Mainly on Directing

gone and the stage light is diminishing. Still, she bows again. Only her spot is left now; the applause is dying out. Her spot is reduced to a dim glow. A work light comes on; the applause peters out, then ends—but not for Rose: she still hears it. She takes a slow, deep, regal bow to deathly silence—and at that moment the audience gets it: there never was any applause for Rose; it was all in her head.
When I explained this to Angie, she thought for a moment and then said: “If it doesn't work, I'll look as though I'm milking the bow.”
“It'll work, because you're good.”
She gave me a very Angie skeptical look and laughed. “Well, let's give it a try.”
We rehearsed with nobody around—no choreographer, no dance captain, just the two of us and the rehearsal pianist. She had a beautifully cut red dress for the number, but for the preceding scene in Gypsy's dressing room, she herself had bought a ratty gray cardigan in a musty store across the alley from the stage door to wear over the red dress. That sweater was what she used to propel her into the strip: she whipped it off, twirled it around, and flung it into the wings. Everything came easily and naturally to her, except the down-and-dirty vulgarity. That was as natural to Rose as being common, but not to Angie. She had to work hard to get that part of Rose. If Rose had been Cockney, it would have been a piece of cake: look at her Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd. But all of it was leading up to the unanswered question: would the audience know everything—every word, every note, every bump, every grind, every bow—was in her head? Would they get that she was bowing to applause that didn't exist, even though they themselves were applauding?
With the second bow, something odd crept into her eyes. You can read Angela Lansbury's eyes from the back of the balcony. They began to dart around. By the time all the ROSE lights were gone and she was taking the last bow in a dim spot, she had made the by-now-unsettled audience aware something was awry; just what, they weren't sure. And then, as she took that last deep bow, she smiled to no applause—to a dead silence. She was acknowledging what wasn't there. It was frightening, chilling; it brought an audible gasp from the audience. They got it.
For me as director, it was one of the most satisfying moments I have ever had. That audience went wild. Standing and applauding and cheering Angela Lansbury, yes, but it wasn't Angela Lansbury bowing to them, it was still Rose. And she never stopped being Rose. The last scene played as it never had before. Fourteen years, but oh, so worth it.
I don't fault Oscar Hammerstein: that was his truth he told. There are times, even in the theatre, when the truth can be an option. Telling it can be difficult for the director and harsh for the star. That telling depends on who is the director, who is the star, who is the producer, and who cares how much about the show and what is at stake.
During the fourth year of the run of La Cage aux Folles, when we were running out of replacements, Allan Carr, the main and original producer, came up with the name of Robert Stack. We had had bigger movie stars who were no longer movie stars—Van Johnson, for one. But Van Johnson had the musical in his bones— he had begun life as a chorus boy on Broadway. His performance was infinitely better than anyone, including Van himself, thought it would or could be. And he was a joy to have in the company. Robert Stack's principal qualification for Allan Carr was that he came from Pasadena. Pasadena makes me think of Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray planning to commit murder in Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity. Or Kim Stanley working as an apprentice in the Pasadena Playhouse. What it made Allan Carr think of was Buckingham Palace: Robert Stack was his Prince of Wales. His musical credential was that he had an aunt who had been an opera singer. Reasoning of that sort was not unusual from Allan when he was coked out of his head, which also was not unusual.
At the time, Robert Stack was more a star than the heavily advertised rap, pop, R&B, TV, MTV, and other DOA meteors who flashed in and out of endlessly long-running musicals— yesterday Grease, today Chicago (and Grease again), tomorrow Jersey Boys (wait!)—but he had neither stage experience nor presence. I didn't want him; both authors and all the producers did. Allan really wanted him, and like Lola, whatever Allan wanted, Allan got.
Fritz Holt—one of the producers but also the best production stage manager on Broadway—directed Stack until he was ready to go through the first act. I was called to see what Pasadena had sent to New York. Neither Allan Carr nor any of the other producers nor either of the authors showed up to cheer for their candidate. Guilt? Fear? Not confidence, not possibly. Only two people were in the auditorium of the Palace Theatre that afternoon: Marvin Krauss, the general manager who had become a producer (ipso facto a Stack advocate) and I. Fritz was fussing backstage like Rose.
To rehearse the role of a piss-elegant middle-aged queen who was the emcee/owner of a transvestite night club on the French Riviera, Stack had chosen to wear jeans, sneakers, and a monogrammed polo shirt. The outfit was dead right for the way he played the part. When the act was over and Stack was finished, Marvin, who had been shaking with silent laughter much of the time, looked over at me and whispered: “I'm sorry.”
Not sorry enough; for he got up and, before he headed up the aisle to freedom from responsibility, muttered, “See if you can get him to quit.” If an actor