t think it was good—I could see how beautifully constructed it was. It’s because I had heard so many details about the show from so many people that there were no surprises left. It was as if I had already seen the show before the overture even started.
As Music Man settled into a standing-room-only hit, I became pregnant. Deliberately so. As soon as David and I started trying, I became pregnant. We were both incredibly excited and I left the show in July of 1959 when I was about five months pregnant and really starting to show. The funny thing is that I don’t remember my last performance in the show at all; I guess I was so happy about being pregnant that everything else receded. That said, I was and remain incredibly proud of my association with The Music Man. It wasn’t just that it was a fine show; it’s that rare show that really entered into the American consciousness, and thirty years later, when President Reagan left office in January of 1989, the New York Times ran an editorial, comparing the president to that well-known salesman, Professor Harold Hill. Remarkable.
10 • MARRIAGE, MOTHERHOOD, AND CAREER
WHEN I LEFT the show I knew I was losing a nice income, but money had never been the main focus for me, and David, who seemed to have no problem with my earning power, seemed similarly untroubled at our losing that steady income. I always felt supported by David as he helped and coached me, and while he may have felt the strain of my success, I never sensed it. I tried to be careful about money, but my joy came from performing, not making money, and when I became pregnant with my son, even performing came in a distant second.
I had grown to depend heavily on David, and before we became parents, that suited both of us. I trusted him completely, both personally and professionally, and valued his advice. Ironically, by now so, too, did my mother; David and I had been married for seven years, and with the passage of time, as she came to know the real David, she had gradually overcome her prejudices and come to respect his integrity. She actually asked for David’s advice on matters ranging from finance to housing.
Aside from developing an aversion to the smell of cigars (David was a cigar smoker), it was all smooth sailing wh
ile I was pregnant, and I gave birth to my beautiful son Adam at the tail end of 1959. Motherhood seemed like the ultimate miracle to me. It still does. I remember going into labor, and driving to the hospital with David saying, “We’re going to bring a new human being into the world.” I was so happy to be a mother, and really thrilled to be Adam’s mother. I love him so much—and besides loving him, I admire and like him. We have many of the same interests in the arts and he has been very helpful to me in dealing with finances. I am very lucky to have my son.
After giving birth to Adam, I was breast-feeding and I became interested in the nutritional advice of Adelle Davis; Adelle suggested that if you’re breast-feeding, it’s good to drink a Carlsberg beer because it has yeast and B vitamins. We used to buy that beer by the case, and while I’m not so sure about Adelle’s nutritional theories, it did make for some interesting times while breast-feeding.
We were living in Port Washington, on Long Island, and doing pretty well as a family. There were, of course difficult moments, especially when my mother came to visit, but David, Adam, and I were a family. David was so protective of me, and at first that all felt great. He provided certainty, and when I would put my head on his shoulder he would comfort me, as a father would a child.
At the same time, the itch to perform had certainly not disappeared, and when I was offered the role of Anna in The King and I, I accepted immediately. In fact, if I had to choose my favorite role from my entire career, it would be playing Mrs. Anna in the City Center King and I revival in May of 1960.
Our King was Farley Granger, and he was terrific. There was a very healthy sexuality between our characters. Our complicated onstage relationship built and built throughout the evening until we finally touched for the first time as the music swelled up for “Shall We Dance?”; let me tell you, that moment was all about sex! We made that scene work like gangbusters, not just because it’s a terrific Rodgers and Hammerstein song, but because we made the moment real: the dialogue leading into the song explained our growing attraction because we believed it and lived it onstage. David was really, really helpful to me with that show. He coached me on every scene, and I think I responded with my very best work.
I loved that role—you can’t ask for more as a musical-theater actress. There was such beautiful music—“Hello, Young Lovers,” “Getting to Know You”—and meaty dramatic material to boot. The critics really praised the production—the New York Times called it “the best performance of Miss Cook’s career”—and what made it all the sweeter was the response from Rodgers and Hammerstein and their peers. Oscar and Dick sent me a note that said: “We wish last night had been the Broadway opening.” To receive that sort of praise from Dick and Oscar was a very big deal for me.
Arthur Laurents, who was definitely a tough man of the theater, wrote a letter to Dick saying that it was the best production of The King and I that he had ever seen, and that The King and I had now supplanted Carousel as his favorite Rodgers and Hammerstein show. Arthur, who wrote the extraordinary book for Gypsy, said that our production made the book a “revelation . . . It’s more pertinent today and, being better acted, is more real and touching. The difference is that where Gertrude Lawrence and Yul Brynner were strikingly electric personalities, Barbara Cook (what a difference her singing makes!) and Farley Granger—surprise, surprise!—are better and more honest actors. Enough gushing. It’s an absolutely marvelous show and I could see it once a year.”
What made all that praise even more meaningful was that Dick wrote back to Arthur, stating: “There is no question in my mind as to the justification of your feeling that Barbara and Farley are more honest and really better artists than the people who played the parts originally.” That was music to my ears.
I have to say that a large portion of the credit belonged to Farley; he was excellent in the role and his vulnerability and sensitivity as a person really made you believe that at the end of the show the king’s spirit has been broken. As great as Yul Brynner was, it’s hard to believe anything could ever break his spirit.
I’m my own worst critic and always think I can do better, but this time both Farley and I each felt we had surpassed ourselves. I loved the role so much that I couldn’t wait to get to the theater every night. There was even talk that they were going to move the production to Broadway, but there was an Actors’ Equity strike and by the time it was over we had lost all of our momentum. Farley and I were able to play it one more time in an outdoor arena production in Washington, but we never made it to Broadway. I would have loved the opportunity to explore that role in depth over the course of a months-long run, but the show lives on as one of my favorite memories.
Farley and I were unable to make a recording of that production, but four years later I recorded a studio version with completely new orchestrations by Philip J. Lang. It was part of a series of stereo recordings of shows that previously had been available only in monoaural, and it was a thrill to record that gorgeous music with a full studio orchestra. The King was sung by Theodore Bikel, a man I liked a great deal, and the recording was produced by Thomas Z. Shepard, with whom I’d be reunited twenty-one years later for the Avery Fisher Hall recording of Follies, as well as my CD The Disney Album. It was great to now have a permanent record of my work.
I had so much respect for Rodgers and Hammerstein—they were geniuses, and I do not use that word lightly. I wish I had been able to originate a role in one of their musicals, but I never did. I do remember auditioning for Pipe Dream, but I think I had too much of a little-girl look. They wanted a more womanly look for the role of Suzy, which is what they got with Judy Tyler. It was not one of their better shows, but look at their legacy: Oklahoma!, The King and I, South Pacific, Carousel, The Sound of Music. They received every possible honor, and justifiably so—but I do think Oscar still hasn’t received enough credit for the books he wrote. His terrific books are a big reason why their shows are constantly revived. They possess real dramatic structure and genuine conflict. The old Irving Berlin and Cole Porter shows, for all of their brilliant music, just don’t possess the solid dramatic bones that Oscar gave the R&H shows.
My next role turned out to be in The Gay Life, a musical that opened on November 18, 1961. The show had a dazzling score, and I had a terrific role. It was the first time I didn’t have to audition for a role, as well as the first time I had my name above the title. Clearly my career was entering its prime, but of course I didn’t realize it at the time—you never do. You just keep working and wondering what will come along next. At the time of The Gay Life, however, it was all pretty heady and I was very happy.
The Gay Life was based on The Affairs of Anatol, by Arthur Schnitzler. There were several ladies playing Anatol’s paramours, and when it became evident out of town that the show was in trouble, Herbie Ross, who had taken over the direction, suggested that I be allowed to play all the ladies. Of course I thought that was a great idea, but the creators were afraid to make such a big change. The structure of the show stayed exactly as it was, which proved fatal.
It’s often hard to know exactly why shows don’t work. Usually it’s the book that’s blamed, which makes you realize how incredibly difficult it is to write the book for a musical: just as you’re building a scene to its dramatic climax, you the librettist are pushed aside so that the composer and lyricist can take over. A weak book may well have been the cause of The Gay Life’s quick demise, although I’m not sure. It’s the same old problem: when you are in a show it’s hard to judge because you live behind the curtain, inside your role. You can’t really know what magic is or is not happening out front. The book for Gay Life was written by Fay and Michael Kanin, who had just written a first-rate screenplay for the Doris Day/Clark Gable comedy Teacher’s Pet, but this script never caught fire. Adding to the problem was the fact that our leading man, Walter Chiari, was badly miscast.
Walter did his best, and I adored working with him. He was a dear, sweet man. He had gone through a hot, internationally pu
blicized affair with Ava Gardner and was generally thought of as the quintessential Latin lover. God knows he was handsome enough for the role of Anatol, but what we didn’t know in advance was that his greatest talent was as a comedian—he was extremely adept at improvisation—and that he possessed very little real acting technique. The net result was that if he found something that worked well in a scene, he couldn’t always repeat it. In addition, his accent was quite strong, so it was hard to understand him, yet for all that, the cast loved him and so, too, I think, did the audiences.
I used to love the fight scene at the end of the show, a scene that provided me with my favorite memory from the entire show. That concluding fight scene was really a brawl—all choreographed, of course—and during the scene Walter would hold me tight, trying to keep me from “killing” Elizabeth Allen, who I thought was after my Anatol. On one particular night, as Walter was holding me, he whispered, “Bar-ba-ra, Bar-ba-ra, de pants, de pants, they are spleeet.” He kept whispering, “De pink is showing, de pink is showing.” Of course the audience was hysterical with laughter. He really worked that moment and added at least five minutes to the show. As I said, he was a great improviser.
Even with all of the show’s problems, nothing can take away from the blazingly wonderful score written by Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz, two hall of fame songwriters who had written “Dancing in the Dark,” “I Guess I’ll Have to Change My Plan,” and “That’s Entertainment.” They gave me such great songs to sing—“Magic Moment,” “Who Can? You Can,” “Something You Never Had Before,” and “The Label on the Bottle.” That last song was put in the show out of town and exemplified how terrifying working on musicals can be: I first heard the song on a Monday night right after the performance. I rehearsed it for hours on Tuesday—it was a big singing and dancing number, and, heaven help me, I performed it at the Wednesday matinee. I learned it fast—dance and all—and never made a mistake. I don’t think for a moment that I could do that now. I’ve no idea how I did it then.