The Saga of Kelly Continued
[Ed. Note: This installment of Peter Filichia’s Diary was to have appeared on TheaterMania last Friday but its posting was prevented by the Big Blackout of 2003. We regret the delay.]
********************
Faithful readers will recall that, in my last column, I shared some of the contents of a 12-page article by Louis H. Lapham that was published in the April 24, 1965 issue of the Saturday Evening Post. The article concerned Kelly, the 1965 musical about a young man who promised to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge but didn’t — thus infuriating the gamblers who’d bet that he would.
Kelly was the work of composer Moose Charlap and bookwriter-lyricist Eddie Lawrence. It starred Ella Logan, was directed by Herbert Ross and produced by David Susskind, Daniel Melnick, and Joseph E. Levine. On Wednesday, we left that group of seven in Philadelphia, where Charlap and Lawrence were furious with their director and producers for changing their show from a Brecht-like tract to a standard Broadway entertainment. Yet when their adversaries suggested that Logan be fired, Lapham — who’d been an ever-present eyewitness from the first press kickoff event — reported that the authors protested. They noted that “Logan was the nearest person they had to a star, that so far she had received the loudest applause, that many tickets had been sold because of her name, and that without her, already small business at the box office might diminish even further.”
The producers didn’t fire Logan, but not because of the authors’ impassioned pleas. Lapham reports that Melnick went to her dressing room and “told her that her part was being reduced to five lines in the first act and six lines in the second. She interpreted this maneuver as an attempt to humiliate her and thus oblige her for reasons of her own pride, to quit the show” so the money-men could “say she had violated her contract and therefore were under no obligation to pay her.” Logan didn’t take the bait, though. “I ain’t moving,” she told Melnick.
Neither did the noted character actor Jesse White move from his position that his dialogue was wanting. Lapham writes that White “slammed his script on the floor” and asked Lawrence, “How can I say a line like that, Eddie, for God’s sake? What does it mean? It stinks. It’s not funny. If we go to Boston with this stuff, the critics will kill us. We keep hearing that you’re going to write new material, but all you do is bring the same old stuff warmed over.” To which Lawrence retorted, “If you don’t like it, you can quit.” He then walked out of the rehearsal, giving Ross the opportunity to admit, “I know the script is bad, but changes will be made.” Melnick seemed to be more diplomatic when he said, “We cannot behave like animals, snapping and snarling to protect individual interests.” He turned less diplomatic when he added, “Eddie may be a son-of-a-bitch, but he’s our son-of-a-bitch.”
Ross decided to try improvs in hopes that they would lead to some convincing dialogue. When Lawrence returned, he was horrified at what he heard. “This is a disgrace,” he told Melnick. “These lines will never reach the stage, never.” Melnick hoped otherwise. According to Lapham, “He particularly resented the contract he had signed with Lawrence and Charlap; under its clear, Dramatists Guild terms, not a word of the script could be changed without their consent.” Melnick’s resentment led to his violating that stipulation.
Which is why, as Lapham reports, “Lawrence and Charlap didn’t go to Boston with the company.” Instead, they sent a telegram that sure didn’t say “Break a leg” but instead threatened “appropriate action if Melnick and Susskind continued to permit unauthorized changes.” Melnick responded by telling Lawrence that “he was written out, that he was dry and had reached a dead end.” Levine sarcastically asked if Lawrence thought he was Shakespeare and Charlap Beethoven. Charlap then announced that he and Lawrence “were through with Kelly” but they did feel attached enough “to seek a court order that would enjoin the producers from bringing the show to New York.”
David Goodman, a friend of Melnick’s, began rewriting. “Until I heard these new lines,” said Ross, “I never realized how dreadful Lawrence’s stuff was.” And that’s what they played on opening night in Boston. Melnick, at the back of the house, said, “It’s great. It works.” Really? Then why did Elliot Norton of the Record-American call the show “a rattling cover for emptiness” and Kevin Kelly (!) of the Globe say it was “a conventional piece of razzmatazz”? With reviews like that, the producers decided to close at the end of the week. (A note from me: I had a ticket for the second Saturday matinee. When I learned that I wouldn’t be seeing Kelly, I almost threw myself into the Charles River.)
“I don’t believe in miracles,” Susskind told Lapham. “The truth is, this is a bad show. If I thought I could fool Kerr and Taubman and the other critics so easily, I would lose all respect for the American theater.” He brought in two TV writers, one of whom was the then-unknown Mel Brooks — so unknown that Lapham felt he had to describe him (“a small, energetic man”). Brooks told the producers that the show was “cloying, horrible, and saccharine” and that they should fire Logan. This time, she was sacked, but guess who had to do the deed? The stage manager, for no producer dared to. Susskind told the company, “Moose and Eddie thought they had written the Holy Scriptures. But I want you to know that I believe in miracles.” (You may have noticed that, earlier, he had said he didn’t.)
Soon “the ninth of Charlap and Lawrence’s 17 songs was cut.” Lapham doesn’t say who wrote the following exchange — First gambler: “You can’t welsh on an Englishman.” Second gambler: “Why don’t you English on a Welshman?” — but I’m betting it was Brooks and not the other TV writer. Meanwhile, as Kelly headed towards a February 6 opening, the authors and producers went to court on January 28. “We now have as many lawyers as actors,” Susskind mourned.
The authors did attend the opening — “Charlap holding a tape recorder,” Lapham reports, making me wonder where that tape is today and may I borrow it? “I could write better than this when I was 11 years old,” Lawrence said. And the critics agreed. “Kelly is a bad idea gone wrong” (Kerr, Herald-Tribune). “Ella Logan was written out of Kelly before it reached the Broadhurst Theatre on Saturday night. Congratulations, Miss Logan” (Taubman, Times). And that was the end of that. Says Lapham, “It closed after a single performance, costing the investors roughly $650,000.”
“If there had been only one review, even one phrase we could have taken out of context,” Susskind told the suddenly unemployed performers, “we would have raised more money to pay for the ads to keep the show open, but there was nothing.” Then he added, “One last word about Moose and Eddie…we may have to call on you to testify.” But it never came to that.
I have two final observations on the matter: (1) Today, if a show lost $650,000, its producers would brag about the hit they had; (2) Isn’t it interesting that the Saturday Evening Post covered a show that would open on a Saturday evening with a closing notice already posted?
********************
[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@aol.com]
