William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Until Stop the Parade, Valerie had not been aware that Ridley Groendal even knew she existed. Even then, if not for a bewildering set of circumstances, she would not have known of Groendal’s malevolent machinations.

Night after night and matinee after matinee, Valerie kept her vigil in the wings in case she might be called on to take over for an indisposed star. Of course, her keenest desire was to appear on stage. Yet the rigors of free-lance modeling so exhausted her that she was almost grateful for the star’s seemingly cast-iron constitution.

Then, one night it happened. Pauline O’Kennedy came down with the flu. Diagnosed as the twenty-four-hour variety, still it was potent enough to take her out of the show for one night. It was Val’s big opportunity. She put everything she was capable of into that performance.

It is difficult to gauge one’s own endeavor, but she honestly thought she’d done well. The audience was generous in its applause. And the other performers were lavish with praise. She was so “up” she had a difficult time sleeping that night.

Next morning she could scarcely control her trembling hands as she paged through the New York Herald. The play had been reviewed weeks prior to this, just after opening. So there wasn’t much chance anyone would comment on it again, especially since there was little prior notice that an understudy would be appearing.

Her eyes widened when she found a single column item regarding the performance. She reread it several times before fully comprehending its viciousness.

The review centered solely on her performance, which it described as “amateurish, degrading to the other performers, who should not be forced to share a stage with someone who shows neither ability nor promise . . . One would hope,” it went on, “she finds her niche in life—perhaps modeling in Peoria. Seeking solace somewhere, it can be said that Valerie Cahill is a mere study—Deo gratias—and she will mercifully sink slowly in the West.”

There was more, most of it as bad or worse. Her eyes were so filled with tears that she had a difficult time making out the byline. Ridley C. Groendal.

At that time that meant nothing in particular. Only that he was the Broadway reviewer and this was her first Broadway performance, her golden opportunity, and she had failed. She had blown herself out of the water. Not for a moment did she think to question the review.

There would be no cattle call today. She could not possibly endure that degradation in addition to suffering through the end of her world.

She told Koesler of going as quickly as possible to the hotel where Pauline O’Kennedy was staying. Miss O’Kennedy was almost completely recovered from her brief bout with the flu. She was healthy enough, indeed, to be concerned about the distraught young woman who sat on her couch, alternating between sobbing and abjectly apologizing for ruining her play.

“Come on, now, you didn’t ruin any play.” Pauline patted Valerie’s shoulder, trying to console her.

“You weren’t there,” Valerie sobbed.

“Of course I wasn’t there. That’s why you were. But I’ve talked with the others. There wasn’t a dissenting voice: You were very good . . . great!”

“But the review . . .?” Val offered the column, clipped out and so heavily fingered it had almost reverted to pulp state.

Pauline pushed it back toward Val. “I’ve read it.”

“It’s so bad. So negative.”

“Just pay attention to the good ones, dear.” Pauline did not sound convincing.

“This is different. No one would take a chance on me after this.”

Pauline hesitated, as if weighing carefully what she would next say. “But it was written by Ridley Groendal.”

Clearly, Val did not comprehend what Pauline was trying to tell her. “But,” Val protested in an unbelieving tone, “but, he’s . . .”

“He’s your enemy.”

“My what?”

“Your enemy. I don’t know what you ever did to him, but it must have been a doozy. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the talk of the business, at least here in New York.” She broke off, at the sight of Val’s uncomprehending look. “You didn’t know?”

“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Groendal. For the past year and more he’s been making sure you’re blackballed up and down the street.”

“I don’t understand. I’ve never . . . well, I’ve never even met the guy.”

“Then I don’t understand it either. Nobody can recall anything quite like this. Oh, there’ve been feuds and vendettas. But nothing like this. He’s been busy with owners, producers, directors—even angels. I don’t know how you even got into our show. Tom was taking some chance letting you on—even as a study.”

“But, what could he do?”

Pauline rose, walked across the room, got a cigarette, lit it, coughed violently, and stubbed it out. “How many shows will it cost Tom?”

“What?”

“Groendal can and has shut down shows with just one review. He’s done it for lots less reason than this.”

“But, why . . .?”

“I haven’t a clue. You tell me.”

“No, why didn’t anyone tell me about this before . . . I mean, if so many people in the business know about it?”

Pauline returned and sat on the couch. “You remember McCarthy . . . Senator Joe McCarthy?”

“The Army hearings? The Communist witch-hunt? I read about it.”

“How many people stood up to Joe McCarthy? Damn few. For very good reason. At worst, you could go to jail. At best, you could become unemployable. Something to think about. Why didn’t anybody tell you, honey? Because they like putting on plays, that’s why. Because they like acting.”

Val was thoughtful. “So why did you tell me now?”

Pauline tried another cigarette, did not inhale so deeply, and managed to suppress the cough. “It was the right time, honey. Oh, I’m not that brave. It is the perfect time. You can go straighten it all out with Groendal. All you have to know is one fact that you could have learned from nearly anyone and you can go settle this once and for all.”

“One fact? If I know one fact? What fact? What are you talking about?”

“Ridley Groendal wasn’t there last night.”

“But he wrote—”

“He wrote off the top of his head. He wrote out of hatred for you. How the hell do I know why he did it? All I know is that he wasn’t there. He didn’t even see your performance!”

Pauline stubbed out the cigarette. “You could, of course, complain to the Herald that Groendal panned your performance without seeing it. But that’s like going to the dead-letter department without going through the post office. They’ll never call him on it. When it comes to the world of critics, he’s like God.

“Besides, if he condescended to respond to your complaint, he’d probably say he dropped in after intermission for the last act. Or that he had one of his bird dogs cover it. But, believe me, honey, it didn’t happen. He just wanted to kill your career.”

At this point in her story, Valerie stopped speaking and seemed to drift off in the memory of the event, immersed in the enormity of an act that cried to heaven for vengeance. Imagine panning a performance without having witnessed it, motivated by hatred alone.

At length, Koesler spoke. “So what did you do then?”

Val returned to the moment with a start. “Oh! Sorry . . .

“Well, I didn’t know how to deal with that. There was just no reason. I mean, I’d never even met the man. Why would he do a thing like that? It just wiped me out. Fortunately, I had a pretty good-sized nest egg put aside . . . from the modeling. So I didn’t need to work—for awhile at least. I came back to Detroit and stayed with my parents. I just wanted time to think and put my life back together.”