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unpopularwiththepopulace · 2 years

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This is a link to the first of a four part piece published on https://www.onstageblog.com/ between the 28-30th October 2021 documenting the evidence as to why the producer Garth Drabinsky is an abusive tyrant and should not be allowed to return to Broadway.

The start of the article opens as follows:

The ‘Tyrannical and Abusive’ Garth Drabinsky, and His Attempted Return to Broadway with 'Paradise Square'

Who is Garth Drabinsky, what is Paradise Square, and why should anyone care?

The latter is being heralded as the first new musical to reopen Broadway. It has been described as “one of the most anticipated stage musicals to make it to Broadway since the pandemic began”, and as “set to rival Hamilton’s Broadway success”. It is hurtling along to open in Chicago in a matter of days on November 2nd, before shifting onto Broadway early next year in February.

The former is the attached producer of this show – a convicted felon from Canada, a lauded ex-producing mogul, and a creator of hostile working environments. He, correspondingly, has been described as a “seductive and relentless psychopath”, or as actress Rebecca Caine put it, “Scott Rudin but maple syrup flavoured”. A criminal lawsuit in 1998 characterized that “Drabinsky’s management style was tyrannical and abusive”. It is furthermore well-established that he has historically created and maintained producing environments where he, as reported by The Globe and Mail, “intimidated staff through profanity, abuse, and derision, either directly or by direction of other senior employees who adopted the same approach”.

In short – Garth Drabinsky’s return is a threat, and a direct contradiction to the progressive forward motion to be found currently as some of the world’s most notable theatrical environments emerge from unprecedented periods of dormancy. Cries like “#bringbackbetter” are elsewhere typifying the dominant mentality being striven for in hoping to create safer and more diverse workplaces for returning inhabitants. And, even further, tangible actions and consequences are in fact materializing in response to other publicly raised inequities.

Actors are leaving rather than returning to shows in outrage at current theatrical climates, like with Karen Olivo. Investigations via Actors’ Equity are being triggered into working conditions, like with Nora Schell and Jagged Little Pill. Corrupt or abusive white men who have conventionally yielded power in destructive ways are being removed from their positions of leadership, like with Ethan McSweeney or Scott Rudin.

Drabinsky’s imminent re-emergence on Broadway thus places him at the center of a culture in which he no longer belongs, and positions him as a direct danger to the safety of his employees if this is allowed to happen.

So far nowhere else has it been fully explored why.

The article has a concluding summary that states:

Garth Drabinsky is a historically convicted felon.

Garth Drabinsky is a historically known tyrant who creates unsafe working environments.

Garth Drabinsky has demonstrated A) a lack of evidence of remorse for his indiscretions, B) modern malpractices of finance, and C) sustained proof of the same historic tyrannical, angered, and fear-inducing approaches to work.

Paradise Square is heralded as new, but is in fact deceptively old and weighed down by a long entwinement around Drabinsky’s own sordid past, as well as racially antiquated founding material, and years of convoluted gestation through its discordant creative team.

Paradise Square is heralded as exciting with much potential for making a large cultural impact in tackling big issues, but there is lacking confidence based on Drabinsky’s previous associated works, or early versions of this work, that it will have the tools or competence needed to produce a nuanced examination of these topics.

The current theatrical climate in search of genuine progression, equity, and safety is outwardly incompatible with Drabinsky’s practices and behaviors, or with these inauthentic, improperly considered, or “showboating” manners of storytelling.

The aim of bringing public discourse to such topics is not to enact vengeance for failures of the past. The aim is to raise awareness and create spaces for discourse so as to possibly prevent them from happening again in the future.

Some of the other main points as raised in the article are reprinted below:

[After a run of successes in the ‘90s like Kiss of the Spiderwoman, Parade, and Ragtime,] Drabinsky’s reign as the King of Broadway was finite and his fall from grace inevitable. His company filed for bankruptcy in 1998 when his longstanding spiderweb of defenses broke, leading to revelations that he had stolen an estimated $500 million from investors. He was subsequently convicted of several counts of fraud and forgery and was sentenced to seven years in prison in 2009 for his corrupt, “multi-faceted and pervasive” schemes.

After his release, Drabinsky was also disbarred from practicing law, stripped of his order of Canada, and banned from working in a number of Canadian positions, like running any publicly trading companies.

The man has not produced or been linked to a show on Broadway since 1999.

Paradise Square is not a newly birthed entity, rising brightly out of the troubled waters of pandemia. Instead, it’s the 9-year-old puppet being dragged along in its master’s destructive never-ending quest for a comeback. And moreover, one that was plotted long before anticipation of being able to conveniently attach its storylines of black lives to the topical media bingo headlines of ‘BlackLivesMatter’, or being “particularly resonant now”, or “filled with the hot-button topics”.

Paradise Square first appeared in tangible form Off-Broadway in 2012 under the guise of a show called ‘Hard Times’. By 2015, Drabinsky had acquired its rights after discussions with one of the show’s original book writers, Larry Kirwan.

There’s a deep absurdity to be found in examining some of these timings. Kirwan was invited up to Toronto to meet Drabinsky by a friend “[who’d seen] the show in New York” after 2012. This was no great feat of hospitality, mind. Rather it was a matter of necessity: at this point in time, Drabinsky was not even legally allowed to physically enter America. He was still then a fugitive, hiding in Canada, “under indictment in the United States for fraud”. “If he sets one foot over the borderline, he’ll be clapped in irons,” the New York Post said in 2016.

This status of impending possible further conviction continued until the summer of 2018 when the last remaining criminal charges against him in America were finally dropped – a long two decades after they’d initially begun. This means that for around five years of his association with and work on Paradise Square, Mr. Drabinsky was literally still on the cusp of potentially being sent back to prison for his outstanding crimes.

(On actress Rebecca Caine’s treatment in the Canadian production of The Phantom of the Opera:)

During her time as the show’s principal female lead between 1989-1992, Caine experienced the use of prolonged, excessive, “brutish conduct” and violence on stage from her co-star Colm Wilkinson. This happened in tandem with the management and Mr. Drabinsky’s callous indifference to these matters that enabled the perpetuation of hostile working environments.

Caine spoke up about these harmful and negligent conditions, and the environment of fear she was forced to work in day after day at the time. The result? Drabinsky’s Livent terminated her contract and refused to pay the remaining portion of her salary.

There’s no shortage of supporting evidence for these details, due to the 150-page arbitration report that was generated in consequence of Caine being required to take on Drabinsky’s multi-million-dollar company. This saga formed a highly contentious and drawn-out legal battle in 1992, that was described for its severity and intensity by Canadian Actor’s Equity as strongly “not traditional”.

For all [the] significant damage Caine’s treatment caused her, the arbitrators ultimately found she had essentially done nothing to deserve it. They ruled that “Ms. Caine cannot be held accountable for Mr. Wilkinson’s brutish conduct towards her”, and that the circumstances of Wilkinson’s “excessive roughness…which was abusive in nature…did not justify the premature termination of Ms. Caine’s…contract”. As those involved from positions of managerial power were “either unable or unwilling to deal effectively with Mr. Wilkinson's roughness”, it is clear that the management team, Livent, and Mr. Drabinsky failed Rebecca and grossly endangered her safety.

Caine related that she raised concerns with members of Drabinsky’s management team “repeatedly about Wilkinson’s stage roughness”. Nothing was done. Meanwhile, Drabinsky himself in his status as a veritable “control freak” knew exactly what was going on. “[He] was aware of her grievances, and was meant to air them with Wilkinson.” He did not. Again, nothing was done. What DID he do instead then? He called Rebecca a “c*nt” via her agent, and “told her to get back on stage”.

Unfavorable working environments have also been described in relation to Paradise Square in the present, putting actors again in unsafe or adverse conditions. One example that documents this is an interview on Irish radio station Ceol na nGael in June of 2021 that described how the choreographer “Bill T. Jones is a monster” with “what he was getting the people to do and pushing them”.

[These] patterns of behaviors demonstrated by individuals employed by Drabinsky are concordant with patterns as revealed by Barry Avrich in his 2016 book “Moguls, Monsters and Madmen: An Uncensored Life in Show Business” – and also link to the initial indication of self-perpetuating cycles and cultures of abusive behavior.

Through his multiple decades of first-hand experience of working with and for Mr. Drabinsky, Avrich here uses his unique position to document some of the practices he observed, including experiences of being “forced to deal with Garth’s people”. These employees he describes as “all…suffering from Stockholm Syndrome” as the consequence of being made to regularly endure the behavior of their tyrannical master as a “control freak with a savage temper”. Avrich would say, “Having been beaten and pissed on by Garth, they were eager to beat and piss on everyone else beneath them”.

Garth was known abjectly to not treat his employees well. For instance, in frequent, long, and arduous meetings, “if someone made a mistake, or failed to answer a question, Garth took that person down ruthlessly, not just for that one error, but for every stumble and misdeed in his victim’s employment history”.

Amongst others who faced Drabinsky’s treatment as a “certified bastard and betrayer”, Avrich would affirm “some people left Garth’s employ damaged for life”.

Jon Wilner was one of many who could testify to this. And he did. Once Drabinsky’s respected advertising man, Wilner would report that when Livent went bust, his company was forced to declare bankruptcy too. “My career was cut in half... I had to fire 35 people and shut down a business I worked at for 28 years,” Wilner would say. “And all because of his maniacal ego.”

“There is not a day in my life that I don’t resent what Garth did to me”, he conveyed in 2008.

[Michael] Riedel dedicates considerable space in his 2020 book, ‘Singular Sensation’, to further accounts of Drabinsky’s abusive, violent and alarming behaviors over prolonged periods of time. These involve personal accounts like Drabinsky “pounding [Riedel’s] desk recorder so hard that [his] tape recorder fell off it” during an interview. Or alternatively, via retrospectively collected reports from those who worked with or under him. This included his “bullying” of his accounting department and putting them, “for several years, under intense pressure” while forcedly concocting his fraudulent books.

Drabinsky was one of Livent’s top three executives, and it was these “top executives [who] relied on coercion and intimidation to browbeat their accountants”. If Drabinsky didn’t like something during meetings, he would yell enraged expletives like “This is shit!”, and often target someone, usually a low-level employee, for humiliation. One specific example details how a “[young, female] underling in the marketing department…broke down in tears” when he “lit into” her just “because she didn’t have the answer to one of his questions”.

Evidence of this “brutish working environment at Livent” is further substantiated elsewhere, as in testimony via the company’s then-executive vice president, Robert Webster, in 1999 from an affidavit produced as part of Livent’s lawsuit. Webster details a culture where “bullying and abuse were standard fare”, which “included executives who screamed and swore at staff and employees who were reduced to tears”. He even more damningly reports how this “mistreatment started with the company’s founder” in saying “I had never before experienced anyone with Drabinsky’s abusive and profane management style”.

“Those who did not adhere to these demands were admonished”, Webster said. This left some employees who “felt nauseated by the tension”, some who were “shaking like a leaf” after giving Drabinsky memos, some who were told consistently their “work was of no use to him”, or even one who Drabinsky threatened he “would have to take action” against if his work was deemed lacking or – florally in Drabinsky’s words – if he “wanted to sit in a corner and jerk off instead of servicing [Drabinsky’s] needs”.

Drabinsky would also yell at and harass individuals who were meant to be his equals on creative or authority-based footings. Nancy Coyne, an advertising industry pioneer whom he was approaching to work on Kiss Of The Spiderwoman, recounted how from their very first meeting “he started to yell at and humiliate me”. Lynn Ahrens, as one of the composers of Ragtime, would recall events of him “shouting” at her with belligerent orders like “You will do what I tell you!”. And this was after he had already threatened her: “If you don’t do an amazing job, I’m going to fire you”.

He did indeed cause additional terminations of employment as well as just threatening with them. Before Webster, a previous executive vice president at Livent was Lynda Friendly. She “complained about the theatre impresario’s abusive and destructive behavior” towards her. Drabinsky fired her. Like Rebecca Caine, this presents another case of intense escalations including contract dismissal in the face of reported abuse. Friendly documents taking the matter to the Superior Court in 1997 where she gave evidence of Drabinsky “swearing at her in front of senior staff”. Some of the things Drabinsky yelled included tirades like, “Who the f--- do you think you are to tell me how to address you in my office? I'll do what I want. I run this company”.

But even beyond verbal abuse, Drabinsky wasn’t above physical violence either. Michael Riedel conveyed when one employee made an error regarding a hotel room, “he was so annoyed with his assistant he turned around and slapped him in the face”.

It must be remembered that he pleaded “not guilty” to his original crimes. He couldn’t even then admit to responsibility for his own culpability in breaking the law, instead declaring, “I have complete confidence that we will be vindicated” instead of being sent to jail.

Following his release from prison on parole years later, he gave an in-person talk in Canada in 2013 where he said, “I made serious omissions, mistakes and failings,” and “I am genuinely remorseful for the devastation” caused.

And yet. In his book, Barry Avrich would describe how he’d visited Drabinsky in jail and subsequently would question, “Did he have any remorse or would he express any culpability for what he had done? None that I could see. It was classic Garth. His defense mechanisms were in full operation—poor me, trapped in this bad situation that isn’t my fault”.

Or alternatively, Michael Riedel reported in 2015 after his release that “sources who keep tabs on Drabinsky say he’s unbowed and unashamed”. “He has no guilt,” Riedel recorded an “old confederate” saying, and that still, “he thinks he didn’t do anything wrong, and if the world thinks he did, well, he’s done his time, and now he wants to get back to producing Broadway shows.”

At Drabinsky’s 2013 talk, his behavior also appears concordant with Avrich’s previous characterization of him as being emotionally manipulative and historically wont to covet sympathy. He described the horrors of his time in prison, as with the “murderers, pedophiles, drug dealers, addicts” and how his “life has been shattered”. But he neglects to mention that much of his sentence was in fact spent at the minimum security and quaintly named Beaver Creek establishment in Ontario – “not far from the summer camps he had attended as a boy”. Or alternatively, that he was mostly free on day parole and out of prisons entirely in halfway houses; or that “during weekends, he [spent] time with family at their home and at a cottage”.

In 2017, “he lashed out at Jonathan Tunick, the orchestrator” he’d chosen for his show Sousatzka, when he “wheeled on him during a rehearsal and screamed” or “bellowed” at “full-tilt” – “Why am I paying you all this money?”. Graciela Daniele as Sousatzka’s choreographer would bring up his “fiery temper” as well in 2016, and list amongst some redeeming qualities, that “he has his explosions” still.

Additionally, Drabinsky frequently exhibits an evasiveness and unwillingness to talk about his behaviors regarding financial matters with any clarity.

He cuts any discussion concerning money off with phrases like “I’m just not going to answer any of these questions, or “it’s not relevant”, as exemplified in his TV interview on The Agenda with Steve Paikin in 2016 in relation to Sousatzka.

Is it really not relevant to ask where the money is coming from for a project being helmed by a man who bankrupted a company, stole $500 million, additionally took $4.6 million’s worth in personal kickbacks, and hasn’t really worked since the turn of the century?

As he emerged from jail, it was documented in 2014 that Drabinsky had “received $7 million in outstanding loans from prominent friends “over several years to help cover his legal fees”.

One lawyer, who was owed “more than $61,000 for legal work” done in 2014, started an investigation into Drabinsky’s finances, in escalation of already fruitlessly “pursuing Drabinsky for payment for years”. Only in 2020 were the findings of these inquiries eventually concluded, whereupon it becomes apparent Drabinsky is still trying to exempt himself from standard, legal financial responsibilities. Rather than paying back those he owed, Drabinsky attempted moves like trying to eliminate evidence of a $2.63 million house of his, in transferring its ownership to his wife to put the “property out of reach of his creditors”. However, “the judge declared the ownership transfer void” given that “Mr. Drabinsky offers no other explanation that makes sense”, and the transaction “bore many badges of fraud”.

Illuminating how Drabinsky is still “deeply indebted” and concurrently intertwined with fraudulent practices is just one of the ways of observing how Drabinsky’s ‘changed ways’ and ‘remorseful behaviors’ appear hollow and highly questionable. What alternatively does not appear questionable, is Drabinsky’s clear angling for money and a return to notoriety and Broadway with as much control and power as he can conceivably acquire.

[As with Drabinsky’s previous attempted comeback project of ‘Sousatzka’ in 2016,] Drabinsky is in this same position of having total creative control again on Paradise Square. This does not bode well in theory, nor has it been received well so far in practice. This can be observed in considering elements of reviews from the 2019 staging of the show at Berkeley – “the costliest musical that the nonprofit Berkeley Repertory Theater has ever mounted” to the value of $5.7M – which occurred as the most recent precursor form of the musical before it will be seen imminently in Chicago.

The show was assessed here to be lacking in many key areas – including again both technically, and in its consideration of race. Tellingly, it was said the show “felt more committed to intellectual showboating than satisfying storytelling”. The results of reinterpreting Stephen Foster’s already problematic songs were not viewed as the most successful or even that well-done, instead, seeming like they were tacked on “like a barnacle…lingering from a long-gone Foster-centric” early iteration of the show.

(Stephen Foster was known for Depression-era hits, offensive ‘Minstrel Shows’, and now-perceptibly racist material.)

“The music has no particular fealty to the period”, it was written. Moreover, some of Foster’s songs have been awkwardly reimagined” – like with one now being loftily burdened as “an anthemic fight song”. For another, it was also remarked the creative team achieved “the extraordinary feats of making songs like “Oh, Susanna” less catchy”. Though this may not necessarily be a bad thing here upon closer examination. This is the song, after all, that Foster originally wrote for a “thick dialect [of his] own invention, [with a] second verse, which is never sung today, [that] contains the unforgettable line:

I jump’d aboard the Telegraph and trabbeled down de ribber

De lectrie fluid magnified and kill’d five hundred N***er.”

The piece might have bold storylines lines, such as “a labor strike sowing divisions between Irish and blacks; a deadly draft riot; a pregnancy; a debate over whether Stephen Foster has the right to tell slaves’ and blacks’ stories”. However. “Each of these storylines more declares itself than emerges organically”, and the “characters and situations still feel like cogs in a wheel not sure of its destination”.

In essence, it feels forced and confused. There were conclusions of it being “in need of more soul and fewer concepts”. The piece’s “heartbeat is often difficult to hear through the buzzy crosshatched brainwaves of a creative team that shows signs of internal discord”, resulting in it feeling “less like a genuine collaboration than an oft-passed baton, covered with everyone’s…fingerprints”. Thus it appears not a bold, new progressive endeavor founded on artistic integrity, but rather a belabored, arduous attempt trying to salvage matter out of already racially precarious or antiquated foundations, while its leader with his interests “undoubtedly invested heavily” tangentially chases his comeback.

On paper, the show has two black dramaturgs as well as “Black and Latinx” writers, yes. But it also has Drabinsky, a “monster”, an “assassin”, and a whole host of white creatives. Where does one draw the line on paper to decide if the balance is sufficiently weighed in favor of the optics of progressiveness, equity, and diversity?

Drabinsky is not new to being linked to “musicals that deal with racism in American history”. After all, he does have successful entities like Parade and Ragtime as well as a revival of Show Boat to his name.

But Drabinsky is not the culturally and racially sensitive poster child he would like to have the world believe from linkage to the above shows. One glaring warning concerns that for the opening line of his 2013 talk to herald his release, he had the audacity to appropriate his time in prison as being comparable to the Holocaust, in “[quoting] from Holocaust survivor Elie Weisel on how the duty of those who have survived a great test is to tell the story”.

Another warning example concerns Norm Lewis when he declined Drabinsky’s ardent pursuits for him to feature in the national tour of Ragtime – as Eddie Shapiro recounted in his 2021 book “A Wonderful Guy”. Drabinsky then raged, “Who the f*ck does Norm Lewis think he is? Doesn’t he know that I'm the most significant producer on Broadway?... Doesn’t he know what I've done for blacks?”.

Thus there is a warning before current readers get beguiled by ambitious lines in new articles on Paradise Square promising notions of great success, advocacy, and diversity. It must first be considered more carefully as to Drabinsky’s own fundamentally exposing beliefs, words, and actions, and the way in which these same elements have been handled in his two (and only) previous creative attempts in the last two decades.

It should be finally highlighted that opportunities on Broadway are finite and second chances for those exhibiting or having previously exhibited evil or intensely problematic behaviors are not mandatory. There are, in fact, other options.

A New York Times piece last summer by Michael Paulson entitled “Black Plays Are Knocking on Broadway’s Door. Will It Open?” features musings from many notable voices following Paulson’s opening declarative of “Calls for diversity grow louder”. Among them is playwright Jocelyn Bioh. “I don’t know how to solve the diversity issue on Broadway,” Bioh said, “other than calling attention to it, and cultivating a generation of producers who are not afraid.”

This seems reasonable. Perhaps her requirement could be modified slightly: there should be a generation of producers who are neither afraid, but nor do they inspire fear.

Garth Drabinsky does not fit that bill.

If THIS is the man – a known abusive tyrant, volatile felon, and remorseless manipulator who is still demonstrating dangerously unscrupulous financial, behavioral and creative practices – who is Broadway’s literal first choice to reopen the very first new work in the world’s most prominent theatre scene, we are in trouble.

#Garth Drabinsky #broadway #producer #theatre #musicaltheater #hamilton #broadway musicals #rebecca caine #the phantom of the opera #christine daae #broadway show #broadway musical #hamilton broadway #theater #paradise square #chicago

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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From Carousel at Regent’s Park to the rest of The Great White Way

What IS worth the use of wond’rin’ about as theatre returns in 2021 and beyond?

Seeing the new production of Carousel at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre in London this summer has prompted me to ask some challenging questions, both of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s much beloved Golden Age classic itself, and also more widely as to the surrounding theatrical climate as theatre returns in 2021 after this protracted period of absence.

What shows are we staging, and why? How do we go about staging these shows or revivals? And who is responsible for staging them? – to list a few.

Some theatregoers are praising the joyous return to the escapism of classic musicals after such a long period of hardship. And some are banging on doors demanding change and betterment. Considering this production of Carousel and how much alteration has been done to a classic musical in this modern age speaks more broadly to the degree of revision accepted as being required as productions begin to return. Closer and more detailed examination of this new production might well raise more questions than there are answers for. But they are questions and aspects that are potentially worthy, or necessary, of examining nonetheless.

Ultimately, the inescapable verdict with this starting example is that a Golden Age musical centring on domestic abuse is unavoidably on very precarious ground in this modern climate, 75 years after it was written. And that’s even before you consider trying to stage it as one of the first shows emerging from a pandemic that has foregrounded a rise in domestic abuse and violence against women during its last two years.

Clearly it would be foolish to expect current audiences to tolerate being made to unironically swallow infamous lines, like “He hit me, mother, he hit me hard, but it didn't hurt – it felt like a kiss”. Not least while they’re all sat with programmes on their laps that brazenly open with a two-page spread addressing the “epidemic within the pandemic” on domestic violence abuse crimes.

So, much retooling has been done to the exposed story of a problematic and abusive relationship in attempts at countering some of these issues – as one of the many revisions that has occurred in trying to ‘update’ this production for more modern audiences.

The show’s handling of Billy Bigelow’s character as it’s abusive male protagonist renders him no longer completely repulsive for his actions or attitudes. He is denied upwards ascendency to some heavenly realm at the beginning or the chance to return and perpetuate the same violence with his daughter and the end. Moreover, it is female not male voices that now reckon with his judgement in purgatory, and the infamous and problematic lines regarding Julie and Louise’s exchange on domestic violence are quietly eliminated. As such, Billy is not allowed redemption in spite of his sins, and the women glean a more fortified and less meek presence.

But the show potentially takes out more than it adds in these changes, and loses some dimension. It seems it is aware of itself as being a show about domestic abuse, but it doesn’t really seem to have anything other to say about it than: “it exists”. Billy is also denied any chance of reflection to either open or close the show, which means he doesn’t get the chance to exhibit any trace of genuine familial care and concern for the fate of his wife and child. This is a change that noticeably causes the show to lose some of its impact, as he thus appears entirely unlikeable and there’s no longer any reason to care for him in the first place.

The new alterations are wise. But they're not faultless.

Other changes have been made to ‘modernise’ the show and make it feel at home in the 21st century – especially to the sound, orchestrations and appearance of the production – which also foregrounds the notion of examining how one constructs a revival.

Tom Deering as the show’s orchestrator illustrated in a podcast some of the primary rationality and justifications for these logistical alterations, like that they “were being driven by dramatic choices and the philosophical change in location and time”.

This referred-to “change” concerns the setting of the production being moved from 1873–1888 in sunny and American New-England, to approximately the 1960s or 70s in a “coastal town in the north of England”. This lends the intention of a more gritty, industrial, and “post-war communal feel” to the show and has a substantial impact.

For one, the piece has been fairly radically reorchestrated. Gone are familiar elements like lush string sections, as an example. In their place attempting to provide corresponding tones are foreign and strange instruments like glass harmonicas and electric guitars. Changes like these are novel and commendable for not simply resorting to synthetic sampling, and credibly reasoned in relation to Deering’s motivations for wanting to “try to imagine a musical palette that felt suitable for this radically reimagined production”. Even so. That doesn’t stop them from feeling audibly jarring at times, at least at a first listen. Unless one is already familiar with matters like versions of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ with opening strains played on electric guitar, that is.

The justification of the altered setting also drives the change in vocal sound and style. Primarily, many of the keys have been dropped. It is possible to understand the reasoning that soaring, pristine, received-pronunciation vibrato does not apt characterisation for a lower working-class Northerner make. This along with rationality from Deering that the piece was written 75 years ago, indicating that the “relationship between singing voice and speaking voice has changed during that time – as have ladies’ voices dropped significantly”, explains the motivation for lowering female vocal keys. Deering also states the point that large contrasts between spoken dialect and sung portions are less accessible to audience members; and as such, reducing the difference in these transitions reduces the “distance between the audience, particularly a younger audience, and the story itself” in order make transitions “easier” and more “accessible”.

This speaks more broadly to the current trends in modern musical theatre writing, concerning the disappearance of the pure soprano sound, vocal homogenisation, and a reliance on straight tones and belting. Some may wish this wasn’t the case, and counter that line of reasoning in thinking that in fact an audience is still capable of appreciating that a piece can be accepted and can carry authentic emotional sentiment even if it appears a notable contrast in register from spoken sections. The manners of these changes in such a revival as this may engender an unfortunate sense of disappointment, at it is predominantly in these classic Golden Age scores that the dwindling upper octaves of an authentic soprano sound still get the rare chance to be heard nowadays.

In a similar vein as above, arguably if perfect polished RP creates a level of unreal artifice, so too do manicured, uniform accents apparently. There is no enforced conformation to a standardised regional dialect here. Instead, the production has cast members all keep their own varied, regional British accents. So while the show is meant to be set somewhere in the north of England (and there are northerners), there are also Welsh or Cockney or London-ish or more central tones in there too.

The desire for this was to scrape “away another layer of artifice, lending an authentic weight”.

This change does have some benefits or justifications of enabling the maintenance of the heterogeneity and diversity within the cast members as seen with respect to the actors here themselves. But it also somewhat causes a lack in central coherence and lessens the impact of the piece. Here, de-homogenisation for inclusivity’s sake appears to counter the actual intention or point of the show in the first place, in interfering with one of its central themes of community. The actors appear less as united characters, and more as, well, actors. Or themselves. As a collective group, the sound no longer reflects what the dialects of a community of working-class people all in a similar geographical area would sound like. Instead, it feels physically non-specific and ungrounded, as if an assortment of people from all over the UK have been banded together for some indiscriminate reason. Crucially, the people on stage are no longer a unified, tight-knit community, in a tangible location, of similar socio-economic statuses, common histories, and shared professions in the same place by necessity not choice – as is integral to the show’s basis.

This notion of modern changes to a show conflicting with the show itself is not a new notion, and it does demand confrontation and raise queries of the impacts to the technical alterations in ‘updating’ beloved or fondly nostalgic musicals.

In a point that feels somewhat subversive to mention, qualms were raised in earlier notable revivals of Carousel decades ago – with the specifics of methods to do with enacting modernisation via the hitherto novel “use of multiracial casting”. Having black actors like Clive Rowe play Enoch Snow in the original 1992 London revival, or Audra McDonald as Carrie and Shirley Verrett as Nettie in the subsequent 1994 Broadway transfer, for example, forces reckoning of whether colour is intended to be ‘seen’, or just blindly overlooked. Simply casting the most talented actors fits with the latter, and should not be dismissed as valid casting practice – lest there be no evolution ever of diversity in historically write-centric shows. But the former, if the differences of race are to be actually acknowledged, necessitates comprehension of a 19th century New England town that can supposedly tolerate at least some degree of being “liberal and liberating”. According to John Simon of New York Magazine in 1994, this arguably “militates against the meaning of the work”, in reference to the story’s dependence on insular, old-fashioned, and intolerant attitudes. Simon said, “There was certainly a case to be made that if the townsfolk were so otherwise enlightened, then why did they ostracize innocent Louise, who wasn’t even born when Billy attempted his botched robbery?”.

It’s a complex issue. And modernisation or increased diversity itself is not the problem – seldom is it not desired or necessary. But it’s a matter hard to reconcile if it impairs any of the show’s core elements or its logic.

As a corollary, one could cite Marianne Elliott’s new and muchly hyped production of Company for evidence of newly updated staging features in further conflicts against impacts of original source material. There’s much to be gained in this new production – like elevated queerness or the apparent increased pertinence of discussion of society’s perspectives on a female, instead of male, bachelor ageing with her ticking biological clock. But there’s a lot lost too.

An important example concerns the switch made to change Amy to Jamie. ‘Getting Married Today’ turns now into a hypochondriacally pattered aria by a stereotypically dramatic gay male in little more than a fleeting, anguished cold-feet spiral. It is no longer also a woman questioning the bedrock of the institution of antiquated heterosexual marriage, built upon centuries of historic female subservience, oppression, violence and even murder at the hands of their domineering male counterparts.

Amy’s original exclamations as to how Paul will “want to kill me, which he should,” or her “floating in the Hudson”, or dying “like Eliza on the ice” (in allusion to Uncle Tom’s Cabin with the young girl fleeting from her male captor), may appear flippant and humorous in the song. And sung by a male – that is when they’re not removed – they primarily appear as simple hyperbole. But as long as America remains a place whereby “four women are murdered every day in this country by a male partner” (as Heidi Schreck cites in her play, What the Constitution Means to Me), the original implications remain unignorably alarming.

The song thus carries intrinsic weight when sung by a woman that it cannot gain back in this new context – subsequently diluting an element of the musical’s original impact.

None of this is to say all methods of introducing change revivals and attempting to “re-invent” are bad, however. For instance, Bill Rauch’s recent revival of Oklahoma! (as another Rodgers and Hammerstein ‘classic’) performed in Oregon in 2018, also featured gender flipped characters, an abundances of queerness, as well as considerable racial diversity. And it was heralded as both logical and a triumph, or “natural and organic” and “beautiful and poignant”. Such positive sentiments were seen too for the “revolutionary” 2019 Broadway revival.

Even closer to home, people had been clamouring for change and revisional updates to Carousel itself as early as the very year it was created in 1945. The piece exhibits non-trivial similarities to the creative duo’s previous work with Oklahoma!, and it was reasoned this “formula was becoming a bit monotonous” – as too “were [Agnes] De Mille’s ballets” , which were appreciably abundant on Broadway in the ‘40s and ‘50s. By the time the memorable London transfer arrived in New York in 1994, it was decried it was “nice to finally see a Carousel free of Agnes de Mille’s overly familiar choreography”. The novel changes here to Louise’s ballet in this new Regent’s Park revival through Drew McOnie’s choreography were seen as a success and favourably received, in making the production “come alive”. At this point in the second act for the dance sequence, towering poles appear on stage to emulate prison bars, the pace of the stage revolve increases, and a vividly sinister male influence becomes evident through their presence and visceral movements. These elements serve to compound a sense of frenzied, building anxiety and cyclical inevitability of a woman once again being trapped in a repeating pattern of being mistreated by men. Consequently here, the show’s primary themes are sustained, if not even further enhanced.

Change is necessary in theatre in order to prevent the stagnation, irrelevance, or outdatedness of staging shows from decades or even centuries ago. It has to be questioned how new revivals can be staged today before creating them, otherwise the risk is high of them becoming incompatible with modern audiences against their precursors as written in entirely different cultural and historic environments.

Some of the specific technicalities of attempted methods of modernisation will be perceived to work. Some will not. In all likelihood, you might not know which is which until they are attempted.

Because of this, it seems important to indicate that change and alteration with the aim of innovation should not be discouraged for creatives within theatrical realms, just on the basis that not everything tried comes off as ‘successful’.

As to this new production of Carousel, one review as written in the i Newspaper by Sam Marlowe puts it just about as well as I can think to put it to conclude consideration of it: “This is an admirably gutsy approach to a deeply flawed classic”.

Many of the modifications in this “tough radical reinterpretation”, as put together by an assiduous creative team, have been made with good intentions, after being substantially thought-through, and executed within the possible logistical parameters afforded.

It’s far from perfect, but appreciably it still deserves credit for trying. And indeed, this classic is deeply flawed.

Suggesting we ‘cancel’ Rodgers and Hammerstein is far from the aim. But it is important to recognise the show itself does have some inherent flaws, and to accept that there might be a limit to how much it can be expected to achieve via alterations to stagings while modernising a show – without completely rewriting the original.

A recently published article published in The Telegraph, entitled “Can the cancel mob please leave our classic musicals alone?”, reasons against this line of thinking. The point of quoting South Pacific and ‘You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught’ as evidence that Rodgers and Hammerstein were “not reactionary dinosaurs whose work should be immediately cancelled” does work on some grounds. It proves an understanding of racial prejudice, yes. But it does not absolve them of all sins forever, particularly female-related ones.

Potentially, irrespective of how you orchestrate it, ‘What’s the Use of Wond’rin’’, for example, is still via its lyrics at its core a deeply antiquated and misogynistic song that displays a complete disregard for women and a lack of understanding of writing for their sex, given the presentation as making it permissible to accept and be content with such violent and abusive male treatment.

Being based on the dark and heavy 1909 play Liliom by Ferenc Molnar, the subject matter of Carousel to begin with is not light, joyful fare. Nor that obviously ripe for musicalisation. It’s interesting to note that rather than Rodgers and Hammerstein, Kurt Weill was among those initially considered to compose the musical adaptation, before being rejected by Molnar. Known far more strongly for dark, brooding, biting works, the German-born composer would certainly have provided an interesting and likely very different version of ‘Carousel’ – in contrast to the duo remembered well for their oft sentimentally soaring ballads. That being said, we can’t in fact reauthor original works.

We can’t alter the original creative teams for shows written in different centuries. But we can, however, certainly question the identities, motivations and behaviours of those involved with staging and creating shows today.

On one hand, there is demonstrably still popular demand amongst mainstream audiences for simple escapism and even ‘classic’ old musicals – the London revival of Cole Porter’s 1934 production of Anything Goes grossed over £1 million in its first week alone, even despite old videos depicting racial insensitivity from its leading lady surfacing in the weeks closely pre-dating its opening night.

But on the other hand, there are other voices also out there ill-content to simply sit back and watch as further injustices unfold. There are voices demanding theatre-based justice. Demanding more progressive and diverse shows, creative teams and casts. More inclusivity and safety for employees. More accountability to be faced for those with power who get control over decisions being made, especially when that power is being abused. And more attention being raised on matters of previous indiscretions and malpractices in the hopes of preventing their recurrence in the future.

The public statements made by Karen Olivo (i.e. “Building a better industry is more important than putting money in my pockets.”), as well as multiple conversations being had around the controversial Broadway production of Jagged Little Pill over workplace diversity and safety, are matters that could be singled out as leading, current examples addressing the inequities or lack of safety in the theatre industry, and vocally raising support or action for “bringing Broadway back better”.

Furthermore, there is justified call for the takedown or removal especially of corrupt or abusive white men in leadership positions who have conventionally yielded power in destructive ways.

February saw the resignation of Ethan McSweeny from the American Shakespeare Company, where he had presided as artistic director since 2018. This came following the review of a 15-page report submitted to the theatre’s board as put together by 52 members of the company that delivered documentation of “a pattern of abusive, manipulative, and dangerous behavior, actions, and speech on McSweeny’s part”.

And more recently, reports of mega-mogul producer Scott Rudin’s own abuse, violence and bullying started coming to light from this April in The Hollywood Reporter. These revelations were subsequently met with galvanising public outcry far across the theatre realm, and Rudin was perceptibly dethroned from his positions of power and the shows he was set to be producing.

These examples appear to display constituents of success and progress for the theatre community. But they are not exhaustive or complete.

There’s another name to reckon with who still threatens the safety of employees in the theatre in light of upcoming projects: Garth Drabinsky.

Some context on this Canadian producer who has flown relatively under the radar of late. Drabinsky rose to fame and prominence in the ‘90s, with hits like the landmark Toronto production of The Phantom of the Opera, before dominating Broadway with a run of successes like Kiss of the Spiderwoman, Parade, Ragtime, and Fosse. His reign was finite, however, and his fall from grace inevitable when he was later sent to prison for fraud and forgery.

At the beginning of summer when researching for another project, I coincidentally stumbled upon some of the details to do Drabinsky’s sordid past. I was shocked. Good riddance, I thought.

One can only imagine then how much more shocked I was in the very same night to read an announcement heralding for Drabinsky’s upcoming comeback. This man is being given free reign to helm and produce what is being publicised as the first new musical to reopen Broadway in 2022 – Paradise Square. This should not happen.

In addition to considerable criminal conduct, this man (like Scott Rudin) has been demonstrated to create hostile working environments that endanger people in his orbit.

“Scott Rudin but maple syrup flavoured,” opera and musical theatre performer Rebecca Caine would quip.

And Rebecca Caine would know.

Prompted by the threat of this upcoming ‘comeback’, Rebecca has been sharing documented evidence over the summer from the harrowing events she experienced as Christine for multiple years in Drabinsky’s Canadian production of The Phantom of the Opera.

During her time as the show’s principal female lead between 1989-1992, Rebecca faced the mercy of prolonged, excessive, “brutish conduct” and violence on stage from her male co-star. She did not receive compassion or support in response to these events as she tried to speak out about them. Instead, she was dismissed by Drabinsky and his production team, threatened with intimidation tactics, victim blamed, mocked or ultimately fired and denied payment of her salary. Drabinsky’s own actions created a callous disregard for her safety which subsequently led to acute and permanently damaging physical injury, as well as prolonged mental trauma.

In addition to these historical details of his negligent and abuse-enabling practices, Drabinsky now out of prison and as recently as the last few years has demonstrated a lack of remorse, continued disreputable accounting practices, and a maintenance of his same volatile temper as previously.

Yet for all of this, he is seemingly being given carte blanche to return. He is set to open his new musical in Chicago from November, or on Broadway next February with so far barely as much public resistance as a slightly raised eyebrow. Even reputable and influential publications like The New York Times have yet to cover matters in full enough historied detail other than to speculate whether this “comeback bid by a scandal-scarred producer” will be successful or not.

This man’s crimes are more serious than the capacity to produce a bad show. He’s more dangerous than that. Watch this space for a full presentation of all of Drabinsky’s legal and moral crimes throughout the last three decades that I have been putting together and hope to be able to put up soon as to illustrate why this man should not be any more considered a viable producer. Simply put for now, Garth Drabinsky should not be at the top of the tree to pick from in selecting new producers to award the privilege and responsibility of staging the first new shows as we emerge from this period of dormancy and ostensible reflection.

Carousel was probably not the best choice for a production to have been staged at this point in time. Even if all involved did try very hard to make it. That decision cannot be reversed, but we can turn the focus of the questions it raised to broader angles and future pieces of theatre.

Like has been mentioned, we can't rewrite the past. We can however try to make better decisions for the future while we still have the capacity to exert an influence in shaping it.

Before new works are put up going forward, we both can and should ask, “is this thing the best piece, made in the best technically relevant style, with the best people behind it, to be staging right now?”

It is these kinds of questions that we must continually remind ourselves to ask as theatre continues to return, if we are to stand any chance of returning with a theatrical environment that is not just enjoyable for audiences, but enjoyable, safe and equitable for all.

#broadway #musical theatre #theatre #new york #musicals #Carousel #rodgers and hammerstein #regents park #regents park open air theatre #Scott Rudin #Garth Drabinsky #Ethan McSweeny #Rebecca Caine #company Broadway #Company #Stephen Sondheim #sondheim #bring back broadway better #London

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Who are you? Where do you get your information and content from?

I'll likely delete this at some point before my next post as I'd ideally like the only main posts on here to be the long text pieces, but I hope whoever's asked sees it before then. I'm just someone who likes theatre and theatre history a lot and writing a fair bit too! Most of my information primarily comes from archived newspaper articles. But also other sources too like books, podcasts, video/radio interviews etc etc... Essentially - have no fear that I'm simply making all of this up! I'm not. It's all methodically researched, documented and planned before it then becomes 'content', as such. My first post on costume design on here gives an indication of my sources in that instance, and while I might not cite all my references for the dominant majority of my pieces, if anyone has any specific questions as to the origins of certain quotes or bits of information, just message me and I can certainly provide you with their sources. One piece that I'm drafting at the moment, if it ever sees the light of day, does actually have a documented references list. And it's currently 58 items long. That's the final version of what was something like 600 articles and 4 books plus other podcasts and videos and such that were read or looked through in the preparation of collecting the information and shaping the content in the first place. Hope that helps!

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Michael Riedel vs Bernadette Peters – the Broadway Battle of 2003 and beyond

My previous piece gives a fairly comprehensive look at Bernadette and Gypsy through the ages; though there is at least one aspect of the 2003 revival that warrants further discussion:

Namely, Michael Riedel.

Today’s essay question then: “Riedel – gossip columnist extraordinaire, the “Butcher of Broadway”, spited male vindictive over not getting a lunch date with Bernadette Peters, or puppet-like mouthpiece of theatre’s shadowed elite? Discuss.”

It’s matter retrievable in print, or even kept alive in apocryphal memory throughout the theatre community to this day that Riedel was responsible for a campaign of unrelenting and caustic defamation against Bernadette as Rose in Gypsy around the 2003 season.

While “tabloids may [have been] sniping and the Internet chat rooms chirping”, when looking back at the minutiae, none were more vocal, prolific or influential in colouring early judgment than the “chief vulture [of] Mr. Riedel, who had written a string of vitriolic columns in which he said from the start that Ms. Peters was miscast”.

He continued to find other complaints and regularly attack her in print over an extended period of time.

Why? We’ll get there. There are a few theories to suggest. Firstly, how and what.

Primary to establish is that it perhaps would be foolish to expect anything else of Riedel.

Also an author and radio and TV show host, Riedel is best known as the “vituperative and compulsively readable” theatre columnist at The New York Post.

He’s a man who thrives on controversy, decrying: “Gossip is life!”

The man who says, “I’m a wimp when it comes to physical violence, but give me a keyboard and I’ll kill ya.”

“Inflicting pain, for him, is a jokey thing. ‘Michael has this cruel streak and a lack of empathy,’ says Susan Haskins, his close friend and co-host.”

And inflicting pain is what he did with Bernadette, in a saga that has become one of the most talked about and enduring moments of his career.

From the beginning, then.

Riedel started work at The Post in 1998.

His first words on Bernadette? “Oddly miscast in the Ethel Merman role,” in August of that year on Annie Get Your Gun. It was a sentiment he would carry across to his second mention six months later (“a seemingly odd choice to play the robust Annie Oakley”), and also across to the heart of his vitriolic coverage on her next Merman role in Gypsy.

Negative coverage on Bernadette in Gypsy started in August 2002 when Riedel discussed the search for trying to find a new American producer for the show. It had initially been reported in late 2000 that a Gypsy revival with Bernadette was planned for London, before it was to transfer to Broadway. To begin with, Arthur Laurents was “eager to do Gypsy in London because it hadn't been seen in the West End since 1973”, and he “wanted to repeat [the] dreamlike triumph” he said Angela Lansbury’s production had been. But economic matters prevented this original plan, leaving the team looking for new producers in the US. Riedel suggested that Fran and Barry Wiessler step up as, “after all, they managed to sell the hell out of "Annie Get Your Gun," in which Peters…was also woefully miscast.”

He also quipped: “Industry joke: "Bernadette Peters in 'Gypsy'? Isn't she a little old to be playing Baby June?”, calling her “cutesy Peters” and again a “kewpie doll”.

Bernadette here seen side by side with the actual Baby June of the 2003 production – Kate Reinders.

Other publications to this point had discussed her “unusual” casting. Which was fairly self-evident. In contrast to being a surprising revelation that Bernadette Peters was not, in fact, Ethel Merman, this had been the intention from the start. Librettist Arthur “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

It was Riedel who was the first to shift the focus from the obvious point that she was ‘differently cast’, to instead attach the negative prefix and intone that she was actually ‘MIS’ cast. According to him then, she was unsuitable, and would be unable to “carry the show, dramatically or vocally”. All before she had so much as sung a note or donned a stitch of her costume.

So no, it wasn’t then “the perception, widely held within the theater industry,” as he presented it, “that Peters is woefully miscast as Mama Rose”.

It was Riedel’s perception. And he took it, and ran with it, along with whatever else he could throw into the mix to drag both her and the show down for the next two years.

As to another indication of how one single columnist can influence opinion and warp wider perception, just look to Riedel’s assessment of the show’s first preview. It is typically known as Riedel’s forte to “[break] with Broadway convention, [where] he attends the first night of previews, and reports on the problems…before the critics have their say”. This gives him “clout” by way of mining “terrain that goes relatively uncovered elsewhere”, and it means subsequent journals are frequently looking to him from whom to take their lead – and quotes.

At Gypsy’s opening preview then, he reported visions of “Arthur Laurents [charging] up the aisle…on fire”, loudly and vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with the show as he then “read Fox [a producer] the riot act”. Despite the fact that this was “not true, according to Laurents,” the damage was already done, with the sentiment of trouble and tension being subsequently reprinted and distributed out to the public across many a regional paper.

News travels fast, bad news travels faster.

And news can be created at an ample rate, when in possession of one’s own regular periodical column. This recurring domain allowed plentiful opportunity for attack on Bernadette and Gypsy, and Riedel “began devoting nearly every column to the subject,” which amounted to weekly or even more frequent references.

As the show progressed beyond its first preview, Riedel brought in the next aspects of his smear-campaign – assailing Bernadette for missing performances through illness and accusing Ben Brantley, who reviewed the show positively in The New York Times, of unfair favouritism and “hyperbolic spin”.

The issue is not that Bernadette was not in fact ill or missing performances. She was. She had a diagnosis at first of “a cold and vocal strain”, that then progressed more seriously to a “respiratory infection” the following week, and was “told by her doctors that she needs to rest”. So rest she did.

The issue is the way in which Riedel depicted the situation and her absences via hyperbole and “insinuating she was shirking” responsibility. He went further than continual, repeated mentions and cruel article titles like “wilted Rose”, or “sick Rose losing bloom”, or “beloved but - ahem-cough-cough-ahem - vocally challenged and miscast star”. He went as far as the sensationalist and degrading action of putting “Peters' face on the side of a milk carton, the kind of advertisement typically used to recover lost children,” and asking readers to look out for “bee-stung lips, [a] high-pitched voice, [and a] kewpie doll figure”, who “may be clutching a box of tissues and a love letter from Ben Brantley”.

It was quantified in May of 2003 after the show had officially opened, that “out of the 39 performances "Gypsy" has played so far, [Bernadette] has missed six – an absence rate of 15 percent.”

As an interesting comparison, it was reported in The Times in February 2002 that “‘The Producers' stars Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick have performed together only eight times in last 43 performances due to scheduling problems and health concerns,” – an absence rate of 81%.

Did Riedel have anything nearly as ardent to say about the main male stars of the previous season’s hit missing such a rate of performances? Of course not.

Riedel arguably has a disproportionate rate for criticising female divas.

One need only heed his recommendations that certain women check into his illuminatingly named “Rosie's Rest Home for Broadway Divas.” Divos need not apply.

Not that he was unaware of this.

In 2004, Riedel would jovially lay out that “Liz Smith and I have developed a nice tag-team act: I bash fragile Broadway leading ladies who miss performances, and she rides to their rescue.”

Donna Murphy was the recipient of what he that year dubbed his “BERNADETTE PETERS ATTENDANCE AWARD”, when she began missing performances in “Wonderful Town”, due to “severe back and neck injuries and a series of colds and sinus infections”.

This speaks to his remarkably cavalier and joyful attitude with which he tears down shows and performers. “The more Mr. Riedel's work upsets people, the more he enjoys it.”

He knows he yields influence – it was recognised he had “eclipsed Ben Brantley as the single most discussed element in marketing meetings for Broadway shows” – and he delights in his capacity to lead shows to premature demises through his poison-tipped quill yielding.

When it was reported Gypsy would be closing earlier than had been planned, he made mention of “hop[ping] around on [its] grave” and debonairly applauding himself, “I suppose I can take some credit for bringing it down”.

His premonition from the previous year’s Tony’s ceremony was both ominous and prescient, when he predicted the show’s failure to win any awards “could spell trouble at the box office”. He was right. It did. The 8.5 million dollar revival closed months before anticipated and failed to return a profit.

Multiple factors can be attributed to Gypsy’s poor success at the Tony’s, but it’s clear to say Riedel’s continual bashing leading up to the fated night throughout the voting period certainly didn’t help matters.

His suggestions to do with Bernadette’s performances were not helpful either.

After alleging Laurents as the director of the 1991 revival “practically beat a performance out of” Tyne Daly when she was struggling with the role, he proffers that to improve Bernadette’s success, “it may be time for [Laurents] to take up the switch and thrash one out of Peters”.

Great.

It was irresponsible and unrelenting commentary that did not go unnoticed.

His “ruthless heckling of beloved Broadway star Ms. Peters” was deemed in print “his most egregious stunt so far”.

Vividly, in person, Riedel was accosted at a party one night by Floria Lasky, the venerable showbiz lawyer, who “grab[bed] Riedel’s tie and jerk[ed] it, nooselike, scolding, ‘It was unfair, what you did to Bernadette’”.

Moreover, the wide-reaching influential hold Riedel occupied over the environment surrounding Gypsy was tangible in the fact his words spread beyond just average readers, and even unusually “started seeping into the reviews of New York's top critics”. Riedel himself, as the “chief vulture”, was indeed what Ben Brantley was referring to in his own New York Times review by stating how the production was “shadowed by vultures predicting disaster”.

Even more substantially, the “whole Peters-Riedel-Brantley episode” became its own enduring cultural reference – being converted into its very own “satiric cabaret piece, ‘Bernadette and the Butcher of Broadway’”. All three parties were featured, with Riedel characterised as the butcher, and it played Off-Broadway later in 2003 “to positive notices”.

But penitent for his sins and begging for absolution Riedel was not. “Riedel saw nothing but a great story and a great time,” and for many years after, he would continue to hark back to the matter in self-referential (almost reverential) and flippant ways.

In 2008 as Patti LuPone won her Tony for her turn as Rose in the subsequent revival, Riedel couldn’t help but jibe, “Not to rip open an old wound, but I'd love to know if Bernadette Peters was watching”. (He neglects also to mention that “Mendes’s Gypsy was seen by 100,000 more people than saw Laurents’s and grossed $6 million more”.)

More jibes are to be found in 2012 as he reported on the auction after Arthur Laurents’ funeral, or even as recently in 2019, as he asked, “Remember the outcry that greeted Sam Mendes’ Brechtian “Gypsy,” with Bernadette Peters, in 2003?”

As with in 2004 where he points to the “pack of jackals who have been snarling” about Bernadette’s failures, this brings up the canny knack Riedel has of offloading his views to bigger and detached third party sources – thus absolving himself of personal centrality, and thus culpability.

If there was an outcry, HE was its loudest contributor. If there were snarling jackals, HE was their leader.

Maybe Riedel’s third person detached approach to referencing matters was intended to be a humorous stylistic quirk for those in the know. Or maybe it was his way of expressing some inner turmoil over the event.

In some rare display of morality and emotional authenticity, Riedel would at one point admit “I find it kind of sad and pathetic that the high point of my life supposedly has been about beating up on Bernadette Peters”.

Fortunately for him then, a degree of absolution was eventually achieved in 2018, where Riedel visited Bernadette at her opening night in Hello Dolly in 2018, with the intention of ending their “15-year feud”. He “got down on one knee at Sardi’s and extended his hand,” with Bernadette reportedly yelling “Take a picture!” while he held his deferential and obsequious position on the floor.

So if eventually this “feud” has some kind of circular resolution and Riedel was glad it was over, why on earth did it begin in the first place?

One notion is that it was simply another day on the job. Riedel is a man who sees Broadway as “a game for rich people”. Positioned as an “an industry that brought in $720.9 million in the 2002-2003 season”, it is “not a fragile business”, he remarked. As such, he “[could not] fathom the point of donning kid gloves” in covering it, and reasoned the business as a whole was robust enough to weather a few hard knocks. “Thus, Riedel can coolly view Bernadette Peters as fair game, as opposed to, say, a national treasure”.

More to the point, he was a man in search of words. During the season in question, Riedel was “one of just three New York newspaper columnists covering the stage” – a “throwback to a bygone era when…Broadway gossipmeisters…such as Walter Winchell and Dorothy Kilgallen ruled”. Now at the time, as the “last of a great tabloid tradition”, Riedel presided over not just one but two columns a week at The Post. As a result, he was in need of content. “One of the reasons I've become more opinionated is I just have more space to fill,” he admitted. Robert Simonson hypothesises in his book ‘On Broadway Men, Still Wear Hats’ that Riedel may have consequently picked “the thrashing of Bernadette” as his main target simply because “it was a slow news cycle”. Options for ‘titillating’ and durable content were scarce elsewhere that season.

And after all, if Riedel would later cite Bernadette in an article concerning the Top 10 Powerhouses of Broadway in 2004, saying even despite a few knocks or bad shows, “she’ll bounce back” – surely there was no real damage done.

If her career wouldn’t be toppled by his continual public defamation and haranguing, what was the harm?

Feelings? Who cares about feelings or Bernadette’s extremely complex and personal history with the show stretching back to when she was a teenager.

It was just part of the territory, there was nothing personal in it.

Or was there?

Maybe there was something personal in Riedel’s campaign after all.

He makes a curious comment while discussing ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ in 2004. The then incoming star of the show, rapper P. Diddy, had invited Riedel to dinner, and he makes judgement that this was “a smart p.r. move”. Then he ponders, “you do have to wonder: If Bernadette Peters had broken bread with me this time last year, would her chorus boys have to be out there now working the TKTS line to keep "Gypsy" afloat?”

Might he be going as far to suggest that if Bernadette had indulged him in a meal, her show might not have suffered so, by way of him being more inclined to cover it with greater lenience?

It may seem that way, at least in considering how Riedel reviewed P. Diddy’s performance thus after their dinner: “Riedel pronounced himself impressed. ‘He could have forgotten his lines or had to be carried offstage. He didn’t do anything terrible, he didn’t do anything astonishing.’”

Seemingly all the rapper had to do was remember some words and remain physically onstage, and he sails through scot-free. That’s a rather different outcome, one could say, to being absolutely eviscerated for what became a Tony nominated effort at one of the appreciably hardest and most demanding musical theatre roles in existence.

Though perhaps it’s hard to tell if that was really his insinuation from just one isolated comment pertaining to lunch.

This argument might be fine, if it WAS the only isolated comment pertaining to wanting Bernadette to have lunch with him. But it isn’t. Riedel continues to make a further two references over protracted periods of time to the fact Bernadette hasn’t dined with him.

One begins to get the sense of him feeling desiring of or somewhat entitled to such a private lunch with the lady he’s verbally decimated for years, and a sense of bitter rejection that he hasn’t been granted one.

“If Tonya Pinkins doesn't win the Tony Award this year, I'll buy Bernadette Peters lunch,” he simpered, and later, “I invite Bernadette to be my guest for lunch at a restaurant of her choosing. She can reach me at The Post anytime she's hungry”.

The embittered columnist in this light takes on now the marred tinge of a small boy in the playground who doesn’t get to hold the hand of the girl he wants in front of his friends, so spends the next three years pushing her over in the sandpit in revenge.

Moreover, the last statement makes undeniable comment on Bernadette’s troubled relationship with food, body image and public eating.

So now not only so far has he insulted and mocked her physical appearance and played into all the usual trite shots calling her a “kewpie doll”; suggested Arthur Laurents violently hit her in order to elicit a better performance; continually publicly harassed her regarding a show that strikes close to the nerve with deep personal and psychological resonances due to her mother and childhood; but now he’s going for the low-blows of ridiculing her over her eating habits.

Flawless behaviour.

Maybe it’s far-fetched to suggest a man would have such a fragile ego to run a multi-year public defamation campaign after so little as not getting his hypothesised fantasy of a personal lunch date. But then again, this was the man who “left Johns Hopkins University after his first year because of a broken heart.” (“I was in love with her; she wasn't in love with me,” he said.)

And also the man described as “an insomniac who pops the occasional Ambien,” living in a “small one-bedroom” that is “single-guy sloppy”, who has “been living alone since a four-year romance ended in 1996”.

The man whose own best friend called “cruel” and with a “lack of empathy”.

The man whose own sister answered that “well, yes,” he’s always been mean; and after being picked on as a kid for “being the small guy and the intellectual”, he grew dependent on using “his verbal ability to beat someone” and put himself in positions of defensive impenetrability.

See, writing Riedel-esque, vindictive and provocative conjecture is no especially challenging or cerebral task.

Riedel may well see his approach to ‘journalism’ or reporting as “all fun and games”.

But I for one am not laughing.

One final aspect to address when considering Riedel’s reasoning for the depth of his coverage on Bernadette demands attention of how he gets his information. His own personal opinions and motivations aside, crucially he depends on insider providers for insider details. Perhaps somewhat alarmingly then, “leading Broadway producers themselves are among his sources”.

“Half of Broadway hates him. The other half leaks to him”, John Heilpern titled his 2012 Vanity Fair profile on Riedel.

As such, in frequently taking his lead from “theater folk, usually with an ax to grind”, Riedel acts as the mouthpiece to bring secretive backstage reports out front. High-up, influential characters are thus able to funnel their agendas into public view, while keeping their identities hidden.

Notably, it was raised in the above article that Riedel’s “merciless running story” regarding Bernadette in Gypsy “was fed by none other than its renowned librettist, Arthur Laurents—or, more precisely, by Laurents's lover”.

Contrary to the smiley picture below between members of the show’s creative team and it’s beloved star, it was no secret that Laurents did not like Mendes’ 2003 revival. Laurents told Riedel that “Sam did a terrible disservice to Bernadette and the play, and I wanted a Gypsy seen in New York that was good… You have to have musical theater in your bones, and Sam doesn't”. In fact, Laurents admitted the only reason his 2009 book ‘Mainly on Directing’ came into existence was because of how much he had to criticise about the show – it grew out of the extensive set of notes he gave Mendes.

Additionally, it was no secret that Laurents’ lover, Tom Hatcher, demonstrated both a desire and capacity to influence Arthur’s productions. As well as being the driving force for the 2009 Spanish-speaking reworking of West Side Story, Hatcher had intense investment in Gypsy specifically. Patti LuPone writes in her memoir, “From his deathbed, Tom had told Arthur, ‘You have to do Gypsy, and you have to do it with Patti’. It was one of his dying wishes”. Laurents himself, in corroboration of this, explained Tom’s reasoning – “he didn't want the Sam Mendes production to be New York's last memory of Gypsy”.

The allegation in Heilpern’s profile might be hard to prove from an outsider perspective. But given that neither were happy with Mendes’ production and both actively took steps to ensuring it would be superseded in memory, it is not completely implausible.

Overarchingly, as much as Riedel’s writing may benefit FROM insider sources, it is said he does not write in benefit OF them. For instance, although friends with Scott Rudin in 2004, an animated (nay threatening) warning from Mr Rudin asking Riedel to “back off” from “slamming” his show, Caroline or Change, seemingly “had no impact”.

That’s not to cite total impartiality or exemption from personal connections and higher up influences colouring his reports of shows. Theatre publicist John Barlow would describe that sometimes “if you ask Michael to kill [one of his pieces], he will, if it’s someone with whom he does business”.

But it would be remiss not to mention that his influences and sources stretch beyond just the big wigs. Amongst his other informants too are the more lowly, overlooked folk like “the stagehands, the ushers, chorus kids, house managers, and press agents… the guys who build sets in the Bronx”. Basically, for anyone who’ll talk, Riedel will listen.

“Michael Riedel doesn't work for the producers or the publicists; he works for the reader,” one publicist said. “Sometimes we're glad of that, sometimes we're not-but at the end of the day, that's the reality.”

Sometimes he’s nice, sometimes he’s not – but the world goes round.

Through all that’s been explored, it should be stated how painful and injurious it must be for individual performers or shows to fall upon the unmitigated, maiming force of being on the wrong side of Riedel’s favour. The way he approached coverage on Bernadette is deplorable from an emotional and personal standpoint. Some would argue that it was too far and crossed a line and was most definitely unfair. Others would say it was justified. It’s hard not to sound petulant as the former, or heartless as the latter.

While his actions may indeed be abrasively wounding in isolated (often plentiful) cases, it’s unreasonable to say Riedel’s intentions would be to cripple the Broadway industry as a whole. There are those who purport that Riedel in fact “keeps Broadway alive with his controversies”. His words may not always be ‘nice’ but it’s difficult to argue they're not engaging.

Many are quick to criticize or react impassionedly to him and his columns; but few are quick to stop reading them. And Riedel “knows that the most important thing is being well read”.

Hence it is understandable why Riedel is appraised as “the columnist Broadway loves to hate”. Through his enthralling and stimulating bag of linguistic and dramatic tricks, Riedel knows how to keep the readers coming back. “He’s lively, and he makes the theater seem like an interesting place,” one producer did reason.

“There are times when no one's going to care about Broadway if you don't have a gossip angle that focuses on the backstage drama,” opined George Rush, the Daily News gossip columnist who was once Riedel's boss.

Perhaps it is logically and principally then, if somewhat cynically, a matter of believing “it's just business” and knowing how to “play the game”.

As Riedel himself would rationalise, “It’s all an act. You gotta have a gimmick, as they say in Gypsy.”

It may not be pleasant, but in a world increasingly dependent on sensationalistic and clickbait-driven engagement, it’s probably not going to change any time soon.

Well then, if he can live with the toll of the position of moral tumult his column puts him in, so be it.

That he described his mind as being “constantly on the next deadline”, saying “I always think about the column”, and likening writing it to “standing under a windmill”, where “you dodge one blade, but there's always another one coming right behind it”, may be some indication that he can't. At least not wholly easily.

I’ll leave that to him to figure out. Off the record.

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Don’t I Get a Dream for Myself ? – Bernadette Peters and the 'Gypsy' Saga

Gypsy. It’s perhaps the most daunting of all of the projects related to Bernadette Peters to try to grapple with and discuss. It’s also perhaps the most significant.

For someone notoriously guarded of her privacy and personal life, careful with her words, and selective of the questions she answers, the narrative around this show provides some of the most meaningful insights it is possible to derive in relation to Bernadette herself. The show’s ability to do this is unique, through the way it eerily parallels her own life and spans a large range in time from both Bernadette Peters the Broadway Legend, right back to where it all began with Bernadette Lazzara, the young Italian girl put into showbusiness by her mother.

The most logical place to start is at the very beginning – it is a very good place to start, after all.

(Though no one tell Gypsy this, if the fierce two-way battle with The Sound of Music at the 1960 Tony Awards is anything to be remembered. Anyway, I digress…)

Gypsy: A Musical Fable with music by Jule Styne, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, and book by Arthur Laurents, burst into the world and onto the New York stage in May of 1959. After closing on Broadway in March 1961, Ethel Merman as the world’s original Mama Rose herself led the first national tour off almost immediately around the country. Just a few months later, a second national touring company was formed, starring Mitzi Green and then Mary McCarty as Rose, to cover more cities than the original. It is here that Bernadette comes in.

A 13-year-old Bernadette Peters found herself part of this show in her “first professional” on-the-road production, travelling across the country with her older sister, “Donna (who was also in the show), and their mother (who wasn’t)”.

The tour played through cities like Philadelphia, Chicago, New Haven, Baltimore and Las Vegas before closing in Ohio in 1962. Somewhat uncannily, its September 1961 opening night in Detroit’s Schubert Theatre even returns matters full circle to the 2003 revival and New York’s own Schubert Theatre.

Indeed this bus-and-truck tour was somewhat of a turning point for Bernadette. She’d later remember, “I mostly thought of performing as a hobby until I went on the road with Gypsy”.

But while this production seminally marked a notable moment for the young actress as well as the point where her long and consequential involvement with Gypsy begins, it’s important to recognise she was very much not yet the star of the show and then only a small part of a larger whole.

Bernadette was with the troupe as a member of the ensemble. She took on different positions in the company through the period of nearly a year that the show ran for, including billing as ‘Thelma’ (one of the Hollywood Blondes), ‘Hawaiian Girl’, and additional understudy credits for Agnes and Dainty June.

The above photo shows Bernadette (left) with another member of the ensemble (Sharon McCartin) backstage at the Chicago Opera House as one of the stops along the tour. Her comment on the stage of the Chicago theatre – “I’d never seen anything so big in my life!” – undeniably conveys how her experiences were new and appreciably daunting.

Along the tour, she assumed centre-stage once or twice as the understudy for Dainty June, but playing the young star was not her main role. Unlike what more dominant memory of the story seems to purport.

Main credits of June went instead to Susie Martin – a name and a tale of truth-bending that’s now well-known from Bernadette’s concert anecdotes. While performing her solo shows as an adult and singing from Gypsy, Bernadette has often been known to take a moment to penitently atone for historical indiscretions of identity theft or erasure where her mother long ago conveniently left out the “understudy” descriptive when putting down Dainty June on her resumé, in an effort to add weight to the teenager’s list of credits.

Whatever happened to Susie Martin? – many have wondered. Well, she soon left the theatre. But not before appearing in two more regional productions of Gypsy and a 1963 Off-Broadway revival of Best Foot Forward with Liza Minnelli and Christopher Walken.

Bernadette too went on to other regional productions of Gypsy. She spent the summer of 1962 in various summer stock stagings with The Kenley Players, like in Pennsylvania and Ohio, and this time she did indeed get to play June.

Above shows photos from different programmes for these productions. While some may have featured odd forms of photo editing, they at least also bring to attention Rose here being played by none other than Betty Hutton.

The two women couldn’t have been in more different positions when they coalesced in these rough-around-the-edges, small-scale productions. A young Bernadette was broaching summer stock in starting to take on bigger roles in the ascendency to her bright and long career. Meanwhile, Betty found herself there while navigating the descent that followed her sharp but fickle rise to Hollywood fame in the ‘40s and early ‘50s. Top billing Monday, Tuesday you really are touring in stock after all.

While details aren’t plentiful for these productions, it was recounted Betty apparently struggled in performing the role. And understandably so. Following the recent traumatic death of her mother in a house fire, and the birth of her third child shortly before the shows began, it’s not hard to see why her mind might have been elsewhere. Still, she was apparently impressed enough by the younger actress who turned in one of the show’s “creditable performances” to make comment that she would’ve liked Bernadette to play her if a movie were made about her life.

Bernadette might not have done this exactly, but she did go on to revitalise Betty’s best-known movie role, when stepping into Annie Oakley’s shoes in the 1999 Annie Get Your Gun revival. With Bernadette’s first Ethel Merman show under her belt, the ball was soon rolling on her second.

The 2003 production of Gypsy was imminently beckoning as her next successive Broadway musical and it was Arthur Laurents who lit the match to spark Bernadette’s involvement. Laurents, as the show’s original librettist, drove the revival by saying he “didn’t want to see the same Rose” he’d seen before. Going back to June Havoc’s description of her mother as “small” and a “mankiller”, and Arthur’s take that Bernadette sung the part “with more nuance for the lyrics and the character than the others”, the choice of Bernadette was justified. Moreover, “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

So Bernadette also had her own baseline of innate physical similarity to the original Rose Hovick, in addition to her own first-hand memories of the women she’d acted alongside as Rose in her youth to bring into her characterisation of the infamous stage mother.

But there was a third factor beyond those as well to be considered in the personal material she had access to draw from for her characterisation. Namely, her own real life stage mother.

Marguerite Lazzara did share traits with the character of Rose. She too helped herself to silverware from restaurants, and put her daughters in showbusiness for the vicarious thrill. Marguerite had “always wanted to become an actress herself”, but had long been denied her desire by her own mother, who likened actresses to being as “close to a whore as you could be without, you know, getting on your back”.

In that case, to “escape a housewife’s dreary fate in Ozone Park”, Marguerite channelled her latent dream through her pair of young daughters instead, shepherding them out along the road. Thus was produced a trio of the two children ushered around the theatre circuit by the driven mother, forming an undeniable parallelism and a mirror image of both Bernadette’s reality and Gypsy’s core itself. Bernadette didn’t see some of these familial parallels at the time when she was a child, considering “maybe I didn’t want to see” – “didn’t want to see a mother doing that to her daughter”.

It was coming back to the show as an adult that helped Bernadette resolve who her mother was and some of the motivations that had propelled her when Bernadette was still a child. She realised, “I think she thought she was going to die very young”, as her own father died young. So “she was rushing around to get as much of her life as she could in there”.

When she herself returned to the production in playing Rose, Bernadette conceded to sometimes bringing elements of her mother and her driven energy into her portrayal, and admitted too she looked “like her a lot in the role”. You can assess any familial resemblances for yourself, from the images below that show a young Marguerite next to Bernadette in costume as Rose, and then with the pair backstage in 1961 in a dressing room on the tour.

Marguerite was ambitious. From her own personal position and with the restrictions imposed upon her, it was ambition that materialised through her children. Irrevocably, she altered them. She placed Bernadette on TV as a very young child (“I was four when my mother put me in the business”); changed her daughter’s surname (“She told me my real name was too long for the marquees,” or really – “too Italian”); doctored her resumé (“Somehow the word ‘understudy’ vanished. ‘No one will know,’ said Marguerite”); and lightened her hair (“She’d say, ‘Oh, I’m just putting a little conditioner on it.’ But slowly my hair got blonder and blonder!”). All in the hope of giving her child a more favourable chance at the life she’d always wanted for herself.

On paper, a classic stage mother. “When I was a kid, she fulfilled herself through me,” Bernadette would say. “She put me into show business so she could get a taste of the life herself.”

But it’s important to consider Bernadette often qualifies that her mother wasn’t as brutal as Rose, nor was she herself as traumatised as June.

Bernadette didn’t begrudge her mother for her choices – at least by the time she was an adult, she’d rationalised them, explaining “naturally it was more exciting [for her] to go on the road with me than staying home and keeping house”.

As a child, Bernadette hadn’t necessarily wanted to be on stage, but there was a sense of ambivalence – not resentful belligerence – as she “didn’t care one way or the other” when she found herself there.

Like June, Bernadette may have been entered into and coaxed around a path she hadn’t voluntarily chosen. But unlike June, Bernadette had a deal with her mother that “she had only to say the word”, and she could leave.

Most crucially, she never did.

But that’s not to say Bernadette was enamoured with acting from the beginning.

She seemed to feel ‘outside’ of that world and those in it. And others saw it too.

It was in 1961 in Gypsy that Bernadette first met Marvin Laird – her long-time accompanist, conductor and arranger. The way he put it, he “noticed this one young girl, very close with her mother” who, during breaks, “didn’t mix much with the other girls”.

Beneath the effervescent stage persona, there’s a quieter and more reserved reality, and a sense of separation and solitary division.

When asked by Jesse Green in 2003 for the extensive profile in The New York Times if she thought her experiences on the road in Gypsy were good for her at that age, she gives a curious, somewhat abstract, predominantly dark, potentially macabre, response. He wrote:

She doesn’t answer at first but seems to scan an image bank just behind her eyes for something to lock onto. Eventually she comes out with a seeming non sequitur. “I didn’t know how to swim. I remember, in Las Vegas, I fell in, once, and they thought I was flailing, but I felt like: ‘It’s pretty down here!’ I might have been dying and I was thinking: ‘Look at the pretty color!’ And suddenly my fear of water was gone, and I could have stayed in forever.” After a while, I realize she’s answered my question. Then she dismisses the image: “But I had to get my hair dry for the show that day, so up I came.”

I’m still not entirely sure I know what she’s trying to convey here. My interpretation of this anecdote changes as I have re-visited and re-examined it on multiple occasions at different time points. It’s arguably multiply polysemic.

Was she simply swept up in a moment of childlike distraction, lost in the temporary respite alone away from the usual noise and clamour? Was she indicating comprehension that her feelings and perspectives came secondary to any practical necessities and inevitable responsibilities? Was she using the water to depict a muffling and fishbowl-like detachment from others her age who got to live more ‘ordinary’ lives in the ‘normal’ world above that she felt separate from? Was she referencing the pretty colours she saw as a metaphor for show business and how she became bewitched by them even despite potential dangers? Was she trying to legitimately drown herself, or at least exhibiting an ambivalence again as to whether she lived or died, because of what the highly pressurised demands on her felt like?

The underlying sentiment through her response in answer to Green’s primary question was that, in essence – no. Being a child actor was not “over all, a good experience for a youngster”.

Acting might have been something she fell in love with over time, but not all at once, not right from the beginning, and not without noting its perils.

It was a matter of accidental circumstance that landed Bernadette in the show business world to begin with at such a young age in the first place – “I just found myself here,” she would offer.

Her mother, who was “always crazy about the stage”, “insisted” that her sister, Donna take lessons in singing, dancing and acting.

A further point of interest to note is that, although it was Bernadette with her new surname who would grow up to be the famous actress, look to the cast lists from the 1961 touring production of Gypsy that featured both sisters in the company (see photo below) and you’ll find no ‘Lazzara’ in sight. Donna too, appearing under the novel moniker of “Donna Forbes”, had also already become stagified (nay, ethnically neutralised?) by her mother. As such it is clearly demonstrated that Marguerite’s intention at that point was to make stars of both her daughters. Correspondingly so, when her sister returned from her performance lessons some years before, “Donna would come home and teach me what she had learned,” Bernadette remembered. She may have gotten her “training second hand”, but the key element was that she got it.

For Bernadette, it was a short jump from emulating magpied tricks from her sister as well as routines from Golden Age Busby Berkeley musicals on the ‘Million Dollar Movie’ in front of the TV screen, to her mother getting her on the other side of the screen and actually performing on TV itself – belting out Sophie Tucker impressions aged five for all the nation to see.

The photos below show Bernadette in performative situations at a young age (look for criss-crossed laces in the second for identification).

“At first, as a toddler, Bernadette enjoyed performing; it came naturally, a form of play that people inexplicably liked to watch.” It was “just a hobby” and she “wanted to do it”.

But while she may not have detested it, she didn’t entirely comprehend what was going on either. “I didn’t even know I was on TV,” she said. “I didn’t know that those big gadgets pointed at me were cameras and that they had anything to do with what people saw on the television set.”

When she started gaining more of an awareness of how “such play [was being] co-opted for commercial purposes”, she grew less enthralled. “She didn’t care for the bizarre children, accompanied by desperate mothers, she began to see at auditions: ‘They spent their whole time smiling for no reason, you know?’”

Being a child who had become sentient of being a child performer began to grow wearisome and grating to the young girl who had her equity card, a professional (and strange, new) stage name, and an increasingly long list of expectations by the time she was nine. There’s a keen sense she did not enjoy being in such a position: “I wouldn’t want to be a child again. When you’re a child, you have thoughts, but nobody listens to you. Nobody has any respect for you”.

Gypsy did indeed mark a turning point for Bernadette as mentioned above – but not just in the way that seems obvious. Looking back at it now, it does appear the monumental turning point at which she started appearing in significant and reputable productions, beginning what would be the foundation to her ‘professional’ career. However it was also the turning point after which she nearly quit the business altogether.

When she returned from performing in Gypsy, Bernadette felt like she’d had enough. One way of putting it was that she “then retired from the business to attend high school”, wanting to have some semblance of a normal scholastic experience “without the interruptions”. But whatever dissatisfaction she was feeling as an early adolescent on stage, she didn’t resolve at school – going as far as saying that while at Quintano’s School for Young Professionals, “she was in pain”.

“When you’re a teenager you’re too aware of yourself,” she recalled. Being a teen and trying to come to terms with of the expectation of the ‘60s that “you are supposed to look like Twiggy, and you don’t, you feel everything is wrong about you”. Everything “was all about tall, skinny, no chest…[and] hair straight”. Little Bernadette with her “mass of [curly] hair and distracting bosom”, as Alex Witchel put it, was never going to fit that mould. “That was not me,” she stated. “At all.”

Her self-consciousness grew to the point that it became overwhelming and asphyxiating. “I was trying desperately to blend in and be normal, but that doesn’t allow creativity to come out,” Bernadette said. “I knew I was acting terrible. The words were sticking in my mouth and all I could think about was how I looked”. It was hard enough just to look at herself (“I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror”), let alone to have other people gawk at her on stage. So she stopped trying. She “didn’t work much from age 13 to 17” in the slightest. Bernadette would later reflect in 1981 in an atypically open and vulnerable interview, “I was very insecure. Insecurity is poison. It’s like wearing chains”.

It was a combination of factors that helped her overcome these feelings of such toxic and weighty burden to draw her back into the public world of performing and the stage. “The two people who helped her most, she says, were David LeGrant, her first acting teacher, and her vocal coach, Jim Gregory.” Jim helped with “[opening] a whole creative world for [her] with singing”; and it was David who’d give her the now infamous and often (mis)quoted line about individuality and being yourself.

Having these kinds of lessons, she reasoned, was “really a wonderful emotional outlet for a kid of 17”. The process of it all was beneficial for her therapeutically – “you have a lot of emotions at that time in your life, and it was great to go to an acting class and use them up”. And Bernadette felt freer on stage than she did out on her own in the ‘real world’, saying “[up there] I don’t have to worry about what I’m doing or saying because I’m doing and saying what I’m supposed to be doing and saying”.

Finally then and with considerable bolstering and support, she grew comfortable with the notion of being visible on stage and in public, and realised she was never going to blend in as part of the chorus so it was simply better to let go of such a futile pursuit.

David LeGrant’s guiding advice to Bernadette (“You’ve got to be original, because if you’re like everyone else, what do they need you for?”) wasn’t just a trite aphorism. For her, it was a life raft. It was the key mental framing device that allowed her to comprehend for the first time that she might actually have intrinsic value as herself. And that it was imperative she let herself use it.

She had always stuck out, yes, but she had to learn how to want to be seen – talking of it as a conscious “choice” she had to make when realising she did “have something to offer”.

Thus soon after Bernadette graduated, she stepped back into productions like in summer stock and then Off-Broadway as she made her debut at that next theatrical level at 18. It wasn’t long before she was discovered in what’s seen as her big break in the unexpected smash hit, Dames at Sea. And so Bernadette Peters, the actress, was back. And she was back with impact and force.

Besides, as she’s also said, she couldn’t do anything else – “if I ever had to do something else to earn a living, I’d be at a total loss”. An aptitude test as a teenager told her so apparently, when she “got minus zero in everything except Theater Arts”. So that was that. Her answer for what she would’ve done if she’d never found acting is both paradoxically exultant and macabre – “I don’t know, probably shot myself!”

Flippant? Maybe. Trivial? No.

Acting is thus undoubtedly related highly to Bernadette’s sense of purpose and self-worth. This is what makes it even more apparent that a show with such personal and historical connections for her, as in Gypsy, was going to be so consequential and impactful to be a part of again as an adult and perform on a public stage.

She’s called inhabiting the role of Rose in the 2003 revival many things: “deeply personal”, “life changing”, “like going through therapy” – to name a few.

In interviews regarding Gypsy and playing the main character, when asked what she had learnt, Bernadette would frequently say something like, “It taught me a lot”. Pressed further about specifics, her answers often hem close to vague platitudes as she maintains her normal tendency of endeavouring to keep her privacy close to her chest.

On one occasion, she actually elaborated somewhat on what she’d learnt, giving a fuller answer than the question is normally afforded anyhow. Beyond all it revealed to her about her mother, she extended to admitting “my capacity for love and my capacity for anger” as aspects in her that the show had permanently altered. Moreover, Rose to her was undoubtedly the “most rewarding and fulfilling acting experience” she had ever had.

But while such deep, personal and emotional depths and memories were being stirred up beneath the surface in private, she was getting vilified in public singularly and repeatedly by New York Post columnist, Michael Riedel.

Even before she’d set foot on stage, Riedel set forth in motion early in the 2003 season a campaign of vocal and opinionated defamation against Bernadette as Rose that she was miscast, insufficiently talented, and would be incapable of executing the role.

Too small, too delicate, too weak, too many curves (and too much knowledge of how to use them). Not bold enough, not loud enough – not Merman enough. Chatter and speculative dissent begun to grow in and around the Broadway theatres.

For such a prestigious and historic musical theatre role, it was always going to be hard to erase the large shadow of an original Merman mould. Ethel was woven into the very fabric of the show, with the rights to Gypsy Rose Lee’s memoirs being obtained at her behest in the first place, and the idiosyncrasies of her voice having been written into the songs themselves by their very authors.

To step out from such a domineering legacy would be a marked challenge at the best of times. Let alone when battling a respiratory infection.

Matters of public perception were certainly not helped when Bernadette then got ill as the show started its preview period and she started missing early performances.

Nor did it help with critical perception that the Tony voting period coincided so synchronously with Gypsy’s first opening months – giving Bernadette no time to recover, find her feet, and settle more healthily into the show for the rest of the run before the all important decisions were made by that omnipotent committee.

The tale of her illness is actually undercut by a more innocent and unsuspecting origin than you’d expect from all the drama and trouble it engendered. Bernadette decided nearing the show’s opening to treat herself to a manicure. In the salon, she was next to a woman very close to her with a frightful sounding cough. Who could’ve known then that this anonymous and inconspicuous lady through a fateful cause-and-event chain would go on to play such a part in what is among the biggest and most enduring Tony Awards “She was robbed!” discourses? Or even more broadly – in also arguably playing a hand in the closure and financial failure of an $8.5 million Broadway show after its disappointing performance at the Tony Awards that ominously “[spelled] trouble at the box office” and led to its premature demise?

Bernadette did not win the Best Actress in a Musical Tony that night on June 6th 2004. The award went instead (not un-controversially) to newcomer Marissa Jaret Winokur for Hairspray.

She did however give one of the most indelibly resonant and frequently re-referenced solo performances at the awards show just before she lost – defying detractors to comprehend how she could be unworthy of the accolade with a rendition of ‘Rose’s Turn’ that has apocryphally earned one of the longest standing ovations seen after such a performance even to date.

Even further and even more apocryphally, she reportedly did so while still under the weather as legend as circulated by musical theatre fans goes – performing “against doctor’s orders” with stories that have her being “afflicted with anything from a 103-degree fever, to pneumonia, to a collapsed lung”.

Seeing then as unfortunately there is no Tony Award speech to draw on here, matter shall be retrieved fittingly from that which she gave just a few years earlier in 1999 for her first win and previous Ethel Merman role in Annie Get Your Gun to wrap all of this together.

As has been illustrated, there are many arguably scary or alarming aspects in Bernadette’s Gypsy narrative. There’s undeniably much darkness and an ardent clamouring for meaning and self-realisation along the road that tracks her journey parallel to the show. But unlike Rose’s hopeless decries of “Why did I do it?” and “What did it get me?”, there was a point for Bernadette.

As her emotional tribute in 1999 went: “I want to thank my mother, who 48 years ago put me in showbusiness. And I want to finally, officially, say to her – thank you. For giving me this wonderful experience and this journey.”

Whatever all of this was, maybe it was worth it after all.

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Katharine Hepburn and ‘The Philadelphia Story’

From pen, to stage, to film – and why it all mattered.

Google any list along the lines of ‘Best Old Hollywood Films To Watch’, or ‘Best Classic Movies Of All Time’, or ‘Best Romcoms Ever’, and this film from 1940 is probably unfailingly on it.

In short, it’s an incredibly well regarded entity and undoubtedly beloved by many. And it isn’t hard to understand why. It stars one of the world’s most well-regarded actresses, supported by some of Old-Hollywood’s most famous leading men in Cary Grant and James Stewart, and was directed by George Cukor as one of the most acclaimed directors in history. A recipe for success, surely.

And it’s a sum of more than just its parts. It’s a film you like to recommend to all of your friends who “don’t like old films” – countering instead, “Look look, they were funny back then! They said funny things! They had witty and clever banter! They got drunk! There’s crackling sexual tension! It’s not boring at all!”

And it’s not.

It’s not boring at all. Watching this film in this day and age and not in the ‘40s for the first time, its brilliance is immediately apparent. Yes, it’s also apparent some of the ways in which today’s world differs from the 1940s, but it’s more than possible to be swept up in a wave of sparkling dialogue and the rapid build of a screwball comedy plot – completely enraptured.

What’s not immediately apparent is the tumult of what was Katharine Hepburn herself was facing behind the scenes at the time when this film entered the world, and more broadly, why this film’s creation was so necessary in the first place.

By 1940, Katharine Hepburn needed something to save her.

Two Oscar nominations before this date and the other numerous such accolades since makes it easy to smooth over the fact things weren’t always plain sailing.

After her disastrously received turn in The Lake, she had not set foot on Broadway since 1934. Come 1937, she’d had four financially unsuccessful films in a row, culminating with Quality Street.

Holiday and Bringing up Baby, both with Cary Grant and both released in 1938, are praised and lauded now. But at the time, they both sank and failed to find her the foothold she was increasingly desperately needing.

Public opinion was only wavering further. Years of being unconventional were taking their toll. Challenging attitudes to the press, masculine behaviours and fashion senses, living with women, secretive and failed marriages, and ostensibly provocative political views were all snowballing behind her on top of the deteriorating critical acclaim. The time came where seldom was she referred to without the infamous "box-office poison" suffix.

Katharine knew there was work to be done.

Inviting playwright Phillip Barry to spend weeks with the Hepburn family at Fenwick, The Philadelphia Story in its first iteration as a Broadway play was born. Tracy Lord is as much Katharine Hepburn as much as Katharine Hepburn was Tracy Lord. Barry stitched a mould for Tracy out of the very fabric of Katharine and her life at Fenwick, sat on the jetty or observing the continual carousel of associates and relatives passing through the house. And Katharine didn’t just watch. “Make her like me,” she instructed Barry. “But make her all soft.”

He did. And it worked.

On the stage in New York as the play opened, she earned the reviews she’d so long sought after – Miss Hepburn had “at last found the joy she had always been seeking in the theatre.”

Success holding ground, she made her next shrewd action in purchasing the rights to the motion picture, with herself conditionally attached to the starring role. It was some fine advice from Howard Hughes, and one of the most important gifts he ever gave her. Well, what else are rich aviator beaus for?

Now film audiences all over the world, not just the privileged theatregoers of Broadway, needed to see this icy queen cut down to size.

Most literally, her opening scene watches her flattened horizontally to the floor while Grant as Dexter shoves her by the face through the doorway.

When Dexter confronts Tracy as his ex-wife to place the blame at her feet for the failure of their marriage, or when her father comes forth with further accusations of culpability, one might expect Katharine Hepburn to argue. To protest. To defend. To quip. Tracy Lord doesn’t. She cries.

No more the overt intimation of subversion and there being other ways to live. No more tomboyish wildness as in Little Women. No more masquerading as men as in Sylvia Scarlett. No more ruining her leading man’s life and work as in Bringing up Baby and being happy about it. No more rumours of the inclinations garnered by living with women and wearing trousers as in her own life. Here, she nestles herself comfortably into convention. Deferentially tempering that Hepburn fire and accepting her ‘mistakes’ head on, she slots into one of Hollywood’s most favoured neat endings – the comedy of remarriage and an acquiescence to loving her man.

She learns her lesson, Hollywood reasons. The New and Improved Kate.

Critical acclaim and another Oscar nomination? Why, but of course – nothing but the finest for our darling Katharine.

It seems upsetting to think of it like that and witness such a calculated and contrived humbling of our beloved untameable wildcat as we think of her now.

But we’ve had 80 years to settle into the ripples around the context of its creation and parse through the politics of its existence. What ever all of the surrounding paraphernalia may be, it does not negate any of the film's primary and immediate impacts.

Is it still markedly charming, clever, entertaining, funny, aesthetically wonderous and engaging to begin with? Arguably, yes.

There is no denying the wittiness of the dialogue. Regardless of what they were subliminally intended to make audiences at the time think, the endurance is shown by the fact the lines still have the capacity to make audiences today sit up, pay attention, and laugh. Even those who don’t ‘like’ classic films. The costumes are beautiful to behold. Her hungover hissing at the sunlight is one of the finest “Oh curse the follies and decisions of the night before!” sequences ever fixed into film. There's diversion too from all angles to sustain the variation and pace, with added moments of brilliance being provided by Ruth Hussey as Elizabeth and Virginia Wielder as crafty Dinah.

Ultimately, The Philadelphia Story holds up. It is still a remarkable film in its own right. But perhaps, it’s even more significant when considered in the context of its whole existence.

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Here Lies Jenny: Bebe Neuwirth’s under-remembered masterpiece?

While Bebe Neuwirth is often remembered foremost for her presence in worlds like Chicago, Cheers or Fosse, there’s another piece in the tapestry of her work that brings many notable threads together and is equally significant to her.

Here Lies Jenny is the somewhat under-discussed piece of theatre that in fact has connections to all three of these aforementioned things, because of the people she worked herself on creating it with, and deserves to be brought up with slightly more comparable frequency.

A moment then to explore some of the history of this elusive but important show.

Here Lies Jenny, recalled as a “surprise off Broadway hit”, opened at the Zipper Theatre in downtown Manhattan in May 2004 and ran there for five months.

The show was an interpretive revue of the music of German composer, Kurt Weill, born out of an idea Bebe had herself. It was shaped by collaboration with close friends – with its initial genesis assisted by Leslie Stifelman (the show’s pianist, who she’d worked with on Chicago), direction by Roger Rees (who she’d long known and worked with since their time on Cheers together), and choreography by Ann Reinking (who was Bebe’s closest dance companion in the Fosse universe).

Set in a dark and shadowy looking barroom, the piece followed Bebe as the central, amorphous female figure named ‘Jenny’, supported by three male cast members and a pianist, through an evening of carefully selected Weill songs. Alongside Bebe and Leslie on stage were Gregory Butler and Shawn Emamjomeh, as two rough denizens of the bar, and Ed Dixon as the general proprietor.

There was no linear storyline to the show and no spoken dialogue, but Bebe described how the evening unfolded “in a very logical and emotional, fulfilling way.” All of the songs presented “[described] the interaction between these five people there, that make it necessary to sing the next song.” Rather than taking a group of songs by a particular composer and imposing a narrative on them, the songs were interwoven together to create an “impressionistic and realistic painting of this person’s life.”

To give a summary of the show’s arc, Jenny initially descends the wire staircase into the bar, with little more than a frightened expression and a small bag of wordly possessions. Accosted by the two forceful patrons, she’s flattened down both physically and emotionally. The men depart and return throughout, and the emotional core of the piece fluctuates from song to song as each number evokes a different picture and interpretation of a circumstance or feeling. As reviewers put it, “she’s sometimes bold, sometimes reticent, until she leaves…with what seems like a modicum of self-possession and hope,” and “climbs that long staircase on her way into the world again.”

The idea for creating Here Lies Jenny came out of Bebe’s own desire to put together a piece of theatre and an evening of performance of her own. It was a notion intensified by growing external interest, or as she recalled, “people have always said to me ‘Do a show, do a show, do a one woman show!’”

But for a while the form the piece would take was unclear. Bebe knew she “didn’t want to do a revue”, and she didn’t want “the usual cabaret thing… [or] ‘Bebe and Her Boys.’”

“I generally hate one women shows,” she would remark, “unless it’s Elaine Stritch or Chita Rivera or, you know, Patti LuPone.”

According to Bebe, she’s “much more comfortable as a character doing something. I'm not comfortable just being myself and singing in front of people.”

On and off for around two and a half years then, Bebe had been considering how to approach this matter while putting together some music, predominantly that of Kurt Weill, with musician, conductor and friend from Chicago, Leslie Stifelman.

Leslie suggested bringing in a director, so Bebe turned to Roger Rees – a person she regards as “not just a great actor,” but also “a fantastic director”, with a “very interesting creative mind.” Showing Roger the songs, he “realised that they all described women, or aspects of women, or different times in women’s lives.”

Roger thought it would be interesting then to combine all of these varied sentiments and have them channelled through one specific woman, in one specific location, to present a complex but diversely applicable tapestry centred around the emotional interiority of one tangible female force.

The show is “fragmented, prismatic…less narrative than poetic,” according to Roger. It’s not prescriptive. Rather, it evokes strong feelings and allows the audience to interpret them into their own individual and personal narrative for this woman. It poses questions and provokes thoughts. Who is this woman? Why is she here? Why is she here now? Is that a child? Or is that just a wish for a child? What did she have in this life before we meet her and what has she now lost?

It is indeed an unusual entity, and atypical from other more standard revues, cabaret acts, or works of theatre. A “self-described Japanophile”, Bebe explained how it played in the “Japanese aesthetic concept known as wabi sabi.” Of this she would elaborate, “There’s no direct translation, but it’s about the beauty of things as they age, embracing what’s painful in life as well as what’s joyful.”

It is certainly a piece that contains beauty as well as pain, which itself is a complexity and dichotomy often ascribed to Kurt Weill’s music.

When initially finding and working on songs for what was to become Here Lies Jenny, Bebe noticed being drawn to the work of one composer most strongly.

Like Bernadette Peters talking about how she gravitates to selecting Stephen Sondheim’s material for her concerts, Bebe would say simply, “all of the music that I loved the most was Kurt Weill music.”

A revue in 1991 called Cabaret Verboten (also with Roger Rees), that sought to recreate a Weimar Republic cabaret and re-conjure some of the decadence of pre-Nazi Germany, increased Bebe’s exposure to Kurt Weill’s music and was where she “first became captivated by the composer”. Building on this strong connection and deep appreciation in the years since then, Bebe would assert of his music, “it resonates for me.”

“Neuwirth knows Weill’s music isn’t for everyone,” one reviewer wrote, “but she won’t apologize for it.” She sees its capacity to be “appreciated on many different levels,” and has described it on varying occasions as “unflinchingly honest”, “very fulfilling to perform”, not just “arch and angular and Germanic…[as] many people think”, but as having “great lyricism and tenderness”.

Bebe feels a strong affinity for Weill’s music in part because of its “ability to convey the truth completely and fearlessly and without artifice”. For example, “If you're talking about heartbreak, [his music] goes to the absolute nth degree of what that really means. The way he shows that is with fearless lyrics and the bravery to make the music as beautiful as it can be.”

“Maybe the way I appreciate it speaks to the kind of person I am,” she would say. “I’m very bright but not an intellectual. I like things in a visceral, passionate and spiritual way.” And to Bebe, Weill’s music certainly provides that – which was why devising this show was of such importance and significance to her.

Bebe said also that “the show offers the broad range of Weill's songwriting talents.” This is indeed a truism, with the work of no fewer than ten different lyrists being showcased across the nearly two dozen songs during the evening, including Berthold Brecht, Ira Gershwin, Alan Jay Lerner, Langston Hughes, and Ogden Nash.

The different styles and languages of Kurt Weill’s music mirror Weill’s own history and geographic progression through the world. Born in Germany, “Weill, a Jew, had to flee the Nazis at the height of his popularity. He fled to France and then to the United States, where he became a citizen in 1943.”

His songs reflect the world in which he was living. For instance, ‘The Bilbao Song’ is a tale of sometimes gleeful, sometimes regretful nostalgia and comes from a collaboration with Berthold Brecht in German. It is performed here only in English through the use of “Michael Feingold's now-accepted translation”. The Brechtian-ism is a feature of this production as a whole that was remarked on at the time, being appraised there was “more than a dash of an alienation effect at play,” with material being sung for example behind grilled windows or facing away from the audience.

His French material is alternately reflective of the musical identity Weill tried to devise while having to reinvent himself from scratch in France. Bebe performs one of these French numbers here, entitled ‘Je ne t'aime pas’, which has its own poetic lyricism, and indeed mournful significance, given the translation of the title as ‘I don’t love you’.

Alternately, jazzy, Broadway glamour is comparatively evident in some songs like ‘The Saga of Jenny’ from musicals that arose in America on the Great White Way out of the era of Golden Age of the American musical in the ‘40s to the 60’s.

This show was ambitious then, in its mission of exploring a wide range of the composer’s musical contributions across multiple decades, countries, styles of music, and lyrical collaborations.

Beyond his own musicals, Kurt Weill’s music has been notably seen elsewhere on Broadway or in the theatre world via interpretations such as songs in concerts with Betty Buckley, Patti LuPone, Ute Lemper; or full stage productions with Donna Murphy as Lotte Lenya in Hal Prince’s 2007 Lovemusik; or Lenya’s recordings herself.

Much of Kurt Weill’s legacy lives on through his wife, Lotte Lenya, who was seen as his “chief interpreter… [and] largely responsible for reviving interest in the composer” after his death.

Like Lotte with her “whisky baritone”, Bebe is able to convey meaningful interpretations of Weill’s music through her vocal richness and skilled acting choices, carefully controlling factors like timing, pronunciation and syllabic stress.

An example. Bebe does the most satisfying version of ‘The Bilbao Song’ I have heard. There’s a line in this song that states: “Four guys from ‘frisco came with sacks of gold dust,” in which the last portion of the phrase is repeated a further two times. Bebe emphasises the third “SACKS, of gold dust?!” in the dramatic manner stylised through my punctuation in attempts at recreating its phonology, which contrasts against the two previous readings. This gives the line a salient narrative purpose. It conveys not just an observation, but a tale of surprise and incredulity – who on earth would walk into a bar carrying entire sacks of gold dust?

It may be seemingly just one small detail, but it has a large impact. Other versions that intonate all three repetitions of this line the same miss this engaging variation and feel flat in comparison.

This song would justly so later become a staple of her concert material – along with others like ‘Surabaya Johnny’ and ‘Susan’s Dream’.

But there is unfamiliar territory traversed in Here Lies Jenny too. The rendition of Ogden Nash’s lyrics with ‘I'm a Stranger Here Myself’ is ‘new’ – and it’s exquisite, in its melodic, lilting and playful but darkly seductive swirling sentiment.

Another notable number in need of individual mention would be ‘The Saga of Jenny’. There are two Kurt Weill songs most strongly associated with the ‘Jenny’ moniker – this, and the also well-known ‘Pirate Jenny’ from The Threepenny Opera, which Bebe had done a production of in 1999. The latter was trialled in early versions of the show but ultimately didn’t “serve the piece as well as other��moments could,” so was taken out. Fortunately, Bebe would later work it into her concerts.

The former made it in, and provides the exciting opportunity to get to hear Bebe’s take on this song as made well-known by a number of respected performers. ‘The Saga of Jenny’ appeared initially in Weill & Gershwin’s collaboration for the musical Lady in the Dark in 1941, starring Gertrude Lawrence. The song has since gone through innumerable reiterations, such as via Ginger Rogers in the 1944 film adaptation of the same name; Julie Andrews’ big-production performance in the Gertrude Lawrence biopic Star! in 1968; and other high-profile concert performances like via Ruthie Henshall, Christine Ebersole, Lynn Redgrave and Ute Lemper; along with Lotte Lenya’s own recordings.

Further extending the song’s life was ‘The Saga of Lenny’ – a version devised with new lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, performed by Lauren Bacall for Leonard Bernstein’s 70th Birthday in 1988. All of these are on YouTube and I would testify are worth a watch.

In this show, Bebe performs the number with the bravado of a war-time songbird. She strides around with an old-school 1940s microphone back and forth across the stage as she progresses through the song’s distinct chronological sections, grounding the show centrally back to its identifying moniker and characterising an eponymous, engaging and multiply varied ‘Jenny’.

When not bound to microphones, Here Lies Jenny also involved the use of Ann Reinking’s “minimal but inventive” choreography to create striking visual images. Though perhaps not resembling the fast-paced, razzle-dazzle of Chicago, these patterns of movement are at times no less impactful. Bebe is dragged fluidly across a countertop, rolled sinuously down pairs of legs, centred in a dark tango (that one review likened as a potential metaphor for a ménage à trois), or spun backwards upside down onto Emamjomeh’s shoulder in the air – to name a few notable moments.

Not a dance show by any strict sense, all of these demands are nonetheless physically taxing. This is a matter of importance given the timing of the show.

What Bebe had long deemed a “peculiar” hip from her early twenties, begun causing notable pain when it “went from peculiar to downright bad in 2001” during Fosse on Broadway. It was recorded the “pain continued during [this] high-concept Kurt Weill revue” in 2004, such that performing this manner of movement in the show can have been no trivial feat. The next three years brought subsequent arthroscopic surgery for cartilage removal, and then total hip replacement.

That being considered, the show was able to run in the highly demanding manner it did for five months straight because of Ann Reinking’s assiduously crafted choreography.

The Zipper Theatre was the “funky downtown Manhattan space” that housed the show for that time. The timing of the production and the nature of the theatre played integral parts in the piece’s characterisation.

Roger took Bebe to see the theatre when they were devising the show, and to Bebe, it felt right. “There is this creative gesture that we are making and the gesture is completed if it’s in this place.” Not in some new, shiny theatre; but here, with a darkness and sense of history that created an evocative mood similar to the tone of the whole show “as soon as you walked into the building.” This was aided by the show beginning at 11pm each night – “absolutely an artistic choice” – given that what “happens between these five people, happens very late at night”, in a shadowy time of day filled by darkness and secrets.

Here Lies Jenny ended its run in New York in October 2004. But this did not mark the end of the piece. Bebe and her troupe took the show to San Francisco in the Spring the following year – after a seven month interim that included filming thirteen episodes of Law and Order: Trial by Jury, the aforementioned hip cartilage removal, and subsequent recovery.

The show was not deemed flawless by everyone who reviewed it. Some thought it too dark or wished for less abstraction and ambiguity. But as one article would conclude, “Faults aside, it’s hard not to recommend a show devoted to Kurt Weill,” ultimately providing a “unique and polished evening at the theatre.”

Roger Rees would reflect on the show, “Weill & Neuwirth work so well together” because Bebe’s “high standard of performance” means she is able to “delve deeply and go on forever” into material he likened to being as complex as Shakespeare.

It “demands a great deal from a performer, and she is equal to it,” Roger said. “She’s very deep in herself. There’s nothing made up about [her], which is a rare and beautiful thing. The match between performer and material is exquisite.”

This would likely mean a lot to Bebe, as the show itself meant a lot to Bebe. And still does several years later. She would cite it in 2012 as the “role she wish[ed] more people had seen”, as to her, it “was a beautiful, unusual piece of theatre”. Altogether, it was something ineffable and “bigger than the sum of its parts”.

“It’s something I've wanted to do, and I did instigate it,” she said, of putting the show together. But that’s not to say it was easy to helm matters. “For me to be in charge, makes me very uncomfortable.”

That the show got made at all then Bebe would recognise as “a testament to how deeply I love the material and how inspired it makes me.” Her trust in people like Leslie, Annie and Roger enabled the creation of such a project from the ground up that wouldn’t have otherwise existed. Thus, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, it was the combination of both personal drive, and also the shared collaboration of four people who all “love each other very much” that ultimately ‘made a hat where there never was a hat.’

It was even further an important show to her, because it was “a very private thing.” She’d describe Jenny as a very physical and emotional role – “the most personal of anything I've done.”

It clearly holds a special place in Bebe’s own heart. Undoubtedly, it would be poignant to revisit again. As we look to the near future of theatre with shows that could feasibly be staged as events start coming back, in tandem with the publicly expressed desire of people wanting to see Bebe back on stage again, this pre-existing, modestly-sized, inventive piece would be no bad suggestion.

How about a Here Lies Jenny reprise when theatre returns?

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Chicago at Long Beach, LA, 1992: A Story of Bebe Neuwirth, Choreography, Riots, Revivals, and Relevance

Recently and rather excitingly, more footage made its way to YouTube of the 1992 version of Chicago staged at Long Beach in LA, featuring Bebe Neuwirth as Velma and Juliet Prowse as Roxie.

Given its increased accessibility and visibility, this foregrounds the chance to talk about the show, explore some of its details, and look at the part it might have played as a contribution to the main ‘revival’ of Chicago in 1996 – which has given the show one of the most resonant and highly enduring legacies seen within the theatre ever.

This Civic Light Opera production at Long Beach was staged in 1992, four years before the ‘main’ revival made its appearance at Encores! or had its subsequent Broadway transfer, and it marked the first time a major revival of Chicago had been seen since the original 1975 show disappeared nearly 15 years previously.

This event is of particular significance given its position as the first step in the chain of events that make up part of this ‘new Chicago’ narrative and the resultant entire multiple-decade spanning impact of the show hereafter.

But for all of its pivotal status, it’s seldom discussed or remembered anywhere near as much as it should be.

This may be in part because of how little video or photographic record has remained in easily accessible form to date, and also because it only played for around two weeks in the first place. As such, it is a real treat on these occasions to get to see such incredible and unique material that would otherwise have been lost forever after such a brief existence some 30 years ago.

This earlier revival of the show still feels like what we have come to identify “Chicago” as in modern comprehension of the musical, most principally because the choreography was also done by Ann Reinking. As with the 1996 production, this meant dance was done “very much in the master’s style” – or Mr Bob Fosse.

The link below is time-stamped to Bebe and Juliet performing ‘Hot Honey Rag’. As one of the most infamous numbers in Broadway history, it’s undoubtedly a dance that has been watched many times over. But never before have I seen it done quite like this.

https://youtu.be/4HKkwtRE-II?t=2647

‘Hot Honey Rag’ was in fact formerly called ‘Keep It Hot’, and was devised by Fosse as “a compendium of all the steps he learned as a young man working in vaudeville and burlesque—the Shim Sham, the Black Bottom, the Joe Frisco, ‘snake hips,’ and cooch dancing”, making it into the “ultimate vaudeville dance act” for the ultimate finale number.

Ann would say about her choreographical style in relation to Fosse, “The parts where I really deviate is in adding this fugue quality to the numbers. For better or worse, my style is more complicated.” The ‘complexity’ and distinctness she speaks of is certainly evident in some of the sections of this particular dance. There are seemingly about double the periodicity of taps in Bebe and Juliet’s Susie Q sequence alone. One simply has to watch in marvel not just at the impressive synchronicity and in-tandem forward motion, but now also at the impossibly fast feet. Other portions that notably differ from more familiar versions of the dance and thus catch the eye are the big-to-small motion contrast after the rising ‘snake hips’ section, and all of the successive goofy but impeccably precise snapshot sequence of arm movements and poses.

More focus is required on the differences and similarities of this 1992 production compared against the original or subsequent revival, given its status and importance as a bridging link between the two.

The costumes in 1975 were designed by Patricia Zipprodt (as referenced in my previous post on costume design), notably earning her a Tony Award nomination. In this 1992 production, some costumes were “duplications” of Zipprodt’s originals, and some new designs by Garland Riddle – who added a “saucy/sassy array” in the “typical Fosse dance lingerie” style. It is here we begin to see some of the more dark, slinkiness that has become so synonymous with “Chicago” as a concept in public perception.

The sets from the original were designed by Tony Walton – again, nominated for a Tony – and were reused with completeness here. This is important as it shows some of the original dance concepts in their original contexts, given that portions of the initial choreography were “inextricably linked to the original set designs.” This sentiment is evident in the final portion of ‘Cell Block Tango’, pictured and linked at the following time-stamp below, which employs the use of mobile frame-like, ladder structures as a scaffold for surrounding movements, and also a metaphor for the presence of jail cell bars.

https://youtu.be/4HKkwtRE-II?t=741

Defining exactly how much of the initial choreography was carried across is an ephemeral line. Numbers were deemed “virtually intact” in the main review published during the show’s run from the LA Times – or even further, “clones” of the originals. It is thought that the majority of numbers here exhibit greater similarity to the 1975 production than the 1996 revival, except for ‘Hot Honey Rag’ which is regarded as reasonably re-choreographed. But even so, comparing against remaining visible footage of Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera from the original, or indeed alternatively against Bebe and Annie later in the revival, does not present an exact match to either.

This speaks to the adaptability and amorphousness of Fosse-dance within its broader lexicon. Fosse steps are part of a language that can be spoken with subtle variations in dialect. Even the same steps can appear slightly different when being used in differing contexts, by differing performers, in differing time periods.

It also speaks to some of the main conventions of musical theatre itself. Two main principles of the genre include its capacity for fluidity and its ability for the ‘same material’ to change and evolve over time; as well as the fact comparisons and comprehensions of shows across more permanent time spans are restricted by the availability of digital recordings of matter that is primarily intended to be singular and live.

Which versions of the same song do you want to look at when seeking comparisons?

Are you considering ‘Hot Honey Rag’ at a performance on the large stage at Radio City Music Hall at the Tony Awards in 1997? Or on a small stage for TV shows, like the Howard Cosell or Mike Douglas shows in 1975? Or on press reel footage from 1996 on the ‘normal’ stage context in a format that should be as close to a replica as possible of what was performed in person every night?

Bebe often remarks on and marvels at Ann’s capacity to travel across a stage. “If you want to know how to travel, follow Annie,” she says. This exhibits how one feature of a performance can be so salient and notable on its own, and yet so precariously dependent on the external features its constrained to – like scale.

Thus context can have a significant impact on how numbers are ultimately performed for these taped recordings and their subsequent impact on memory. Choreography must adjust accordingly – while still remaining within the same framework of the intention for the primary live performances.

This links to Ann’s own choreographical aptitude, in the amount of times it is referenced how she subtly adapted each new version of Chicago to tailor to individual performers’ specific merits and strengths as dancers.

Ann’s impact in shaping the indefinable definability of how Chicago is viewed, loved and remembered now is not to be understated.

An extensive 1998 profile – entitled “Chicago: Ann Reinking’s musical” – explores in part some of Ann’s approaches to creating and interacting with the material across a long time span more comprehensively. Speaking specifically to how she choreographed this 1992 production in isolation, Ann would say, “I knew that Bob’s point of view had to permeate the show, you couldn’t do it without honoring his style.” In an age without digital history at one’s fingertips, “I couldn’t remember the whole show. So I choreographed off the cuff and did my own thing. So you could say it was my take on his thoughts.” Using the same Fosse vocabulary, then – “it’s different. But it’s not different.”

One further facet that was directly carried across from the initial production were original cast members, like Barney Martin as returning as Amos, and Michael O'Haughey reprising his performance as Mary Sunshine. Kaye Ballard as Mama Morton and Gary Sandy as Billy Flynn joined Bebe and Juliet to make up the six principals in this new iteration of the show.

Bebe, Gary and Juliet can be seen below in a staged photo for the production at the theatre.

The venue responsible for staging this Civic Light Opera production was the Terrace Theatre in Long Beach in Los Angeles. Now defunct, this theatre and group in its 47 years of operation was credited as providing some of “the area’s most high profile classics”. Indeed, in roughly its final 10 years alone, it staged shows such as Hello Dolly!, Carousel, Wonderful Town (with Donna McKechnie), Gypsy, Sunday in the Park with George, La Cage aux Folles, Follies, 1776, Funny Girl, Bye Bye Birdie, Pal Joey, and Company. The production of Pal Joey saw a return appearance from Elaine Stritch, reprising her earlier performance as Melba Snyder with the memorable song ‘Zip’. This she had done notably some 40 years earlier in the original 1952 Broadway revival, while infamously and simultaneously signed as Ethel Merman’s understudy in Call Me Madam as she documented in Elaine Stritch at Liberty.

Juliet Prowse appeared as Phyllis in Follies in 1990, and Ann Reinking acted alongside Tommy Tune in Bye Bye Birdie in 1991, in successive preceding seasons before this Chicago was staged.

But for all of its commendable history, the theatre went out of business in 1996 just 4 years after this, citing bankruptcy. Competition provided in the local area by Andrew Lloyd Webber and his influx of staging’s of his British musicals was referenced as a contributing factor to the theatre group’s demise. This feat I suspect Bebe would have lamented or expressed remorse for, given some of her comments in previous years on Sir Lloyd Webber and the infiltration of shows from across the pond: “I had lost faith in Broadway because of what I call the scourge of the British musicals. They've dehumanized the stage [and] distanced the audience from the performers. I think 'Cats' is like Patient Zero of this dehumanization.”

That I recently learned that Cats itself can be rationalised in part as simply A Chorus Line with ears and tails I fear would not improve this assessment. In the late ‘70s when Mr Webber noticed an increase of dance ability across the general standard of British theatre performers, after elevated training and competition in response to A Chorus Line transferring to the West End, he wanted to find a way he could use this to an advantage in a format that was reliable to work. Thus another similarly individual, sequential and concept-not-plot driven dance musical was born. Albeit with slightly more drastic lycra leotards and makeup.

But back in America, the Terrace theatre could not be saved by even the higher incidence of stars and bigger Broadway names it was seeing in its final years, with these aforementioned examples such as Bebe, Annie, Tommy, Juliet, Donna, or Elaine. The possibility of these appearances in the first place were in part attributable to the man newly in charge as the company’s producer and artistic director – Barry Brown, Tony award-winning Broadway producer.

Barry is linked to Bebe’s own involvement with this production of Chicago, through his relationship – in her words – as “a friend of mine”.

At the time, Bebe was in LA filming Cheers, when she called Barry from her dressing room. Having been working in TV for a number of years, she would cite her keenness to find a return to the theatre, “[wanting] to be on a stage so badly” again. The theatre is the place she has long felt the most sense of ease in and belonging for, frequently referring to herself jokingly as a “theatre-rat” or remarking that it is by far the stage that is the “medium in which I am most comfortable, most at home, and I think I'm the best at.”

Wanting to be back in that world so intensely, she initially proposed the notion of just coming along to the production to learn the parts and be an understudy. Her desire to simply learn the choreography alone was so strong she would say, “You don’t have to pay me or anything!”

She’d had the impetus to make the call to Barry in the first place only after visiting Chita Rivera at her show in LA with a friend, David Gibson. At the time, the two did not know each other that well. Bebe had by this point not even had the direct interaction of taking over in succession for Chita in Kiss of the Spider Woman in London. This she would do the following year, with Chita guiding her generously through the intricacies of the Shaftesbury Theatre and the small, but invaluable, details known only to Chita that would be essential help in meeting stage cues and playing Aurora.

Bebe had already, however, stepped into Chita’s shoes multiple times, as Anita in West Side Story as part of a European tour in the late ‘70s, or again in a Cleveland Opera Production in 1988; and additionally as Nickie in the 1986 Broadway revival of Sweet Charity – both of which were roles Chita had originated on stage or screen. In total, Velma would bring the tally of roles that Bebe and Chita have shared through the years to four, amongst many years also of shared performance memories and friendship.

They may not have had a long history of personal rather than situational connections yet when Bebe visited her backstage at the end of 1991, but Chita still managed to play a notable part in the start of the first of Bebe’s many engagements with Chicago.

After Bebe hesitantly relayed her idea, Chita told her, “You should call! Just call!”

So call Bebe did. One should listen to Chita Rivera, after all.

Barry Brown rang her back 10 minutes later after suggesting the idea to Ann Reinking, who was otherwise intended to be playing Velma. The response was affirmative. “Oh let her play the part!”, Annie had exclaimed. And so begun Bebe’s, rather long and very important, journey with Chicago.

In 1992, this first step along the road to the ‘new Chicago’ was well received.

Ann Reinking with her choreography was making her first return to the Fosse universe since her turn in the 1986 Sweet Charity revival. Diametrically, Rob Marshall was staring his first association with Fosse material in providing the show’s direction – many years before he would go on to direct the subsequent film adaptation also. Together, they created a “lively, snappy, smarmy” show that garnered more attention than had been seen since the original closed.

“Bob Fosse would love [this production],” it was commended at the time, “Especially the song-and-dance performance of Bebe Neuwirth who knocks everyone’s socks off.” High praise.

Bebe was also singled out for her “unending energy”, but Juliet too received praise in being “sultry and funny”. Together, the pair were called “separate but equal knockouts” and an “excellent combination”.

Juliet was 56 at the time, and sadly died just four years later. Just one year after the production though, Juliet was recorded as saying, “In fact, we’re thinking of doing it next year and taking it out on the road.”

Evidently that plan never materialised. But it is interesting to note the varied and many comments that were made as to the possibility of the show having a further life.

Bebe at the time had no recollection that the show might be taken further, saying “I didn’t know anything about that.” Ann Reinking years later would remark “no one seemed to think that the time was necessarily ripe for a full-blown Broadway revival.” While the aforementioned LA Times review stated in 1992 there were “unfortunately, no current plans” for movement, it also expressed desire and a call to action for such an event. “Someone out there with taste, money and shrewdness should grab it.”

The expression that a show SHOULD move to Broadway is by no means an indication that a show WILL move. But this review clearly was of enough significance for it to be remembered and referenced by name by someone who was there when it came out at the time, Caitlin Carter, nearly 30 years later. Caitlin was one of the six Merry Murderesses, principally playing Mona (or Lipschitz), at each of this run, Encores!, and on Broadway. She recalled, “Within two days, we got this rave review from the LA Times, saying ‘You need to take the show to Broadway now!’” The press and surrounding discussions clearly created an environment in which “there was a lot of good buzz”, enough for her to reason, “I feel like it planted seeds… People started to think ‘Oh we need to revive this show!’”

The seeds might have taken a few years to germinate, but they did indeed produce some very successful and beautiful flowers when they ultimately did.

In contrast with one of the main talking points of the ‘new Chicago’ being its long performance span, one of the first things I mentioned about this 1992 iteration was the rather short length of its run. It is stated that previews started on April 30th, for an opening on May 2nd, with the show disappearing in its final performance on May 17th. Less than a fleeting 3 weeks in total.

Caitlin Carter discussed the 1992 opening on Stars in the House recently. It’s a topic of note given that their opening night was pushed back from the intended date by two days, meaning Ann Reinking and Rob Marshall had already left and never even saw the production. “The night we were supposed to open in Long Beach was the Rodney King riots.”

Local newspapers at the time when covering the show referenced this large and significant event, by noting the additional two performances added in compensation “because of recent interruptions in area social life.”

It sounds rather quaint put like that. In comparison, the horror and violence of what was actually going on can be statistically summated as ultimately leaving 63 people dead, over 2300 injured, and more than 12,000 having been arrested, in light of the aftermath of the treatment faced by Rodney King. Or more explicitly, the use of excessive violence against a black man at police hands with videotaped footage.

A slightly later published review wrote of how this staging was thus “timely” – in reference to an observed state of “the nation’s moral collapse”.

‘Timeliness’ is a matter often referenced when discussing why the 1996 revival too was of such success. The connection is frequently made as to how this time, the revival resonated with public sentiment so strongly – far more than in 1975 when the original appeared – in part because of the “exploding headlines surrounding the OJ Simpson murder case”. The resulting legal and public furore around this trial directly correlates with the backbone and heart of the musical itself.

I'm writing this piece now at the time of the ongoing trial to determine the verdict of George Floyd’s murder, another black man suffering excessive and ultimately fatal violence at police hands with videotaped footage.

I think the point is that this is never untimely. And that the nation is seldom not in some form of ‘moral collapse’, or facing events that have ramifications to do with the legal system and are emotionally incendiary on a highly public level.

Which perhaps is why Chicago worked so well not just in 1996, but also right up to the present day.

Undoubtedly, we live in a climate where the impact of events is determined not just by the events themselves, but also the manner in which they are reported in the media. Events involving some turmoil and public outrage at the state and outcome of the legal system are not getting any fewer or further between. But the emphasis on the media in an increasingly and unceasingly digital age is certainty only growing.

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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A retrospective on some of Broadway’s most important female costume designers across the last century

How much is our memory or perception of a production influenced by the manner in which we visually comprehend the characters for their physical appearance and attire? A lot.

How much attention in memory is often dedicated to celebrating the costume designers who create the visual forms we remember? Comparatively, not much.

Delving through the New York Public Library archives of late, I found I was able to zoom into pictures of productions like Sunday in the Park with George at a magnitude greater than before.

In doing so, I noticed myself marvelling at finer details on the costumes that simply aren’t visible from grainy 1985 proshots, or other lower resolution images.

And marvel I did.

At first, I began to set out to address the contributions made to the show by designer Patricia Zipprodt in collaboration with Ann Hould-Ward. Quickly I fell into a (rather substantial) tangent rabbit hole – concerning over a century’s worth of interconnected designers who are responsible for hundreds of some of the most memorable Broadway shows between them.

It is impossible to look at the work of just one or two of these women without also discussing the others that came before them or were inspired by them.

Journey with me then if you will on this retrospective endeavour to explore the work and legacy that some of these designers have created, and some of the contexts in which they did so.

A set of podcasts featuring Ann Hould-Ward, including Behind the Curtain (Ep. 229) and Broadway Nation (Eps. 17 and 18), invaluably introduce some of the information discussed here and, most crucially, provide a first-hand, verbal link back to this history. The latter show sets out the case for a “succession of dynamic women that goes back to the earliest days of the Broadway musical and continues right up to today”, all of whom “were mentored by one or more of the great [designers] before them, [all] became Tony award-winning [stars] in their own right, and [all] have passed on the [craft] to the next generation.”

A chronological, linear descendancy links these designers across multiple centuries, starting in 1880 with Aline Bernstein, then moving to Irene Sharaff, then to Patricia Zipprodt, then to the present day with Ann Hould-Ward. Other designers branch from or interact with this linear chronology in different ways, such as Florence Klotz and Ann Roth – who, like Patricia Zipprodt, were also mentored by Aline Bernstein – or Theoni V. Aldredge, who stands apart from this connected tree, but whose career closely parallels the chronology of its central portion. There were, of course, many other designers and women also working within this era that provided even further momentous contributions to the world of costume design, but in this piece, the focus will remain primarily on these seven figures.

As the main creditor of the designs for Sunday in the Park with George, let’s start with Patricia (Pat) Zipprodt.

Born in 1925, Pat studied at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York after winning a scholarship there in 1951. Through teaching herself “all of costume history by studying materials at the New York Public Library”, she passed her entrance exam to the United Scenic Artists Union in 1954. This itself was a feat only possible through Aline Bernstein’s pioneering steps in demanding and starting female acceptance into this same union for the first time just under 30 years previously.

Pat made her individual costume design debut a year after assisting Irene Sharaff on Happy Hunting in 1956 – Ethel Merman’s last new Broadway credit. Of the more than 50 shows she subsequently designed, some of Pat’s most significant musicals include: She Loves Me (1963) Fiddler on the Roof (1964) Cabaret (1966) Zorba (1968) 1776 (1969) Pippin (1972) Mack & Mabel (1974) Chicago (1975) Alice in Wonderland (1983) Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Sweet Charity (1986) Into the Woods (1987) - preliminary work

Other notable play credits included: The Little Foxes (1967) The Glass Menagerie (1983) Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1990)

Yes. One person designed all of those shows. Many of the most beloved pieces in modern musical theatre history. Somewhat baffling.

Her work notably earned her 11 Tony nominations, 3 wins, an induction into the Theatre Hall of Fame in 1992, and the Irene Sharaff award for lifetime achievement in costume design in 1997.

By 1983, Pat was one of the most well-respected designers of her era. When the offer for Sunday in the Park with George came in, she was less than enamoured by being confined to the ill-suited basements at Playwright’s Horizons all day, designing full costumes for a story not even yet in existence. From-the-ground-up workshops are common now, but at the time, Sunday was one of the first of its kind.

Rather than flatly declining, she asked Ann Hould-Ward, previously her assistant and intern who had now been designing for 2-3 years on her own, if she was interested in collaborating. She was. The two divided the designing between them, like Pat creating Bernadette’s opening pink and white dress, and Ann her final red and purple dress.

Which indeed leads to the question of the infamous creation worn in the opening number. No attemptedly comprehensive look at the costumes in Sunday would be complete without addressing it or its masterful mechanics.

To enable Bernadette to spring miraculously and seemingly effortlessly from her outer confines, Ann and Pat enlisted the help of a man with a “Theatre Magics” company in Ohio. Dubbed ‘The Iron Dress’, the gasp-inducing motion required a wire frame embedded into the material, entities called ‘moonwalker legs and feet’, and two garage door openers coming up through the stage to lever the two halves apart. The mechanism – highly impressive in its periods of functionality – wasn’t without its flaws. Ann recalls “there were nights during previews where [Bernadette] couldn’t get out of the dress”. Or worse, a night where “the dress closed up completely. And it wouldn’t open up again!”. As Bernadette finished her number, there was nothing else within her power she could do, so she simply “grabbed it under her arm and carried it off stage.”

What visuals. Evidently, the course of costume design is not always plain sailing.

This sentiment is exhibited in the fact design work is a physical materialisation of other creators’ visions, thus foregrounding the tricky need for collaboration and compromise. This is at once a skill, very much part of the job description, and not always pleasant – in navigating any divides between one’s own ideas and those of other people.

Sunday in the Park with George was no exception in requiring such a moment of compromise and revision. With the show already on Broadway in previews, Stephen Sondheim decreed the little girl Louise’s dress “needs to be white” – not the “turquoisey blue” undertone Pat and Ann had already created it with. White, to better spotlight the painting’s centre.

Requests for alterations are easier to comprehend when they are done with equanimity and have justification. Sondheim said he would pay for the new dress himself, and in Seurat’s original painting, the little girl is very brightly the focal centre point of the piece. On this occasion, all agreed that Sondheim was “absolutely right”. A new dress was made.

Other artistic differences aren’t always as amicable.

In Pat Zipprodt’s first show, Happy Hunting with Ethel Merman in 1956, some creatives and directors were getting in vociferous, progress-stopping arguments over a dress and a scene in which Ethel was to jump over a fence. Then magically, the dress went missing. Pat was working at the time as an assistant to the senior Irene Sharaff, and Pat herself was the one to find the dress the next morning. It was in the basement. Covered in black and wholly unwearable. Sharaff had spray painted the dress black in protest against the “bickering”. Indeed, Sharaff disappeared, not to be seen again until the show arrived on Broadway.

Those that worked with her soon found that Sharaff was one to be listened to and respected – as Hal Prince did during West Side Story. After the show opened in 1957, Hal replaced her 40 pairs of meticulously created and individually dyed, battered, and re-dyed jeans with off-the-rack copies. His reasoning was this: “How foolish to be wasting money when we can make a promotional arrangement with Levi Strauss to supply blue jeans free for program credit?” A year later, he looked at their show, and wondered “What’s happened?”

What had happened was that the production had lost its spark and noticeable portions of its beauty, vibrancy, and subtle individuality. Sharaff’s unique creations quickly returned, and Hal had learned his lesson. By the time Sharaff’s mentee, Pat, had “designed the most expensive rags for the company to wear” with this same idiosyncratic dyeing process for Fiddler on the Roof in 1964, Hal recognised the value of this particularity and the disproportionately large payoff even ostensibly simple garments can bring.

Irene Sharaff is remembered as one of the greatest designers ever. Born in 1910, she was mentored by Aline Bernstein, first assisting her on 1928’s original staging of Hedda Gabler.

Throughout her 56 year career, she designed more than 52 Broadway musicals. Some particularly memorable entities include: The Boys from Syracuse (1938) Lady in the Dark (1943) Candide (1956) Happy Hunting (1956) Sweet Charity (1966) The King and I (1951, 1956) West Side Story (1957, 1961) Funny Girl (1964, 1968)

For the last three productions, she would reprise her work on Broadway in the subsequent and indelibly enduring film adaptations of the same shows.

Her work in the theatre earned her 6 Tony nominations and 1 win, though her work in Hollywood was perhaps even more well rewarded – earning 5 Academy Awards from a total of 15 nominations.

Some of Sharaff’s additional film credits included: Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) Ziegfeld Follies (1946) An American in Paris (1951) Call Me Madam (1953) A Star is Born (1954) – partial Guys and Dolls (1955) Cleopatra (1963) Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) Hello Dolly! (1969) Mommie Dearest (1981)

It’s a remarkable list. But it is too more than just a list.

Famously, Judy’s red scarlet ballgown in Meet Me in St. Louis was termed the “most sophisticated costume [she’d] yet worn on the screen.”

It has been written that Sharaff’s “last film was probably the only bad one on which she worked,” – the infamous pillar of camp culture, Mommie Dearest, in 1981 – “but its perpetrators knew that to recreate the Hollywood of Joan Crawford, it required an artist who understood the particular glamour of the Crawford era.” And at the time, there were very few – if any – who could fill that requirement better than Irene Sharaff.

The 1963 production of Cleopatra is perhaps an even more infamous endeavour. Notoriously fraught with problems, the film was at that point the most expensive ever made. It nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox, in light of varying issues like long production delays, a revolving carousel of directors, the beginning of the infamous Burton/Taylor affair and resulting media storm, and bouts of Elizabeth’s ill-health that “nearly killed her”. In that turbulent environment, Sharaff is highlighted as one of the figures instrumental in the film’s eventual completion – “adjusting Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes when her weight fluctuated overnight” so the world finally received the visual spectacle they were all ardently anticipating.

But even beyond that, Sharaff’s work had impacts more significantly and extensively than the immediate products of the shows or films themselves. Within a few years of her “vibrant Thai silk costumes for ‘The King and I’ in 1951, …silk became Thailand’s best-known export.” Her designs changed the entire economic landscape of the country.

It’s little wonder that in that era, Sharaff was known as “one of the most sought-after and highest-paid people in her profession.” With discussions and favourable comparisions alongside none other than Old Hollywood’s most beloved designer, Edith Head, Irene deserves her place in history to be recognised as one of the foremost significant pillars of the design world.

In this respected position, Irene Sharaff was able to pass on her knowledge by mentoring others too as well as Patricia Zipprodt, like Ann Roth and Florence Klotz, who have in turn gone on to further have their own highly commendable successes in the industry.

Florence “Flossie” Klotz, born in 1920, is the only Broadway costume designer to have won six Tony awards. She did so, all of them for musicals, and all of them directed by Hal Prince, in a marker of their long and meaningful collaboration.

Indeed, Flossie’s life partner was Ruth Mitchell – Hal’s long-time assistant, and herself legendary stage manager, associate director and producer of over 43 shows. Together, Flossie and Ruth were dubbed a “power couple of Broadway”.

Flossie’s shows with Hal included: Follies (1971) A Little Night Music (1973) Pacific Overtures (1976) Grind (1985) Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1993) Show Boat (1995)

And additional shows amongst her credits extend to: Side by Side by Sondheim (1977) On the Twentieth Century (1978) The Little Foxes (1981) A Doll’s Life (1982) Jerry’s Girls (1985)

Earlier in her career, she would first find her footing as an assistant designer on some of the Golden Age’s most pivotal shows like: The King and I (1951) Pal Joey (1952) Silk Stockings (1955) Carousel (1957) The Sound of Music (1959)

The original production of Follies marked the first time Florence was seriously recognised for her work. Before this point, she was not yet anywhere close to being considered as having broken into the ranks of Broadway’s “reigning designers” of that era. Follies changed matters, providing both an indication of the talent of her work to come, and creating history in being commended for producing some of the “best costumes to be seen on Broadway” in recent memory – as Clive Barnes wrote in The New York Times. Fuller discussion is merited given that the costumes of Follies are always one of the show’s central points of debate and have been crucial to the reception of the original production as well as every single revival that has followed in the 50 years since.

In this instance, Ted Chapin would record from his book ‘Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’ how “the costumes were so opulent, they put the show over-budget.” Moreover, that “talking about the show years later, [Florence] said the costumes could not be made today. ‘Not only would they cost upwards of $2 million, but we used fabrics from England that aren’t even made anymore.’” Broadway then does indeed no longer look like Broadway now.

This “surreal tableau” Flossie created, including “three-foot-high ostrich feather headdresses, Marie Antoinette wigs adorned with musical instruments and birdcages, and gowns embellished with translucent butterfly wings”, remains arguably one of the most impressive and jaw-dropping spectacles to have ever graced a Broadway stage even to this day.

As for Ann Roth, born in 1931, she is still to this day making her own history – recently becoming the joint eldest nominee at 89 for an Oscar (her 5th), for her work on 2020′s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Now as of April 26th, Ann has just made history even further by becoming the oldest woman to win a competitive Academy Award ever. She has an impressive array of Hollywood credits to her name in addition to a roster of Broadway design projects, which have earned her 12 Tony nominations.

Some of her work in the theatre includes: The Women (1973) The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1978) They're Playing Our Song (1979) Singin' in the Rain (1985) Present Laughter (1996) Hedda Gabler (2009) A Raisin in the Sun (2014) Shuffle Along (2016) The Prom (2018)

Making her way over to Hollywood in the ‘70s, she has left an indelible and lasting visual impact on the arts through films like: Klute (1971) The Goodbye Girl (1977) Hair (1979) 9 to 5 (1980) Silkwood (1983) Postcards from the Edge (1990) The Birdcage (1996) The Hours (2002) Mamma Mia! (2008) Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020)

It’s clear from this branching 'tree' to see how far the impact of just one woman passing on her time and knowledge to others who are starting out can spread.

This art of acting as a conduit for valuable insights was something Irene Sharaff had learned from her own mentor and predecessor, Aline Bernstein. Aline was viewed as “the first woman in the [US] to gain prominence in the male-dominated field of set and costume design,” and was too a strong proponent of passing on the unique knowledge she had acquired as a pioneer and forerunner in the field.

Born in 1880, Bernstein is recognised as “one of the first theatrical designers in New York to make sets and costumes entirely from scratch and craft moving sets” while Broadway was still very much in its infancy of taking shape as the world we know today. This she did for more than one hundred shows over decades of her work in the theatre. These shows included the spectacular Grand Street Follies (1924-27), and original premier productions of plays like some of the following: Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1928) J.M Barrie’s Peter Pan (1928) Grand Hotel (1930) Phillip Barry’s Animal Kingdom (1932) Chekov’s The Seagull (1937) Both Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour (1934) and The Little Foxes (1939)

Beyond direct design work, Bernstein founded what was to become the Neighbourhood Playhouse (the notable New York acting school) and was influential in the “Little Theatre movement that sprung up across America in 1910”. These were the “forerunners of the non-profit theatres we see today” and she continued to work in this realm even after moving into commercial theatre.

Bernstein also established the Museum of Costume Art, which later became the Costume Institute of the Met Museum of Art, where she served as president from 1944 to her death in 1955. This is what the Met Gala raises money for every year. So for long as you have the world’s biggest celebrities parading up and down red carpets in high fashion pieces, you have Aline Bernstein to remember – as none of that would be happening without her.

During the last fifteen years of her life, Bernstein taught and served as a consultant in theatre programs at academic institutions including Yale, Harvard, and Vassar – keen to connect the community and facilitate an exchange of wisdom and information to new descendants and the next generation.

Many designers came somewhere out of this linear descendancy. One notable exception, with no American mentor, was Theoni V. Aldredge. Born in 1922 and trained in Greece, Theoni emigrated to the US, met her husband, Tom Aldredge – himself of Into the Woods and theatre notoriety – and went on to design more than 100 Broadway shows. For her work, she earned 3 Tony wins from 11 nominations from projects such as: Anyone Can Whistle (1964) A Chorus Line (1975) Annie (1977) Barnum (1980) 42nd Street (1980) Woman of the Year (1981) Dreamgirls (1981) La Cage aux Folles (1983) The Rink (1984)

One of the main features that typify Theoni’s design style and could be attributed to a certain unique and distinctive “European flair” is her strong use of vibrant colour. This is a sentiment instantly apparent in looking longitudinally at some of her work.

In Ann Hould-Ward’s words, Theoni speaks to the “great generosity” of this profession. Theoni went out of her way to call Ann apropos of nothing early in the morning at some unknown hotel just after Ann won her first Tony for Beauty and the Beast in 1994, purring “Dahhling, I told you so!” These were women that had their disagreements, yes, but ultimately shared their knowledge and congratulated each other for their successes.

Similar anecdotal goodwill can be found in Pat Zipprodt’s call to Ann on the night of the 1987 Tony’s – where Ann was nominated for Into the Woods – with Pat singing “Have wonderful night! You’re not gonna win! …[laugh] but I love you anyway!”

This well-wishing phone call is all the more poignant considering Pat was originally involved with doing the costumes for Into the Woods, in reprise of their previous collaboration on Sunday in the Park with George.

If, for example, Theoni instinctively is remembered for bright colour, one of the features that Pat is first remembered for is her dedicated approach to research for her designs. Indeed, the New York Public Library archives document how the remaining physical evidence of this research she conducted is “particularly thorough” in the section on Into the Woods. Before the show finally hit Broadway in 1987 with Ann Hould-Ward’s designs, records show Pat had done extensive investigation herself into materials, ideas and prospective creations all through 1986.

Both Ann and Pat worked on the show out of town in try-outs at the Old Globe theatre in San Diego. But when it came to negotiating Broadway contracts, the situation became “tricky” and later “untenable” with Pat and the producers. Ann was “allowed to step in and design” the show alone instead.

The lack of harboured resentment on Patricia’s behalf speaks to her character and the pair’s relationship, such that Ann still considered her “my dear and beloved friend” for over 25 years, and was “at [Pat’s] bed when she died”.

Though they parted ways ultimately for Into the Woods, you can very much feel a continuation between their work on Sunday in the Park with George a few years previously, especially considering how tactile the designs appear in both shows. This tactility is something the shows’ book writer and director, James Lapine, was specific about. Lapine would remark in his initial ideas and inspirations that he wanted a graphic quality to the costumes on this occasion, like “so many sketches of the fairy-tales do”.

Ann fed that sentiment through her final creations, with a wide variety of materials and textures being used across the whole show – like “ribbons with ribbons seamed through them”, “all sorts of applique”, “frothy organzas and rembriodered organzas”. A specific example documents how Joanna Gleason’s shawl as the Baker’s Wife was pieced together, cut apart, and put back together again before resembling its final form.

This highly involved principle demonstrates another manner of inventive design that uses a different method but maintains the aim of particularity as discussed previously with Patricia and Irene’s complex dyeing and re-dyeing process. Pushing the confines of what is possible with the materials at hand to create a variety of colours, shades, and textures ultimately produces visual entities that are complex to look at. Confusing the eye like this “holds attention longer”, Ann maintains, which makes viewers look more intricately at individual segments of the production, and enables the costume design to guide specific focus by not immediately ceding attention elsewhere.

Understanding the methods behind the resultant impacts of a show can be as, if not more, important and interesting than the final product of the show itself sometimes. A phone call Ann had last August with James Lapine reminds us this is a notion we may be treated more to in the imminent future, when he called to enquire as to the location of some design sketches for the book he is working on (Putting It Together: How Stephen Sondheim and I Created 'Sunday in the Park with George') to document more thoroughly the genesis of the pair’s landmark and beloved musical.

In continuation of the notion that origin stories contain their own intrinsic value beyond any final product, Ann first became Pat’s intern through a heart-warming and tenacious tale. Ann sent letters to three notable designers when finishing graduate school. Only Patricia Zipprodt replied, with a message to say she “didn’t have anything now but let me think about it and maybe in the future.” It got to the future, and Ann took the encouragement of her previous response to try and contact Pat again. Upon being told she was out of town with a show, Ann proceeded to chase Pat through various phone books and telephone wires across different states and theatres until she finally found her. She was bolstered by the specifics of their call and ran off the phone to write an imploring note – hinging on the premise of a shared connection to Montana. She took an arrow, stabbed it through a cowboy hat, put it in a box with the note that was written on raw hide, and mailed it to New York with bated breath and all of her hopes and wishes.

Pat was knife-edgingly close to missing the box, through a matter of circumstance and timing. Importantly, she didn’t. Ann got a response, and it boded well: “Alright alright alright! You can come to New York!”

Subsequently, Ann’s long career in the design world of the theatre has included notable credits such as: Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Into the Woods (1987, 1997) Falsettos (1992) Beauty and the Beast (1994, 1997) Little Me (1998) Company (2006) Road Show (2008) The People in the Picture (2011) Merrily We Roll Along (1985, 1990, 2012, segment in Six by Sondheim 2013) Passion (2013) The Visit (2015) The Color Purple (2015) The Prince of Egypt (2021)

From early days in the city sleeping on a piece of foam on a friend’s floor, to working collaboratively alongside Pat, to using what she’d learnt from her mentor in designing whole shows herself, and going on to win prestigious awards for her work – the cycle of the theatre and the importance of handing down wisdom from those who possess it is never more evident.

As Ann summarises it meaningfully, “the theatre is a continuing, changing, evolving, emotional ball”. It’s raw, it’s alive, it needs people, it needs stories, it needs documentation of history to remember all that came before.

In periods where there can physically be no new theatre, it’s made ever the more clear for the need not to forget what value there is in the tales to be told from the past.

Through this retrospective, we’ve seen the tour de force influence of a relatively small handful of women shaping a relatively large portion of the visual scape of some of Broadway’s brightest moments.

But it’s significant to consider how disproportionate this female impact was, in contrast with how massively male dominated the rest of the creative theatre industry has been across the last century.

Assessing variations in attitudes and approaches to relationships and families in these women in the context of their professional careers over this time period presents interesting observations. And indeed, manners in which things have changed over the past hundred years.

As Ann Hould-Ward speaks of her experiences, one of her reflections is how much this was a “very male dominated world”. And one that didn’t accommodate for women with families who also wanted careers. As an intern, she didn’t even feel she could tell Patricia Zipprodt about the existence of her own young child until after 6 months of working with her. With all of these male figures around them, it would be often questioned “How are you going to do the work? How are you going to manage [with a family]?”, and that it was “harder to convince people that you were going to be able to do out-of-towns, to be able to go places.” Simply put, the industry “didn't have many designers who were married with children.”

Patricia herself in the previous generation demonstrates this restricting ethos. “In 1993, Zipprodt married a man whose proposal she had refused some 43 years earlier.” She had just newly graduated college and “she declined [his proposal] and instead moved to New York.” Faced with the family or career conundrum, she chose the latter. By the 1950s, it then wasn’t seen as uncommon to have both, it was seen as impossible.

Her husband died just five years after the pair were married in 1998, as did Patricia herself the following year. One has to wonder if alternative decisions would’ve been made and lives lived differently if she’d experienced a different context for working women in her younger life.

But occupying any space in the theatre at all was only possible because of the efforts of and strides made by women in previous generations.

When Aline Bernstein first started designing for Broadway theatre in 1916, women couldn’t even vote. She became the first female member of the United Scenic Artists of America union in 1926, but only because she was sworn in under the false and male moniker of brother Bernstein. In fact, biographies often centralise on her involvement in a “passionate” extramarital love affair with novelist Thomas Wolfe – disproportionately so for all of her remarkable contributions to the theatrical, charitable and academic worlds, and instead having her life defined through her interactions with men.

As such, it is apparent how any significant interactions with men often had direct implications over a woman’s career, especially in this earlier half of the century. Only in their absence was there comparative capacity to flourish professionally.

Irene Sharaff had no notable relationships with men. She did however have a significant partnership with Chinese-American painter and writer Mai-mai Sze from “the mid-1930s until her death”. Though this was not (nor could not be) publicly recognised or documented at the time, later by close acquaintances the pair would be described as a “devoted couple”, “inseparable”, and as holding “love and admiration for one another [that] was apparent to everyone who knew them.” This manner of relationship for Irene in the context of her career can be theorised as having allowed her the capacity to “reach a level of professional success that would have been unthinkable for most straight women of [her] generation”.

Moving forwards in time, Irene and Mai-mai presently rest where their ashes are buried under “two halves of the same rock” at the entrance to the Music and Meditation Pavilion at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge, which was “built following a donation by Sharaff and Sze”. I postulate that this site would make for an interesting slice of history and a perhaps more thought-provoking deviation for tourists away from being shepherded up and down past King’s College on King’s Parade as more usually upon a visit to Cambridge.

In this more modern society at the other end of this linear tree of remarkable designers, options for women to be more open and in control of their personal and professional lives have increased somewhat.

Ann Hould-Ward later in her career would no longer “hide that [she] was a mother”, in fear of not being taken seriously. Rather, she “made a concerted effort to talk about [her] child”, saying “because at that point I had a modicum of success. And I thought it was supportive for other women that I could do this.”

If one aspect passed down between these women in history are details of the craft and knowledge accrued along the way, this statement by Ann represents an alternative facet and direction that teaching of the future can take. Namely, that by showing through example, newer generations will be able to comprehend the feasibility of occupying different options and spaces as professional women. Existing not just as designers, or wives, or mothers, or all, or one – but as people, who possess an immense talent and skill. And that it is now not just possible, but common, to be multifaceted and live the way you want to live while working.

This is not to say all of the restrictions and barriers faced by women in previous generations have been removed, but rather that as we build a larger wealth of history of women acting with autonomy and control to refer back to, things can only get easier to build upon for the future.

Who knows what Broadway and theatre in general will look like when it returns – both on the surface with respect to this facet of costume design, and also more deeply as to the inner machinations of how shows are put together and presented. The largely male environment and the need to tick corporate and commercial boxes will not have vanished. One can only hope that this long period of stasis will have foregrounded the need and, most importantly, provided the time to revaluate the ethos in which shows are often staged, and the ways in which minority groups – like women – are able to work and be successful within the theatre in all of the many shows to come.

Notable sources:

Photographs – predominantly from the New York Public Library digital archives. IBDB – the Internet Broadway Database. Broadway Nation Podcast (Eps. #17 and #18), David Armstrong, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Behind the Curtain: Broadway’s Living Legends Podcast (Ep. #229), Robert W Schneider and Kevin David Thomas, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Sense of Occasion, Harold Prince, 2017. Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’, Ted Chapin, 2003. Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954–1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes, Stephen Sondheim, 2010. The Complete Book of 1970s Broadway Musicals, Dan Deitz, 2015. The Complete Book of 1980s Broadway Musicals, Dan Dietz, 2016. Inventory of the Patricia Zipprodt Papers and Designs at the New York Public Library, 2004 – https://www.nypl.org/sites/default/files/archivalcollections/pdf/thezippr.pdf Extravagant Crowd’s Carl Van Vecten’s Portraits of Women, Aline Bernstein – http://brbl-archive.library.yale.edu/exhibitions/cvvpw/gallery/bernstein.html Jewish Heroes & Heroines of America: 150 True Stories of American Jewish Heroism – Aline Bernstein, Seymour Brody, 1996 – https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/aline-bernstein Ann Hould-Ward Talks Original “Into the Woods” Costume Designs, 2016 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EPe77c6xzo&ab_channel=Playbill American Theatre Wing’s Working in the Theatre series, The Design Panel, 1993 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sp-aMQHf-U&t=2167s&ab_channel=AmericanTheatreWing Journal of the History of Ideas Blog, Mai-mai Sze and Irene Sharaff in Public and in Private, Erin McGuirl, 2016 – https://jhiblog.org/2016/05/16/mai-mai-sze-and-irene-sharaff-in-public-and-in-private/ Irene Sharaff’s obituary, The New York Times, Marvine Howe, 1993 – https://www.nytimes.com/1993/08/17/obituaries/irene-sharaff-designer-83-dies-costumes-won-tony-and-oscars.html Obituary: Irene Sharaff, The Independent, David Shipman, 2011 – https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-irene-sharaff-1463219.html Broadway Design Exchange – Florence Klotz – https://www.broadwaydesignexchange.com/collections/florence-klotz Obituary: Florence Klotz, The New York Times, 2006 – https://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/03/obituaries/03klotz.html

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