The Birth of Follies

The first rehearsal

Over the New Year’s weekend (1971), I got a phone call from production stage manager Fritz Holt. He asked whether I could show up at the studio at 10.00am on Sunday, 3 January. I didn’t think rehearsals were to begin for another week, but since I was just hanging around at home, I agreed.

The show was rehearsing at the American Theater Lab, which filled the entire second floor of a two-storey building on West Nineteenth Street, just off Seventh Avenue, above a tire shop. It had been created for Jerome Robbins, one of America’s most talented choreographers and directors, who wanted to experiment with a European-style workshop. The experiment didn’t work, but it left a workable space in which (director) Harold Prince liked to rehearse his shows.

The quarters were spare, but more than adequate: one large rehearsal room big enough to represent an entire Broadway stage; a second room half its size, large enough for dance rehearsals; and a third one even smaller, for music. Support facilities included a couple of offices in the front, changing rooms in the back, and a commons room with some slightly ratty sofas and chairs.

Few people were around when I arrived. As I came up the stairs I heard a piano and a number of feet thumping a steady rhythm. I reported to the first open door I came to – the production stage manager’s office, where Fritz Holt greeted me as “our production assistant”. First day, first defeat – or so I thought.

“Production assistant” is the theatre euphemism for “gofer,” and that’s not what this experience was supposed to be. Sure, I had done it twice before, and enjoyed it both times. But this was to be different; even though I had agreed to be a general assistant, this time I simply wanted to observe the process. That’s also how I had sold it to Connecticut College, which was giving me credit for observing a show being assembled. I hadn’t proposed an independent study of fetching coffee and sandwiches. The journal I agreed to keep would show an observer’s objective eye, not the musings of an errand boy, so when I heard myself referred to as the “production assistant,” my heart sank.

Foot in the door

But in short order I realised I was wrong. While I still had plenty of time to observe, being the gofer gave me a real position, albeit a minor one, within the company. It also, frankly, gave me things to do, and as the weeks went on I ended up with some pretty responsible tasks; including maintaining up-to-date scripts with all the constantly changing dialogue and lyrics.

Fritz introduced me to the two other stage managers: first assistant and dance captain George Martin – a lithe and tidy, well-groomed grey-haired dancer who seemed a model of efficiency and discretion; and second assistant John Grigas, an ex-dancer, somewhat older, stern faced, and with a caustic quip for every situation. Clearly not a man to cross. His first words to me were: “We want you to go out and get us some coffee.” So I pulled out my pad, took the orders, and out I went.

A musical as large as Follies needed its three stage managers. Fritz Holt, as production stage manager, was ultimately the boss of the stage and everything behind the curtain. It was his responsibility to schedule the overall rehearsal period and to coordinate all technical aspects of the production. He was also the liaison with the shops – costume, props, scenery – and with all the other support personnel who were contributing to the show. During the rehearsals, he would stay with Hal in the large room whenever possible, marking down the blocking and scene shifts in his master script. It would become the map by which the show would be run once in the theatre, and since he would be responsible for all understudy and brush-up rehearsals, his script needed to be up to date and accurate.

George Martin, as dance captain, would stay with Michael, and he would notate the dances, both as a reminder of what had happened in prior rehearsals and to create a choreographic map for the whole show. John Grigas was stationed in the office, and so became the conduit for company problems and concerns. He was also assigned the small acting role of a chauffeur. Once the show got assembled on stage, Fritz would call the show from the stage managers’ desk on stage right, George would man his desk on stage left, and John would float backstage and assist any performer who needed guidance or a helping hand.

Getting creative

Several voices sang, repeatedly: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the saddest gal in town”. The dancers were working with Michael Bennett and his long-time assistant Bob Avian. John Berkman, the dance-music arranger, was at the keyboard. Paul Gemignani, the show’s percussionist, was at the trap set. “Who’s That Woman?” was being created.

Harold Prince arrived at noon. The place seemed far too empty for Hal; he was anxious to get rehearsals going. He wandered around, trying to find things to do. Walking into the empty large rehearsal room, the one I had been told would be his, he said, “I just want to start! Give me some actors, please!” Outlines of the intricately tiered set had been taped out on the floor; it passed his inspection. By week’s end there would be movable platforms approximating the levels of the set, but for now the traditional masking tape would have to do.

Back in the stage manager’s office, he pulled out a transparency of the poster for the show and proudly taped it to the window, declaring it to be “the best poster I have ever had”. Colourful and striking, it had been created by David Byrd, a young artist whose distinctive style was first noticed in his psychedelic posters for the Fillmore East – sometimes called “nouveau art nouveau”. He had submitted a sketch, gratis, and Hal liked his idea best.

However, Byrd was asked to alter the standing figure to add “big tits – lotsa cleavage” and blond flowing hair. After begrudgingly attempting to make her more Dolly Parton-like, he came across a photo of Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express. It provided inspiration, out went the standing figure, and the new poster was completed in a couple of hours.

With only one dance number actually in rehearsal, Hal didn’t know what to do. He tried to get in touch with anyone he could find via phone. He called Stephen Sondheim: “I’m having a nervous breakdown. I’m down here with nothing to do and I’ve lost all enthusiasm for the show.”

The above has been extracted from Everything Was Possible, written by Ted Chapin with an introduction by Frank Rich. It’s published by Applause (priced £9.88).