Jack in the Box, page 13
This was just the warm-up to the rant. We stood silent as chastened schoolboys while he continued, eviscerating his subject. The entire thing had to be scrapped and begun all over. Crowley was stoic and pale. I doubt if in his entire career he had ever been subjected to withering scorn like what was unraveling in the close confines of his studio. And, worse, witnessed by perhaps eight or ten others with no power to mollify, or even to stem the flow. Somehow, eventually Andrew got out of the premises, posse intact. Cooler heads leapt in to explain to us that “this often happens,” and several anecdotes were gently offered in an attempt to spread the pain around more generally. They counseled that we’d reasonably pick up the pieces the next day. And a deafening silence was all that remained behind the hurried departures.
Crowley was many things: stunned, insulted, crestfallen, determined, proud, and infuriated. But professional, above all. Calling on his private reserves, rather than turning on his heels and stalking off into the night, he quietly scrapped his own work, dug deeply down, and proceeded to conceive a different approach that managed to protect the basic emotional aesthetic he had committed to, while generating an entirely new perspective. The ruined theatre was gone. The ghostly presence of a dreamworld Coney Island emerged. We rallied, we supported one another, and the entire enterprise lurched forward. These things happen more frequently than one might suppose, but you are never, never ready for them.
Andrew and me at the Abbey Road recording session of Love Never Dies, 2010
The other incident … well, the other incident! Memory can be a slippery slope, and one often remembers situations as worse than they were, or, occasionally, better. The entire event can get a reboot, a new coat of paint, be edited and softened. Whatever else, what you get is never precisely what happened.
But instead of reconstructing the illusive past, I prefer to turn back to my own written journals for proof of the second problem we encountered, believing the fresh weekly reportage of what I’d just experienced might be helpful and, whatever else, assuredly more accurate.
And so, Dear Reader, allow me to simply reprint, unedited, from those journals, the entire entry from February 21 in 2010, so immediate a view from those trenches, I swear you can almost smell the gunpowder. Some of the references you will get, and some you may not, but push on—it’s the landscape we’re pursuing here, after all. With apologies for any lapses I should have attended to, this is what I wrote the very next day:
LOVE NEVER DIES: 2/21/10 COMPRESSION & CONSEQUENCE
What a week! Almost frightening. No truly frightening!
It began, with all of us on the creative team, fully aware of just how late, how inadequately prepared, how fragile the entire situation was; and thank God that I had insisted upon canceling the projected Saturday preview!! Of which, more later …
With Steve Rebbeck (our production stage manager) and the crew frantically shoving every possible change and late arrival of prop, scenery and the like onto the stage, and up into the flies, and with Paule Constable stealing, from everyone, three hours each morning to light scenes that had only been minimally sketched, we began hammering the show together—second time round. Andrew, inevitably arriving looking grim, and unquestionably half in the bag as of mid afternoon, would sit with André in the row directly behind the desk Ben and I occupied, making loud, frantic, and often terrifying remarks. We got, Monday, I think, into the Aerie II scene when we all fully believed the way to go with that scene, with its 80s rock number, “Beauty Underneath,” was desperately to throw every lighting trick we could find at the palette. (Talk about “Devil Take the Hindmost!”) We got it sort of under way when the worst explosion possible occurred behind me: Andrew took off on one of his rages … It was “the ugliest scene” he had ever seen in his life, and had to “be completely scrapped.” He insulted Crowley, he insulted everyone in sight, and apparently told André that the console looked like the foyer of the Ivy Club, that he expected “Sara B.” to come out and sing some idiotic naf rock song, and that we should shut down and start all over again, or seriously cancel the entire thing. Crowley, thank heaven, didn’t actually hear any of this until I reported it to him secondhand, or he wouldn’t be with us today, I fully believe. But then, I’m not sure, had this sustained, that Andrew wouldn’t have been just as happy to sack him on the spot as well! We got through that … I don’t quite remember how … and on to the next couple of days of shoring up, changing, adjusting. I realized that I had more or less let that entire scene slide from my direct control and/or scrutiny, hoping, as others had hoped, that the sheer goofy rock energy of the musical number and the one or two hanging pieces—the prototype of Fleck, and the singing heads—might just carry the day. So, after one or two fairly sleepless nights, I girded my loins for final battle, and, banishing everyone from the scene but the Phantom and the boy, took the damned thing back down to the bare wood and concentrated on using what I could to tell the progress of a child amazed by the visuals, and a man amazed by the child. Not a bad premise, okay?, and why in hell did it take me so long? It did feel like something of a final oral exam, but when I finally presented the stripped, far more intrinsically dramatic version, the scene began to cook. Andrew was pleased in the afternoon, and we were all immensely relieved.
But Wednesday night proved to be The Night of the Long Knives, in spite of this. As the tech slowly dragged on, Andrew became more and more despondent behind me; and finally, at the end of the evening, attacked primarily the Coney Waltz section. The turntable was stupid. There weren’t enough people on it. This wasn’t what he had imagined at all. Not only did this series of barbs get launched at the conclusion of a devastatingly complicated and exhausting day, but it happened with the house lights on and in front of the entire staff and design departments and their peripheral personnel! Worse, as Andrew poked around in the sour ashes of the evening’s leavings, André himself began to criticize Jerry’s choices, his order of appearances, God knows what else! It was just awful. The final insult seemed the last minute realization that we had too few people in the crowd scenes, and had to put the covers on (six of them—the six people we had originally asked for in the company about six months ago!) until they could be replaced by “supernumeraries!” Jesus Wept!
There are moments you can see yourself in the fray and watch almost dispassionately as you do what you do—and there are other moments when you are for the most part simply unaware of the circumstances, the surroundings, and the content. This was one of the latter. I stood up and clearly and levelly for the most part said that I refused to throw out the baby with the bath water, that I was aware that we had not lit the scene properly and were still continually compensating from too few appropriate cast numbers to deliver what he wanted … at one point I clearly remember saying “I have no intention of putting Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey on this stage!” … and that we would assemble and continue to get the situation ever better.
But this was not really received with any enthusiasm or seconding by either Andrew or André, and it was at this moment that God, or something very like God, intervened … the fire alarm was sounded, and we were all commanded to leave the premises. We struggled to do so, only to hear a voice over the intercom announce it was a “false alarm,” and we could stay. Reluctantly, we began putting our things down when a final announcement rang out that it was, indeed, a valid alarm, and we were to go. Immediately!
Boy, did we!! Lumped into the street behind the Adelphi, I sought out Jerry Mitchell (my choreographer), Jodi Mosher (his associate), Ben Klein (mine), Crowley, and Paule Constable (our lighting designer) huddled in the numbed crowd, and we all immediately adjourned to a wine bar nearby to drown our sorrows and vent our anger. What came out over the wine, however, was something I had completely missed: apparently this was a singular confrontation in the varied history of Andrew and his productions. Rather than throwing a fit, and rather than caving, I had stood my ground clearly and strongly in full view of everyone, defended the process and our choices, and so far as the onlookers were concerned, behaved as something of a budding folk hero! Really?? You could have fooled me.
Drained and yet grimly determined, we bid each other goodnight. I called André from the street to say, succinctly, that I was finished for the evening, and we must speak the next day. Instead, he showed up at the Savoy downstairs, and with Ben and Jeremiah (my personal assistant) and the visiting Zack (Jeremiah’s boyfriend and eventual husband) scurrying for cover like lemmings, I admitted him to the living room and frankly gave him chapter and verse, saying he owed Jerry an apology for insulting him in front of the personnel, and for a) not getting Andrew out of the house when I had specifically requested him to do so, and b) worse, to sit and allow himself to take aim at our fragile and nascent efforts. He seemed utterly astonished that he wasn’t allowed to do this kind of public finger-pointing, and I reminded him that I had never once put him in anything like a correspondingly embarrassing situation, and would never do so.
As you might have expected, the next morning brought both Andrew and André over for a cup of coffee and a conference, when I clearly outlined the methodology that might possibly get us to the weekend—that I must be allowed to finish the work, to tech the show, to secure the backstage life for the crew, and that we could pull things apart later, but not until I was able to use what precious little time and resources were still available. They agreed, and left.
We picked up, with, curiously enough, everyone more appreciative of my soi-disant leadership demonstration than I might have expected, and plugged away. I made our three leads, Sierra, Ramin and Summer, laugh inordinately as I mimed myself at the wheel of a gigantic semi truck, driving on hazardous ice, saying basically “Get the fuck away from me, everyone, I’m from Michigan, and I know how to drive one of these rigs!”
I’m of the mind-set that says basically two things: “Good day/bad day,” and “Sometimes, things just get better by themselves.” Both issues rose merrily to the fore while Crowley and I shared our appreciation of the daily encouragement we were getting from our Gemini daily calendar messages! The result? We played the relit, restaged version of the Coney Waltz with an orchestra supporting us for the first time on Friday evening, and Andrew, Crowley, and the rest of us were in tears at the staggering beauty that was unfolding. Like a slowly rising, murky, massive figure emerging from the depths of water, the “ship” began righting itself and rising, rising into the light. In spite of our worst feelings of split focus, the orchestra and those lush orchestrations buoyed spirits and activity no small amount, and as we got to the weekend, the show began to unfold its considerable power and pull. Even the newly arrived and usually dour Glenn Slater was, for the most part, not only silent with major criticisms, but lavish in his praise of what he was seeing on the stage.
So. On to Saturday night, the canceled performance, with one more bizarre shock yet to sustain … Comfy? Good! I’ll take the pups for a short walk and be right back!…
[That didn’t take long! As opposed to … (Jeremiah [again, my personal assistant] and Zack [his fiancé] have opted for a bus-trip day to Oxford, leaving me “Daddy” to the two dogs all by myself today).] Anyway, we were facing a Friday exposure of some kind still with orchestra in the pit, and, following that, the day and evening of the canceled first preview. When, what to our wondering eyes!…
Saturday midday we learned that Sierra had been struck down with a rather high fever. She was in bed for the afternoon for sure, perhaps longer. Not only that, it seemed that four members of the ensemble, including one of our circus acts, were also down, so various covers had to be both alerted and sorted out. Celia Graham, a former Christine from Phantom, who had consented to occupy an unusual place (for her) in the ensemble while covering Christine, was summoned, and we knew that she was both bright and utterly professional. So, with fingers crossed, and the idea that we would simply stop when backstage traffic and danger made it necessary, we began the afternoon—picking up basically midway through Act II, at the shortened and compromised Beach Scene, and once more, facing the repeatedly bungled and technically horrendous task of clumsy chorines fairly “stripping” Summer during her major number, “Bathing Beauty.” But we continued to refine that process, and, with Celia’s amazing insight and preparation, went through to the last scene, when, once again, the self-indulgent Simon Lee, his head deep into the orchestra before him, hung my little perfect Gustave, Harry, out to dry while virtually limping through the final cues of the deeply moving finale. (I’m going to murder him. I swear it!)
Whatever. Still, we got through it, and we had Saturday night ahead, when, assuredly, Sierra, rested and shot up with various antibiotics, would be back, particularly knowing that her understudy had behaved so nobly during the afternoon. But, as the evening arrived, the leading lady had slept, arisen, showered, and succumbed once more to weakness and was back in bed. So, with much discussion, prep, and flashing yellow lights, we prepared for Celia to go through as much as was possible, dressed in something like a corselet and chemise, with virtually no costume changes. It did mean that we would have to be running enormously long sequences without a break, for the sake of continuity backstage. We began, and didn’t stop until the planned moment of restaging the transition to Aerie II, with a brand-new visual and traffic pattern. That entire chunk, beautifully sung and acted by Celia—especially and importantly the double-duets in the hotel!—went without much of a ripple. And after we did the fix on the transition, Andrew himself was so happy with the remixed sound attack on “Beauty Underneath” that even the dreaded Scott Penrose console effect was more or less signed off on. After the tea break, on to Act II.
So. Less than forty-five minutes left available in the required call, unless we were to ask for overtime. This seemed peculiar and unnecessary to me and to Jerry, considering that we’d been through the second act that afternoon several times, and we weren’t “performing,” but we were almost to the breaking point when Andrew knelt near me, asking if I planned to press on. No, I assured him. Then he said that he had found two personal acquaintances of his from Somerset who had come all the way down to London for the preview, not hearing of the cancellation. He had snuck them up into the circle, and was wondering if I could at least get through “Love Never Dies,” to give them a taste of the title song! Whaaaa?? Who are these people, I keep wondering! What a thing to ask. Still, with Celia doing simply ravishing work, and proving herself worthy of replacing Sierra when she and Ramin go over to Broadway next year, why not let her sing the great aria, and stop the evening there, while she was clearly triumphantly ahead?
She finished, and I took the mike and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen in the theatre, please give it up for Celia Graham,” which resulted in a huge cheer and sustained applause, a damned good way to finish this particular week.
So. It’s Sunday. Andrew and André came by here at the Savoy for a chat at 10, and when they left, I turned to Ben and said, “Remember this day: you couldn’t ask for milder less panicky notes from a composer and producer on the eve of performing!” Because that is the traditional moment when the final “long knives” come out, and the threat that “if you don’t fix, or fire, or replace, or somehow change…” whatever, we’re dead in the water.
We aren’t. We have a remarkably sturdy and consistent show to display next week; far from finished, far from finessed, but goddammit, one helluva lot better than anyone expected, and quite frankly, our producers deserve at this pace.
We must refine. We must focus. We must, in all events, finish. And we must now sort out what lies ahead—who to add to the ensemble, under what circumstances, and how to prepare for a series of following productions for which this effort becomes the litmus test, the proving ground, the variable template.
Side bar: I have been exchanging with Hal Prince, of all people, small messages, prompted by this idiotic committee Margo Lion put me on for the T. Edward Hambleton producing fellowship. And Hal, like Margo, has become enamored of my email style, and has asked me to keep doing it.
I haven’t wanted to complain, or cavil, or show my hand, or, honestly, to betray RUG and Andrew at this point, but this is what I sent him just a day ago: “Okay. What if I just kill him? Would anyone suspect it was me?”
Made me laugh. Him, too, I bet!
* * *
Love Never Dies opened at the Adelphi Theatre in London after a series of increasingly confident performances. The applause was warm, if not thunderous. The 148 shows were thoroughly embraced by the audience. The reviews were, all told, mixed, though not in the traditional George S. Kaufman definition of “good and lousy,” but after some quibbling, for the most part about the inconsistencies of the story itself, had considerable praise for Crowley’s efforts, for my direction, and for some of Andrew’s plusher vocal pieces, some calling it among his loveliest work in years.
I recall a luncheon at an Asian-themed restaurant, thrown by Andrew and André as a thank-you to the principal creative talents. The climate was warm and collegial, and considerable enthusiasm was expressed all around for changes still to be made, refinements that would tighten, clarify, and move the piece perhaps more confidently. The atmosphere was anything but grim.
Then, silence. We dispersed, we decamped, we suspended, all believing that business, if not exactly brisk, was going to sustain the piece long enough to secure some obvious improvements for a subsequent run. I don’t recall the actual experience of being fired. I know that Andrew and I never spoke again, so it must have been, once more, the beleaguered André Ptaszynski who informed us—and when I say “us,” I would include the Americans: the choreographer Jerry Mitchell, the associate director Ben Klein, me, and the Irish designer Bob Crowley (all but the lyricist, Glenn Slater)—that we were thought unworthy to continue on, in spite of our individually celebratory reviews. It was as silent as it was deadly and effective: Lopped off. Released. All the British collaborators remained intact as, without a word of explanation to any of us, a new director, a new choreographer, and a new designer were eventually to be retained.
