Read Online Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb by Arthur Bicknell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Arthur Bicknell
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ABC’s
Happy Days
, impressed us more with the mock deco graphics of her resume than she did with her acting ability, and Sylvia Miles of
Midnight Cowboy
fame (“You were gonna ask
me
for money?”) waddled in like a bag lady (complete with several bags) and asked “Mind if I wear glasses?” before removing her psychedelic aviator goggles to reveal a Russian nesting doll collection of progressively smaller eyewear. The only note that John jotted down after this visit was “Forbidden Planet.”
John’s meeting with Eve had gone very well, and Stuart reported that he’d heard back from her manager Glenn and her husband Brooks, both of whom were pushing her to take the job. In the meantime, we continued to see a wide variety of alternative Heddas, including the lithe and looming Anne Francine, who’d replaced Bea Arthur as Vera Charles in the mid-60s Broadway production of
Mame
. Anne’s NBC sitcom
Harper Valley PTA
had just been cancelled, and she was eager to “return to her roots” on the New York stage.
“It was crap,” she told us, referring to the sitcom, “but it was eighteen-thousand-dollars-a-week crap.”
She asked a lot of questions about her character, and wondered if we really thought she could pull off the “sex kitten” transformation in the second act. “Sure! You bet! Go for it!” we cheered. Anne then clasped Mary McTigue’s hands and in great, stentorian tones exclaimed “We who are about to die salute you!”
Helen Gallagher, who’d worked with Anne Francine in
Mame
and had made a splash a few years later in
No, No, Nanette
, schlepped in as if she’d just been directed to take her place in line at the DMV. If I’d been asked to draw her as a comic strip character, I’d have made her eyes pencil dots, used a short, horizontal line for her mouth, and thrown in a dialogue balloon filled with dark little scribbles floating over her head.
“I swear,” whispered Ricka, leaning into me. “I feel like giving a class on how to walk into auditions.”
On the final day, we were moved to a higher floor of the building. The only thing different about the new room was its wall-to-wall carpeting, a feature that totally thwarted the two little tap dancers who hadn’t been able to join us for next week’s Little Gay marathon. Conversely, it proved to be quite an inspiration for the last Hedda we’d be seeing, playwright Arthur Miller’s baby sister, Joan Copeland.
I’d seen Joan play the wife of Danny Kaye’s Noah in the 1970 musical
Two by Two
, as well as the “bewitched, bothered, and bewildered” socialite Vera Simpson in the 1976 Broadway revival of
Pal Joey
. Both times I’d been taken by her elegance and quiet sophistication. Before Amy ushered her into the room that last afternoon, Stuart extolled the many virtues of Miss Copeland, advising us that she had become a confirmed recluse over the past few years, and that she rarely bothered to come in for auditions unless something had
particularly
incited her interest. Duly impressed by Stuart’s perfect impersonation of Erich von Stroheim, we all breathlessly awaited the entrance of our own Norma Desmond.
Joan had chosen the “sex kitten” (as Anne Francine had called it) transformational scene at the end of the play where Hedda and her son-in-law, Nelson, reveal their hidden lust for each other. When Mary McTigue was introduced as her scene partner, Joan was aghast.
“A woman?” she cried. “Oh, no, I can’t do this with a woman! You
are
a woman, aren’t you, dear?”
As Mary dramatically left the room to take one of her five-minute breaks that were becoming more frequent by the hour, Stuart bravely volunteered to act as her substitute. “Is she in tears?” asked Joan. “Did she just lose her job because of me?”
“It’s a cruel business,” said John.
Nothing could have prepared any of us for the unchained lunacy that followed. Apparently determined to dispel any notion that she was too highbrow to indulge
Happy Days
, impressed us more with the mock deco graphics of her resume than she did with her acting ability, and Sylvia Miles of
Midnight Cowboy
fame (“You were gonna ask
me
for money?”) waddled in like a bag lady (complete with several bags) and asked “Mind if I wear glasses?” before removing her psychedelic aviator goggles to reveal a Russian nesting doll collection of progressively smaller eyewear. The only note that John jotted down after this visit was “Forbidden Planet.”
John’s meeting with Eve had gone very well, and Stuart reported that he’d heard back from her manager Glenn and her husband Brooks, both of whom were pushing her to take the job. In the meantime, we continued to see a wide variety of alternative Heddas, including the lithe and looming Anne Francine, who’d replaced Bea Arthur as Vera Charles in the mid-60s Broadway production of
Mame
. Anne’s NBC sitcom
Harper Valley PTA
had just been cancelled, and she was eager to “return to her roots” on the New York stage.
“It was crap,” she told us, referring to the sitcom, “but it was eighteen-thousand-dollars-a-week crap.”
She asked a lot of questions about her character, and wondered if we really thought she could pull off the “sex kitten” transformation in the second act. “Sure! You bet! Go for it!” we cheered. Anne then clasped Mary McTigue’s hands and in great, stentorian tones exclaimed “We who are about to die salute you!”
Helen Gallagher, who’d worked with Anne Francine in
Mame
and had made a splash a few years later in
No, No, Nanette
, schlepped in as if she’d just been directed to take her place in line at the DMV. If I’d been asked to draw her as a comic strip character, I’d have made her eyes pencil dots, used a short, horizontal line for her mouth, and thrown in a dialogue balloon filled with dark little scribbles floating over her head.
“I swear,” whispered Ricka, leaning into me. “I feel like giving a class on how to walk into auditions.”
On the final day, we were moved to a higher floor of the building. The only thing different about the new room was its wall-to-wall carpeting, a feature that totally thwarted the two little tap dancers who hadn’t been able to join us for next week’s Little Gay marathon. Conversely, it proved to be quite an inspiration for the last Hedda we’d be seeing, playwright Arthur Miller’s baby sister, Joan Copeland.
I’d seen Joan play the wife of Danny Kaye’s Noah in the 1970 musical
Two by Two
, as well as the “bewitched, bothered, and bewildered” socialite Vera Simpson in the 1976 Broadway revival of
Pal Joey
. Both times I’d been taken by her elegance and quiet sophistication. Before Amy ushered her into the room that last afternoon, Stuart extolled the many virtues of Miss Copeland, advising us that she had become a confirmed recluse over the past few years, and that she rarely bothered to come in for auditions unless something had
particularly
incited her interest. Duly impressed by Stuart’s perfect impersonation of Erich von Stroheim, we all breathlessly awaited the entrance of our own Norma Desmond.
Joan had chosen the “sex kitten” (as Anne Francine had called it) transformational scene at the end of the play where Hedda and her son-in-law, Nelson, reveal their hidden lust for each other. When Mary McTigue was introduced as her scene partner, Joan was aghast.
“A woman?” she cried. “Oh, no, I can’t do this with a woman! You
are
a woman, aren’t you, dear?”
As Mary dramatically left the room to take one of her five-minute breaks that were becoming more frequent by the hour, Stuart bravely volunteered to act as her substitute. “Is she in tears?” asked Joan. “Did she just lose her job because of me?”
“It’s a cruel business,” said John.
Nothing could have prepared any of us for the unchained lunacy that followed. Apparently determined to dispel any notion that she was too highbrow to indulge
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