Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

Before I was assigned to a theatre permanently I was sent to a few theatres for a week or two of apprenticeship – that meant learning exactly what was expected of me. The rules, etc. Wearing a black skirt and sweater, I reported to the head usher at the Morosco Theatre on 45th Street, where Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit was playing. The stars were Clifton Webb, Leonora Corbett, Peggy Wood, and Mildred Natwick. The curtain was to go up at 8:30. I arrived at 7:45 – earlier than necessary, but I couldn’t wait. The head usher arrived before eight – she gave me a white collar and a pair of white cuffs to adorn my black sweater. That was the usher’s uniform of the day. She showed me how the programs were to be piled neatly at the head of the aisle, and as the theatre doors opened I observed carefully the procedure to be followed. First, ‘Tickets, please’ to the theatregoers – then directing them to the correct aisle, or leading them to their seats down one’s assigned aisle, giving them one program each. Then back up the aisle to stand at your station until the next ticket stubs were presented. I did nothing but watch that first time. Another part for me to play – and in a theatre! The lights went down, the curtain went up, the play began. I was in heaven. I never took my eyes from that stage. It was a marvelous, funny play, beautifully acted, and I made myself believe that because I was an usher, standing in the rear of the theatre, I was a part of it. No longer just a spectator – a participant. But even with my wild fantasizing I could never have dreamed that so many years later I would be acting in that same play – playing Leonora Corbett’s part, with Noel Coward himself in Clifton Webb’s part, and that Clifton would be my friend.

It was exciting to find myself in the theatre before and after the play. The mystery of it all was magnified even more. I watched the play carefully for half a week, fascinated by the actors’ ability to make the audience laugh at each performance. But, alas, I couldn’t stay on. The head usher told me I was to go for the rest of the week to the Imperial Theatre, to usher at Let’s Face It starring Danny Kaye. A great way to see plays. Cheap, too. Let’s Face It was a wonderful show – Danny Kaye had made an enormous hit and Eve Arden was in it with him. To be ushering at a musical really lifted me off the ground. I’d had no idea how different it would be; how the atmosphere, from the moment the doors opened and the audience started to arrive, was totally altered by whether it was a drama, comedy, or musical comedy. After the people were seated, the overture started. Music! Fidgety feet! It was all I could do to keep myself from dancing down the aisle. The Shuberts would have loved that – I don’t think! Danny Kaye was funny and marvelous. How I’d love to meet him. So what did I do? I went backstage after the show one night, knocked on his dressing-room door, and he opened it. He was washing his make-up off. I nervously told him I was a would-be actress who had been ushering in his theatre – how good I thought he was and would he give me his autograph, please? He asked a few polite questions about my non-existent career and gave me his autograph, for which I thanked him profusely and left. I felt safe going backstage because I knew this was not my permanent ushering assignment.

I still spent my days pounding the pavements, going from office to office, trying to get a foot in the door – any door. Still selling Actor’s Cue during lunch. I also collected weekly unemployment insurance, being eligible from my time in the garment center. Ushers were non-union then, and no one – not even the government – expected anyone to live on eight bucks a week. Standing in line in those dingy offices to collect money that is yours to begin with is a somewhat humiliating experience. I know that – but then I was damn glad to get it. When the money was taken from my weekly check I hadn’t missed it that much, and getting it back was like a gift.

I was sent to the Golden Theatre to usher for several performances of Angel Street . I loved it – Vincent Price and Judith Evelyn were so good and so mysterious. I followed my Danny Kaye pattern with Vincent Price, who was also removing his make-up when I went around. He was warm and gentle – ‘God, actors are nice people,’ I thought. I don’t know what they thought; nothing, more than likely. After what amounted to a two-week apprenticeship I was set for the St James Theatre, where the Boston Comic Opera Company, performing Gilbert and Sullivan, was to share a season with the Jooss Ballet. I had my own place in my own theatre, and I felt important and very possessive about it.

The Boston Comic Opera Company was great fun to watch. Opening night I was very excited and, as there was an opening night for each Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, I was excited a good deal of the time. I learned to recognize the critics. I’d lower my voice, saying, ‘Tickets, please.’ During the interval I’d stand in the lobby saying, ‘No smoking – please extinguish all cigarettes before entering the theatre – curtain going up,’ in my best American Academy voice. Hoping I’d be noticed, of course – discovered. The Jooss dancers were first-class. When I arrived at the theatre they would be doing their warm-ups in the rear aisle. I got to know a few of them well enough to strike up a mild conversation. They were all foreign and didn’t speak English too well. They danced The Green Table and that was my first exposure to the best of ballet. Hans Zullig was a principal dancer in it and very fine. That ballet, I was to learn later, was a classic and he was admired by balletomanes the world over. I had a tiny crush on him, ready to enlarge it at the slightest provocation (was constantly looking for someone – anyone – to have a crush on), so spoke with him whenever I could. He was very small and shy, very sweet. When he asked me if I’d have dinner with him on a Sunday night, of course I was thrilled. My mother told me to relax – again I was trying to make something out of nothing – looking for a romance – but I had to have something . He came down to the Village to pick me up – away from the theatre, in ordinary clothes, he looked smaller than ever. My mother could not believe him – but he was very nice, very soft-spoken. We went to a tiny bistro, talked of our lives – he missed his home, but loved to dance. He came to life then, much as we all do, I guess. The evening ended in friendly fashion, but no romance in my eyes or his. Another fantasy shot to hell.

My days continued to be filled with making the rounds. Broadway was alive with fantastic shows then, and stars – Gertrude Lawrence in Lady in the Dark , in which Danny Kaye had first been noticed – Paul Lukas in Watch on the Rhine – Dorothy McGuire in Claudia – Boris Karloff in Arsenic and Old Lace . I still stood outside Sardi’s at lunch trying to meet and talk to anyone who might help me. One day Paul Lukas emerged. I brazenly cornered him, of course, knowing what a marvelous actor he was. He asked me if I was an actress – I said yes – he asked me if I’d like to see his play – oh, yes, I would love it, I answered. So he asked me to come around backstage when I could, and he would get me a seat.

One day his play had a matinee and we didn’t. I rushed to the Martin Beck Theatre, backstage to Paul Lukas’ dressing room – he remembered me, got me a seat, and asked me to come round afterward. He was staying in between shows. Lillian Hellman’s Watch on the Rhine was another extraordinary experience – a beautiful, strong play, magnificently acted. The audience was in tears at the final curtain and the cheers for Paul Lukas were deafening. Again I was transported, and felt privileged to be allowed into his dressing room. He was friendly and easy – sat me down, asked me about myself, what I had done, what I wanted to do. He was my first important friend in the theatre; though I was still a baby, I went to him for counsel and he treated me seriously. I don’t know why he was so good to me, but he was. He allowed me to watch the play whenever I could – listened while I told him which latest producer I had tried to see, my frustrations, all of it. He was sympathetic and tremendously helpful, and of course I respected and admired him.