What’s in a First Name?

So I see that comic Wanda Sykes has a new TV show called Wanda at Large, in which she plays a character named Wanda Hawkins. Ah, so television is keeping alive its long tradition of first-naming a show’s character after its star and only changing the surname. This happens all the time in the cause of cementing the performer’s personality with the character.

The practice started, I suspect, in 1951 with the extraordinary success of Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. For 1952 brought I Married Joan, with Joan Davis as Joan Stevens, while 1953 offered The Danny Thomas Show, in which the star played Danny Williams. By the ’60s, Andy Griffith was playing Andy Taylor, Joey Bishop was portraying Joey Barnes, Doris Day had as her alter-ego Doris Martin — and the aforementioned Lucille Ball was now Lucy Carmichael. That same decade, Bing Crosby became Bing Collins. I only watched a couple of episodes of that show (as I went, so did the nation), but I was surprised that whenever the character of Mr. Collins introduced himself as Bing, no one — I mean, no one — said, “Bing? As in Crosby?” I mean, given how virtually no other person in the world is named Bing, wouldn’t you think that a few people would have posed this question?

By the ’70s, Mary Tyler Moore was Mary Richards, Bob Newhart was portraying Bob Hartley — and Lucille Ball was now Lucy Carter. She was not to be confused with two others who emerged in the ’80s: Roseanne Conner, played by Roseanne Barr, or Lucy Barker, who was played by — yes — Lucille Ball. I can’t wait for Meat Loaf to get a series — called Meet Meat, of course — in which he portrays some butch guy named Meat Balls.

This TV-naming practice started me thinking about what would have happened if the same custom had been used for Broadway musicals. Gregory’s Last Jam. The Keith Rogers Follies. No, those titles just don’t sing. Would Zorba sound as potent if it had been called Herschel? In A Little Night Music, can you imagine Hermione Armfeldt singing, “I even named her Glynis”? Others that sound awkward include Kiss Me, Marin, The Who’s Michael, and Disney’s Susan and Terrence. And then there’s Richard Quixote. (No, that’s not right. Don wasn’t Quixote’s first name, à la Don Ameche or Don Johnston. In Spain, Don’s a title of respect. I don’t know what Quixote’s first name is; I guess it’s just another thing that Man of La Mancha failed to deliver.)

Early in the planning of Little Me, Neil Simon came up with the idea of concentrating not on Belle Poitrine herself but on the seven men in her life, and he decided that his old TV boss Sid Caesar should play all the roles. Can you hear Simon now telling composer Cy Coleman and lyricist Carolyn Leigh, “We’ll have Sid Poitrine, Sid Pinchley, Sid Eggleston, Sid Eggleston Jr., Sid Schnitzler, Sid Cherney, and Sid du Val?” If that sounds a little boring, be assuaged that the 1982 production would have varied the menu by offering James Coco as James Pinchley, James Schnitzler, and James Cherney, and Victor Garber as Victor Poitrine, Victor Eggleston, Victor Eggleston Jr., and — last but hardly least — Victor du Val, which at least keeps the alliteration of the original character. But we would have had seven Martins in the recent revival.

Considering that Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote The King and I specifically for Gertrude Lawrence, all those cute little kids would have circled around Mrs. Gertrude. The 1940 musical that Cole Porter wrote for Ethel Merman would have been Panama Ethel. For that matter, the evangelist that Merman played in Anything Goes would have been Ethel Sweeney, which sure sounds less sexy than Reno Sweeney. Going a few years down the line, can you picture Ethel Get Your Gun or, later still, the great finale “Ethel’s Turn?”

Still, Hello, Ethel! doesn’t sound bad. That’s also true of Hello, Carol! Hello, Ginger! Hello, Betty! Hello, Pearl! Hello, Martha! or Hello, Phyllis! I can also see Gwen Verdon as Sweet Gwen, for that’s indeed accurate. In Forum, Zero does sound like an apt name for a character who’s supposed to be a mere slave. Sunday in the Park with Mandy has a nice ring to it, too, as does You’re a Good Man, Gary (or Anthony) Brown, or even The Unsinkable Tammy Brown. And given that Brian Stokes Mitchell now likes to be addressed by his middle name of Stokes, he could have been Coalhouse Stokes Walker in Ragtime; that would have made some sort of literal sense, since “stokes” is a verb often used in a coalhouse.

Certainly, Jeff Fenholt or his agent wouldn’t have demanded that the 1971 musical in which he starred be retitled Jeff Superstar. Yet I suspect that Patti LuPone would have been delighted if she’d played Patti Duarte Peron in Patti. Aida would have been Heather, but some have alleged that Ms. Headley was the whole show, anyway. On the Twentieth Century, about Lily Garland, wouldn’t have had a problem as long as Madeline Kahn was playing Madeline Garland; but audiences would have been distracted after Judy Kaye took over, for that would have made the character Judy Garland.

Meanwhile, who coaxed the blues right out of the horn? Angela! Had Anne Bancroft actually taken the lead in Funny Girl, which was the original plan, she could have played Annie Brice. The Off-Broadway Wild Party would have begun “Julia was a blonde,” while the Broadway one would have started with “Toni was a blonde.” And can any of you out there figure out which musical would have been retitled Robert & Bernadette or which would have been Barry & Joanna? What about Bruce!?

And what of Mary Martin? One Touch of Venus would have been One Touch of Mary, which sounds pretty good. Mary Von Trapp isn’t such a stretch from Maria Von Trapp, either. But there is something dull-sounding about Mary Forbush. And let’s not even consider Mary Pan, for if there was one thing that Mary never met in her entire musical theater career, it was a pan.

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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@aol.com]