Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

I had asked him not to tell me when they were coming to rehearsal, and to please try to keep them away until I felt surer of the part. I was nervous enough without them there, and they knew it. The day they finally did come, they slipped in unobtrusively – I saw them out of the corner of my eye and stayed away from them until we’d run through the entire first act.

It was a big test for me, rising above a lifetime of self-consciousness, of nerves, working in front of Betty and Adolph in the new medium of the musical in a brightly lit rehearsal room. I simply had to work overtime at burying my qualms. They were adorable – complimentary, understanding, simpatico. The first hurdle had been jumped with a few feet to spare.

Every day I seemed to arrive earlier and stay later than anyone but Ron. I was in all but two scenes in the show, and when those two scenes were being rehearsed, I was working on my singing or dancing, or having wardrobe fittings – always something, no time for sitting and staring into space. Yet it was exhilarating. When I plunge I do plunge; halfway is not my way. Unconditional commitment.

With each passing day I became more submerged in the character of Margo Channing. Some of her frailties had always been mine, some became mine. It isn’t that you truly turn into the character you’re playing, it’s that more hours of the day and night are devoted to work than to anything else. As rehearsals progress, your involvement becomes more and more absolute – the rest of your life gets crowded out. There’s no way to forget your children, but you can come dangerously close. Friends in the business understand. Social life disappears and is not missed. All you want to think about, really, is the play, and the only people you want to see are the other players.

I had told Ron I’d torn a cartilege in my knee several years before. In the disco number, he’d originally staged the finale with the lightest gypsy, Sammy Williams, jumping into my arms. I didn’t think more could happen to the damn knee, but I didn’t want to push it. Ron wanted me to dance – to do a real number. I was all for that. We tried the lift a few times on top of a jukebox, but what with the jukebox rolling a bit, wires onstage, and other hazards, it was finally eliminated. Ron had scheduled a gypsy run-through the Sunday before we left for Baltimore. I’d never known what a gypsy run-through actually was. I found out. You run through the show – no costumes or sets or orchestra, only a piano – in a theatre filled with the casts and gypsies from other shows running on Broadway. It would give us our first exposure to audience reaction, and them a chance to see a new show in the raw. The prospect terrified me.

The date was January 18, the place the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre. I was dressed in slacks and turtleneck sweater. The theatre started to fill up. There was no curtain. The actors were shaking in the wings, the gypsies warming up way upstage in corners, using pipes as barres. I’d taken a voice lesson with Keith and done my warm-up with Tommy.

Finally it was time. Ron, as is customary, walked downstage to explain the set, time, and place. The show was supposed to open with television screens on either side of the proscenium. Peter Ustinov was our guest host for the Tony Awards – we’d filmed that bit in advance, my welcome by him, my presentation of the award to Eve. A new idea that we hoped would work. As I heard him say ‘Margo Channing,’ I made my first entrance. The applause was tumultuous – you’d have to travel far to find an audience equal in enthusiasm to gypsies and fellow actors. The theatre was packed, the audience insanely receptive. And I was doing something I’d always dreamed of doing – actually being musical in a musical comedy heading for Broadway. Professional dreams being realized after so many, many years. It was utterly thrilling. We all felt sure we had a hit. There really is nothing to equal in excitement a run-through like that. With no sets or costumes, the audience must use its imagination. They’re privy to a new birth, the first unveiling of a creation. What a feeling to be part of it! At the last curtain call the stage became flooded with every musical director, producer, writer I’d known – and actors, all bursting with enthusiasm. I could have flown.

I left for Baltimore a day ahead of the company for my first orchestra rehearsal. That’s another high. Even with all the early imperfections of the arrangements and musicians, hearing the score with an orchestra for the first time is something special. Our conductor, Don Pippin, was wonderfully helpful to me – one of the most important factors in a musical. The conductor, after all, is a leader and his ability to help or hinder is not to be measured. Don, luckily for me, was a helper.

The company arrived, the cast filtered in. We’d not seen one another for a couple of days – in the incestuous birthing of a show, that’s a long time. I didn’t want to miss any of it, I wanted to be part of it all, everyone’s beginning.

For the next eight weeks, fourteen to sixteen hours a day, we were all – led by Ron – as close as parents and children, as lovers; we were dependent on one another emotionally, creatively – finding our way through the maze of changes, learning more about one another. Musicals, I was to learn later, are notorious for love affairs out of town. Everyone goes crazy, particularly the gypsies. Eight or nine weeks together – people start looking for partners. Not me. My head was into work only, into making it better. I was expending so much energy and emotion, I had none to spare. After rehearsals we’d walk back to the hotel, have a drink in the hotel bar, then hit the sack. Our first night in Baltimore, Len and I were heading toward the marquee on our way to a nightcap when we looked up and saw his name misspelled: ‘Ben Cariou.’ He was Ben to me from then on.

We previewed on Monday. First time in all the clothes. We’d staggered through a dress rehearsal, but it wasn’t quite the same ballgame. Elizabeth White, my great dresser, and Jerry Masarone, in charge of my crowning glory, helped to calm me. I got through it, but so scared I was no judge of how it went. The house was full and the audience responsive. Just before you open, you always think it’s a hit, whether it is or not. When you’re that involved, how would you know? The next night we opened. The Baltimore papers were on strike, and we weren’t sure which Washington critics would turn up. Our notices were not overly favorable, but the audiences loved us and business was splendid. We knew we had work ahead, and I was keyed up and ready for it.

Through all this time I kept myself aloof from Len. He was attractive and bright, a wonderful actor, a joy to work with. He seemed to be his own man, self-confident. We had fun and worked wonderfully well together. A natural situation in a somewhat unnatural circumstance. I had no intention – not the slightest – of any involvement. But given the parts we played, it was inevitable. Oh, it’s difficult – you’re together without a let-up – and we did get our parts and ourselves all mixed up. I knew we had a year ahead of seeing each other six days a week – an involvement could only lead to disaster, certainly for me. I couldn’t let anything happen. Besides, he had another life, settled and happy. I wanted us to be friends. I wanted not a day to pass when we wouldn’t be pleased to see each other. I wanted no strain. And I was unrealistic. I held him at arm’s length for a while. But only for a while.

After the opening, the changes started. There was a feeling of depression after the notices, but we had eight weeks ahead of us, time enough to make the show what we all knew it could be. Every day we rehearsed, every night we played. Before the Saturday matinee Ron came into my dressing room. I’d heard rumors that Diane Macafee was going to be replaced. I asked him about it and he said, yes, he felt it had to be. I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s that out-of-town panic? The minute something isn’t quite right, an actor is fired.’ I was very troubled at the prospect. Ron said, ‘Do you like Diane?’ I said, ‘Yes, I do.’ He said, ‘But you shouldn’t – that’s the problem. She should present a threat to you. That’s why the show isn’t working the way it should. She doesn’t come across as all those things Eve Harrington must be.’ I said, ‘It seems so unfair.’ ‘Maybe it is. It’s my mistake, but until I saw her in the show I couldn’t be sure. Just trust me.’ I had no choice – I’d believed him up until then, and I did trust him. But it didn’t lessen the hurt I felt for her.