A Theater By Any Other Name…?
Thirty-six years ago this week, I went to the Promenade Theatre on Broadway and 76th Street. And what did I see at the Promenade? Promenade, a wild-n-crazy new musical by Al Carmines, one of the great iconoclasts of American musical theater. (I still love “The Cigarette Song,” though.) But was the theater named the Promenade because the owner liked that word or because Promenade would be the first tenant there? My memory has it that the tail wagged the dog; the theater took its name from the show. Both Michael Feingold and Bruce Kimmel have told me that’s the way they remember it, too.
Reminiscing about this had me wondering: What would our current Broadway theaters be called if they had been named for their debut attractions? One theater almost was: The Music Box, whose initial tenant in 1921 was The Music Box Revue. In this case, though, the show took its title from the theater, and not the other way around. (By the way, have you ever wondered how many musical attractions have played the Music Box since it opened? A mere 27 out of 131. So much for truth in advertising.)
When Studio 54 reopened in 1998, it almost-but-not-quite named itself after its first attraction, Cabaret, for it was called the Kit Kat Klub. But that was only its informal name. Had it been named for its very first show when it was known as the Gallo Opera House, it would have been the La Bohème. With all the theater renaming going on these days, I’d like to see a new moniker on this place; the name Studio 54 has no theatrical history.
All right, some theaters couldn’t possibly have been named for their first shows. The Gershwin would have been the Via Galactica — although had the place not been called the Uris at the time, that show would have retained its original title, Up. (Is that confusing? The reason for the title change has been documented so many times that I won’t go into it here. In case you haven’t heard the story, do e-mail me.) Anyway, can you picture the Majestic as the Rufus Lemaire’s Affairs? the Belasco as the A Grand Army Man? the Circle in the Square as the Mourning Becomes Electra? How about the Longacre as the Are You a Crook? As Miss Oakley sings in Annie Get Your Gun, “Neither can I.”
Speaking of Annie Get Your Gun, it would have originally played the Mary Jane McKane (and not the Imperial) Theater. That wouldn’t be very strange sounding, given that some Broadway theaters have been named after women. Fortunately, Annie Get Your Gun’s most recent home, the Marquis, wasn’t named for its first tenant, for then it would be the Shirley Bassey (by virtue of her one-woman show there). If we don’t have theaters named after Mary Martin, Ethel Merman, or Julie Andrews, we sure shouldn’t have one named after Shirley Bassey, who’s never done a real musical in her life.
To go along with the Virginia (named for Mrs. Binger), the Ethel Barrymore, and the Helen Hayes, the Minskoff would be the Irene. The Hirschfeld would be the Mme. Pompadour, the Walter Kerr the Mary Stuart. To stretch the point a little, the Cort would be the Peg O’ My Heart and the Ambassador would be the Rose Girl. On the other hand, a theater that was named for a woman — the now-long-razed Mrs. Osborn’s Playhouse at 44th and 5th Avenue — wouldn’t have looked as good as the Tommy-Rot. And the Vivian Beaumont would never have been called the Danton’s Death, although that ill-fated 1965 production was almost the death of the new theater.
Although we have plenty of Broadway theaters named for men — almost half of them are — not many men would be commemorated if houses did take their names from their first presentations. Granted, the St. James’ debut show, The Merry Malones, did involve two men — John (played by George M. Cohan) and Charlie Malone — but they were outnumbered by three women: Helen, Delhia, and (of course) Molly.
The old Apollo, part of which has morphed into the Hilton, opened with a show called Jimmie. Sounds like a Nederlander house to me! As for the actual Nederlander, which is now rented to Rent, it would have been called the Swords. (You decide whether that’s a sharp or dull name for it.) If the Richard Rodgers had been named for its debut attraction, it would be geographically confusing, for it would be the Greenwich Village Follies. I can only imagine how much bickering there would have been among couples who set out for the theater that night. (“Gertrude, if it’s at the Greenwich Village Follies, it’s not going to be on 46th Street. Are you sure they didn’t tell you 4th or 6th Street? You’ve always been so bad with directions.”)
More confusion would have resulted if the American Airlines Theatre had opened in 1918 not as the Selwyn but as the Information Please. So many people who couldn’t find their destination would have entered a maelstrom of bafflement when they asked a passer-by, “Where’s the Information Please?” and were curtly asked in return “What information?” en route to a Who’s-on-First-like conversation.
We’d have had much more whimsy had the Broadhurst been the Misalliance, the Helen Hayes the Pigeon, and the old Morosco the Canary Cottage. You may or may not like that the Royale has recently been renamed the Jacobs, but you wouldn’t like it any better if it had been named for its first attraction in 1927: Piggy. As for the Lyceum, Broadway’s oldest theater, it opened in 1903 with The Proud Prince.
As for the Biltmore, the Easy Come, Easy Go would be a cumbersome, non-euphonious name for the theater. But it would be apt, in a way, for the house came (in 1925), then went (in 1951), then came back (in 1961), then went again (in 1987), and finally came back yet again (in 2003) — although I’m sure that none of these transitions have been easy. Here’s hoping that the Biltmore will never go away again.
Had some theaters been named for their first tenants, they would have inadvertently commented on some of their subsequent tenants. For example, right now the Booth, home of The Pillowman, would be the Great Adventure, which is an apt description of that show. The recently renamed Schoenfeld, which recently gave shelter to Brooklyn, would be the Successful Calamity, which could serve as a description of that musical. (Some people liked it quite a bit.) But neither of those names remotely would have bested the fortunate coincidence that would have happened had the Golden been named for its first attraction. Yes, Avenue Q would now be playing at — believe it or not — the Puppets of Passion.
The O’Neill would be the Mayflowers, which would sound better in the singular. Maybe the Henry Miller would have had better luck had it been named after its 1918 debut show, The Fountain of Youth. (Wouldn’t people have enjoyed saying, “I’m going tonight to the Fountain of Youth?”) And I’d love it if the Ethel Barrymore had been named for its first attraction in 1928, The Kingdom of God. (I firmly believe that every theater is the Kingdom of God.) But, no question, the theater that would have had the least chance of success had it been named for its initial attraction was the old Fulton Theatre on 46th Street: Its first show was titled Hell.
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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]
