Mr. Blackwell

1922-2008

He started out as an actor in the late 50s, and was the understudy for a Broadway play called Dead End. He played the role exactly once. Apparently, that was enough to convince him that he should change careers.

I'm missing the fashion gene myself, so I never saw the point of his annual Worst-Dressed List. But nobody could argue with him the year he placed singer Bjork on the list, after her hilarious gown worn on the Oscar broadcast:

Blackwell commented, "She sings in the dark, and dresses there, too."

Ellen DeGeneres did not land on his list when she spoofed the dress at the following Emmy awards.






Blackwell's role as purveyor of all that is fashionable has long since been obliterated by the catty red carpet dwellers of current award ceremonies. Nobody really cares when he slithers out of obscurity once a year to take aim at celebrities. I'm remembering Anthony's remarks about him on that Designing Women episode:

"Where does this guy get off calling Liz Taylor the worst dressed woman in the world? Hasn't this dude ever been to the bus station?"

Appropriately, Mr. Blackwell's first name was Dick.

My Mother's Music

My mother was a musical soul, having played the piano since she was a tot. Throughout my childhood, I recall flipping through her album collection. She was attracted to jazzy, upbeat tunes, and our records included Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Sergio Mendes and Brazil '66, and the Ramsey Lewis Trio.

But when she was in mellow moods, she preferred melodious male voices. We owned several albums by the likes of Andy Williams, Jack Jones, and other crooners of the 50s and 60s. (My father's taste mirrored hers, with favorites like Peggy Lee, Dusty Springfield, and Andy's homicidal wife, Claudine Longet).

A particular favorite of my mother's was a trio called The Lettermen, who gained some fame in the 60s and 70s, recording melodious covers of current popular songs. The album most embedded in my memory was a live recording of one of their concerts, filled with upbeat numbers sung in close harmony. The Lettermen closed this concert (I think they still close concerts this way) with an acappella song called "I Believe." We were not an overly-religious family, but I like to think that we were a spiritual one, though we did not show it often. This song reflects that spirituality, and was my mother's favorite song.

In the early pages of this blog, I wrote a letter to my mother, and followed it up with another a year later. Of course, those letters were mostly for me, as I try, a quarter of a century after the fact, to make sense of her death.

If my mother had lived, she would be turning 80 years old today. In her honor and in her memory, the entry below contains a short slide show of her younger years, and the years in which I remember her.

I Believe

Edie Adams

1927-2008

Adams led a prolific and widely varied career on stage, screen, television, and the nightclub circuit. A graduate of Julliard's music department, she burst onto Broadway playing Rosalind Russell's sister in the musical Wonderful Town. Three years later, she brought comic strip character Daisy Mae to life in Li'l Abner, a role for which she won the Tony. By then she had met and married television pioneer Ernie Kovacs, and appeared frequently on his program.

Though she lost her role in the film version of Li'l Abner to Leslie Parrish (go here for that Dance Party!), she appeared in many other films of the 60s, including The Apartment, The Best Man, Lover Come Back, and Under the Yum Yum Tree.

In 1963, she held her own among what may be the largest gathering of first-class comics ever to appear in a single film, when she played a dentist's wife in Stanley Kramer's It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. Here is a still from that now iconic film, where she is surrounded by Sid Caesar, Phil Silvers, Buddy Hackett, Mickey Rooney, and Peter Falk:

Adams may be best remembered as the voice, and body, for Muriel Cigars. Her glamorous image and knock-out figure did not hide the fact that she was a gifted mimic, and her trademark slogan, delivered as a salute to Mae West, became an American catchphrase for over 19 years:

"Pick One Up and Smoke it Sometime..."

It's been estimated that while Adams starred in their commercials, Muriel increased their sales ten-fold.

Adams endured more than her share of personal sorrow, as she lost her first husband (Kovacs) in a car accident in 1962. She was left with a staggering debt to the IRS, which she struggled to repay. Twenty years later, she lost her daughter Mia in another car accident.

Yesterday, she passed away from pneumonia and cancer.

Adams created a bit of television history in 1960, in a guest starring role which has since become quite famous. Along with her husband Kovacs, she appeared in the final episode of the I Love Lucy franchise (at this point it was called the Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour). The Arnaz's marriage had crumbled, and divorce papers were filed at the completion of this episode. In it, Adams, accompanied by Vivian Vance on the piano, sang a simple, delicate rendition of an old standard.

It was said that the crew taping the episode was in tears.

That's All

New York State of Mind

As my period of unemployment has lengthened, I've cast my net wider, to include New York auditions. I spent three days last week negotiating the Big Apple, in order to attend a general audition and two callbacks.



I usually stay overnight with my sister in a commuter town called South Salem, NY, about a 45 minute train ride north of Manhattan. This time, however, that option was not open to me, so I booked a cheapo rate (thanks, Priceline) at a hotel in Connecticut. Why Connecticut, you may query? Well, I had received a callback for a production at the Seven Angels Theatre in Waterbury, CT. I've auditioned a few times over the years at this small and homey theatre, and had in fact made the schlep up a few weeks earlier to attend the first call for their upcoming production of The Producers. It was a callback for this production which brought me back to the area.



I made the five hour drive easily, on Monday, and settled into the hotel. My callback was scheduled for Tuesday at noon. The theatre was located about 45 minutes by freeway from my digs. I arrived at the theatre about half an hour early, and was astonished at the number of parked cars outside. The parking lot, the street, even the construction site across the street, were packed. This was a dead give-away that Seven Angels had called back every actor in the tri-state area.




Not a good sign.




My heart sinking a bit, I found a spot under a tree, next to a ditch, and trudged across the street to the theatre. Since I had been there before, I was not surprised by the banner which hung above the front entrance, announcing that Seven Angels Theatre was also the Nunsense Museum. Yes, there is such a thing.












In honor of the series of musicals about tap-dancing nuns, the theatre had turned their lobby into a museum. (This is not quite as weird as it sounds; the artistic director of Seven Angels was an original cast member of those musicals, and had collected memorabilia along the way.)

















I entered the lobby to find it absolutely packed with people. Well, not just people. Old people. Many, many old people. Most of them female, and all of them wearing tags which said, "Hello, my name is _______". It crossed my mind, just for a moment, that this version of The Producers was going to use actual senior citizens in its big production number featuring Little Old Ladies:

I dismissed that thought when I noticed that there was no sign-in table, no intern greeting actors, absolutely nothing to indicate that callbacks for the show were in progress. I had stumbled upon some kind of Senior Citizens' Fieldtrip to the Nunsense Museum. I went up to the box office and found a very helpful lady who looked at me blankly when I announced I was "here for the callbacks for The Producers."





Can you see this coming? The Box Office lady called the casting director's cellphone, and gained the information that callbacks were indeed being held. On 54th Street. In Manhattan.





This caster is a lovely lady named Renee, who has been kind to me since I first auditioned for her theatre five years ago, so she agreed to work me into the callbacks if I could get down to The City. I assured her I could, and hopped in the car. I estimated I could get to Manhattan in about an hour and a half, and while I dislike driving in New York City, I have done it often enough to be undaunted by the possibility. Still, when I passed a freeway sign announcing the exit for the train station, I made a snap decision to take the train into the city instead. I pulled into a municipal garage in Waterbury, parked the car, and dashed across the street to a train which was waiting at the station. I asked the porter if this train would take me to Manhattan?



She replied, rather dryly, "Eventually."





It was only in retrospect that I realized I should have listened more closely to her answer. The train did indeed deliver me to Grand Central Station, a whopping two and a half hours later. I had stepped onto a train which wandered all over Connecticut before depositing me in Bridgeport, after which my connecting train wandered all over New York. I didn't even get excited when we stopped in New Rochelle, and I realized this was the train Rob Petrie must have taken every day to get into the city to write for the Alan Brady Show.






I arrived at the audition site three hours late, but was greeted warmly by Renee, and I was soon ushered into the chamber. I sang my song, and was given two scenes to read (the same two I had read at the initial audition). Only a minute or so after I had stepped back into the hall to prep the sides, the choreographer popped her head out the door and said, "We're running so far behind, why don't you take those home and bring them with you at the dance call tomorrow."






Dance call?







Yep, I was being called back to dance the next day. This is rarely good news for me, for though I am not a bad dancer, I am not a quick learner and always fumble at such auditions. Never mind, I was glad not to have been eliminated at this point, so I agreed.




I dashed back to Grand Central in time to climb aboard the rush-hour return train. We repeated the wandering through New York, and I didn't even get excited when we passed through Brewster, and I realized this was the train which budding actress Ann Marie took when she moved to the city to become a star.











I was deposited in Bridgeport, CT, to change trains, but not before we passed through Tuckahoe, NY, when I have to confess, my mind wandered to the neighborhood in which my favorite limousine liberal used to live.








My connecting train in Bridgeport was undergoing mechanical difficulties, so I spent a full hour on the platform before finally making my connection. Another hour on the train, then another 45 minute drive back to the hotel, and I'd really had it with New York Auditions...





Except I had two more the next day.






Wednesday morning I checked out of the hotel and hit the road toward Manhattan. As I said, I have driven into The City often, and have found the best way to negotiate the traffic is to cross the George Washington Bridge and land on the upper west side. Often, I can find street parking there, but only if the timing is such that the crazy Alternate Side Of The Street Parking is causing the locals to rearrange their cars. Sadly, Wednesday is the one weekday which does not require one side of the street to be free for street cleaners, so nobody was moving their cars. I finally pulled into a garage and hopped on the subway to midtown.











My dance callback was not until 2, but I had decided, since I was already in the City, to attend the general audition for Opus, being produced at the Florida Studio Theatre. I had some success in Opus at the Washington Stage Guild a few years ago, and look forward to tackling that gem again. I arrived at the audition site just in time to snag the last available appointment for the day.








I had about two hours to kill before my appointment, and herein lies the problem I have always faced when attending a New York Auditions Tour: what to do with myself between auditions. I tend to want a quiet spot to sit, read, think, prep, snooze, whatever. No such place exists in Midtown Manhattan. The sidewalks were jammed with people (it was a matinee day for most of Broadway, and much of Off-Broadway, so there were even more pedestrians than usual, fighting for space), and the streets were clogged with trucks, buses, cabs, construction vehicles, etc etc etc, all making noise, spewing fumes, honking horns, and generally creating the kind of chaos which I really hate. It is impossible to find a quiet spot, even in a Starbucks or a restaurant or anywhere. I finally walked over to the Equity building to sit in their lounge area, but of course, auditions were ongoing there as well, and the place was full of actors jabbering about their lives.





As for my auditions themselves, well. The Opus general was simply presenting a monologue for a NY casting director who had very little interest in finding actors at this cattle call. If you aren't submitted by an agent in NY, you do not have much access to the really nice regional theatre gigs. Still, I was glad I took the time to do the thing. Afterward, I had another two hours to kill before the Seven Angels dance call.


Waiting around wears me out.




I needn't have worried about the dance audition. The choreographer in charge was a charming young gal who immediately separated the tap-dancers from the rest of us. Our routine was short and sweet and easy to learn and execute. I actually had a bit of fun. I was able to see, however, that neither the director nor the choreographer glanced in my direction, even once. I received further evidence that I was no longer on their short list for the show when I was released, without reading the sides they had given me to prepare the day before.






I returned to my car uptown, and whipped onto the New Jersey Turnpike just before rush hour, heading back to DC. It's a four hour drive, during which I had a long time to think about New York, and auditions, and how local actors manage the chaotic atmosphere which is inescapable in the city. These were not idle thoughts; the possibility of living in Manhattan myself has recently dropped into my lap. I'll discuss that possibility later, if the next several steps happen (steps which do not require action on my part), but I wonder if I have the deep-seated desire necessary to deal, every day, with the mania of Manhattan.

So far, I really DON'T heart New York...

"Perpetual Anticipation...

...is good for the soul, but it's bad for the heart."

So goes Stephen Sondheim's recitative in his brilliant musical A Little Night Music. Just about everybody has been wondering when his 1973 masterpiece might appear again on Broadway. We've had revivals of his A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (twice), his Follies, Company, Into the Woods, Sweeney Todd, and Sunday in the Park with George. Even more problematic pieces Assassins and Pacific Overtures have seen revivals. In past seasons, Meryl Streep and Glenn Close have both been mentioned as possibles to play Desiree, the aging actress at the center of the story. But so far, they have failed to send in the clowns. Roundabout Theatre Co. has just announced a single performance fundraiser for their theatre in January, 2009, a concert staging with the starriest cast imaginable. Notably, Christine Baranski will be playing the scene-stealing part of Charlotte , and Broadway Babies Victor Garber, Laura Benanti, and Marc Kudisch will also participate. The terrific Natasha Richardson, Tony-winner for the Cabaret revival a while back, will play Desiree, and in a fantastic casting coup, her mother, Madame Armfeldt, will be played by her mother, Vanessa Redgrave.









A Little Night Music was the first Sondheim musical I was exposed to, back when I was a teen-ager. My friend Valerie, who was and remains a Sondheim-aholic, introduced me to the cast album at a party way back when. (Yes, that was the kind of party I attended as a teen. Any wonder I turned out like this?) I was aware of West Side Story and Gypsy, of course, but this piece just blew me away. The first time I saw the show was in a major revival in Los Angeles. The attraction here was the casting of Glynis Johns, the original Desiree, in the role of her mother, Madame Armfeldt. The central role was to have been played by Lee Remick, who was tragically diagnosed with breast cancer before rehearsal started and was forced to withdraw from the production to begin chemo. She was replaced by one of the most boring actresses ever to grace stage or screen, Lois Nettleton. As a result, Johns, in a wheelchair but still riveting to watch, was the undisputed highlight of the show. I have seen only two other productions. I mentioned the revival at The Kennedy Center's Sondheim Festival a while back, in which Blair Brown had the lead, and of course, there is the notorious film flop, against which I have already railed.


What is it about Night Music which has caused it to be absent so long? Surely it's not the score, famously written as a series of waltzes, for it contains Sondheim's most famous tune, "Send in the Clowns." It also contains what is arguably the most exciting Act One finale in any musical of the 20th century, "Weekend in the Country."




I say arguably, because two other Sondheim Act One Finales might challenge that statement. Sunday in the Park's first act ends with "Sunday," in which our hero Georges Seurat constructs his most famous painting with the people he has been sketching throughout Act One. The song always makes me teary, as it reflects the artist's struggle to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary.




And then there's Gypsy, which features a shatteringly human reversal. On a lonely train platform in the middle of nowhere, with boyfriend Herbie and daughter Louise cowering in the background, the monstrous Mama Rose sings optimistically that "Everything's Coming up Roses." But the lyrics mask a dark desperation. We know we are not in for a happy ending.














Perhaps the planned benefit reading will convince someone that we need A Little Night Music.

If not Now, then Soon. Rather than Later.