The Flop That Was Flanders
I spent all of September 8 thinking about Carnival in Flanders, for that date marked the 52nd anniversary of the musical’s opening. And I suspect that, when September 12 rolls around, I’ll think about the 52nd anniversary of its closing.
Yes, Carnival in Flanders opened on a Tuesday and called it quits on Saturday. The show was based on a well regarded 1935 French film, La Kermesse Héroique. Though the literal translation of that title is “The Heroic Carnival,” the film was called Carnival in Flanders in this country. It tells of a 17th-century town that’s about to be ransacked by an invading army. The men flee and the women are disgusted by their cowardice, so they decide to meet the enemy head on by cooking for them, charming them with small talk — and who knows what else?
“Maudlin” and “stupid,” opined critic Brooks Atkinson in The New York Times review of the show. Walter Kerr in The Herald-Tribune was a bit more poetic, writing that “A lot of the intended comedy of Carnival in Flanders has to do with the problem of placing a wreath on a corpse. Let me place mine now.” Two and a half years later, Kerr still hadn’t got over the show: On March 16, 1956, when he wanted to demonstrate to his readers why My Fair Lady was so great, he took them through it step-by-step, reporting that “After ‘The Rain in Spain,’ you couldn’t have stopped My Fair Lady if you’d invited the authors of Buttrio Square, Hit the Trail, or Carnival in Flanders to work over the second act.”
Who authored Flanders? George Oppenheimer and Herbert Fields wrote the book, but when the tryout was particularly trying, in came Preston Sturges, who’d written and directed such classic films as The Great McGinty, Christmas in July, The Lady Eve, Sullivan’s Travels, The Palm Beach Story, The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, and Hail the Conquering Hero in a mere four-year span (1940-44). Then Sturges delivered five flops, which finished him in Hollywood; so off to Broadway he went to rescue composer James Van Heusen and lyricist Johnny Burke’s show.
Nine years earlier, that duo had delivered one of America’s most beloved songs, “Swinging on a Star,” but they’d had a Broadway flop in 1946 with Nellie Bly. In 1939, Burke had provided lyrics for a Van Heusen tune in Swingin’ the Dream, a musicalization of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that lasted only 13 performances yet yielded a hit song called “Darn That Dream” — not, though, the song that Burke wrote. Carnival in Flanders, despite its seven-performance run, would also produce a hit song: “Here’s That Rainy Day,” which became a supper club favorite.
The show’s stars were John Raitt and Dolores Gray. Standing by for Ms. Gray was none other than Susan Johnson, best known for originating the role of Cleo (“Ooh, My Feet”) in The Most Happy Fella. She also graced Oh, Captain!, Whoop-Up, Donnybrook, and — get this — Buttrio Square. Some years ago, I was writing the notes for a Susan Johnson album and phoned her to talk. When I mentioned Carnival in Flanders, she said: “Well, when you get reviews like that, you dread having to go to the theater the next night. And we opened on a Tuesday, so we got to see each other that much sooner, because we had to do the Wednesday matinee.” (Note: The theater was the New Century, where, four years earlier, theatergoers had rushed to see Kiss Me, Kate. But 11 months before Flanders, audiences avoided the place and the seven-performance flop ensconced there: Buttrio Square. As it turned out, Flanders was the last musical to play the New Century, which shuttered in 1954 and was razed in 1962.)
“I got to the theater and walked in on Dolores Gray yelling and screaming that she refused to go on,” Johnson recalled. “You see, ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ was a really nice song but it was in the middle of a very complicated piece. There was a big verse beforehand and a big part that came after it, too. Dolores only wanted to sing the middle of it, the actual song. When the authors refused, she refused to go on. They told me to get ready, so I got into this big costume and stood in the wings. While I was waiting for the show to start, Dolores saw me dressed, and said, ‘I’m going on.’ ”
Years later, I was talking to John Raitt and, of course, I brought up Carnival in Flanders. “Ah,” said Raitt with a smile. “We opened on a Tuesday, and Wednesday I got to the theater for the matinee and Dolores was having a big fight with everyone because — well, it’s hard to explain, but the song ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ came in the middle of what was, like, a bigger song. Dolores always liked the ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ section but didn’t care for the rest of it, and said she wouldn’t sing the parts she didn’t like. Everyone said she had to sing the song as written. She refused to go on, so we had to go to Susan Johnson, who was covering her. And Susan said, ‘Oh, I can’t do it. I don’t know the part.’ ”
For years, I’ve been reluctant to tell these stories. Why make Susan Johnson look bad? But last week, when I saw Klea Blackhurst’s terrific show at Joe’s Pub, my buddy Wally Rubin and I were discussing Carnival in Flanders (don’t ask me how it came up). After I told him these stories and expressed my reluctance to air them publicly, he said, “Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t necessarily mean that John Raitt remembered correctly. Rashomon-like stories are always interesting to hear.” Only two weeks ago, on August 24, we marked the 54th anniversary of Rashomon’s premiere at the Venice Film Festival, so I offer these tales in a Rashomonian spirit.
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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]
