I am not one of Hal Prince’s success stories. But I did benefit without measure from his best attempts to make me one.
The 1980s had just begun. I was returning from lunch, heading back to my assigned desk in the Citicorp Building in midtown Manhattan (the one that almost fell over). The girl covering phones yelled out, “Roger, you have a call. He’s holding.” How anyone would know where I was in the labyrinth of my temp jobs, I had no idea. “Says his name is Hal Prince.”
Certain now it was one of my think-they’re-witty friends, I reluctantly picked up my extension. “Very funny, who ever this is.” The voice on the line said, “What’s funny? I haven’t even told you the idea yet.” He laughed. It really was Hal Prince. The high-rise view out my window took on one of those queazy Vertigo zoom effects in my head. (In those days, it was a Broadway joke with theater wannabes that Hal Prince is on the line for you, i.e., your showbiz ship has come in.)
My time with Hal Prince had begun months earlier with Shine, just before the opening of Sweeney Todd. For some reason, Prince had fallen for the music to Shine and followed up with having me present the score privately to his wife Judy, then to Sondheim, followed by Ron Field, Michael Bennett, Jonathan Tunick and many others. All of this was flattering, exhausting and surreal for someone my age whose work had never been produced or published.
After weeks and then months of considering directing the show, Prince finally made a decision that he would probably hurt Shine by trying to make it into something it didn’t want or need to be. He told me about the Hello, Dolly rejection he made for similar reasons. But he wanted to help get the show into hands that would serve it well. And eventually he did, delivering it to 20th Century Fox and William Morris, providing generous advances and a reprieve from the endless part-time office work I endured. Shine was also ceremoniously contracted to Rodgers & Hammerstein publishing (another generous advance), and soon after I was playing the score on Rodgers’ personal grand for the Broadway moguls of the day. More so, R&H had also promised, via Boosey & Hawkes, to publish my serious song efforts composed long before entering the musical theater lane.
None of that opportunity, no matter the complex and tragic end to those relationships, would have been possible without Hal Prince’s endorsement.
Prince continued to be supportive and in touch long after. As an assignment, he had me observe the progression of Merrily We Roll Along from first preview to opening night and offer my reactions as it changed, and changed, and changed. Later, he consulted with us on our Broadway-bound Chaplin musical, which he considered directing before Joe Layton came along. I remember Ernest Kinoy and I were called to a meeting after he read the script. The first thing he said was, “When we see that Tramp outfit, the show is over.” So we moved that transition to the end. It was smart and honorable, especially since Oona Chaplin had severely limited the amount of time we were allowed to “impersonate” The Tramp character on stage. In the mid-80s, while writing Ladykiller—the Cornell Woolrich musical The Public Theater had become interested in—Hal encouraged me to explore a pre-1940s noir vocabulary and avoid the musical clichés of later Hollywood film noir. On Quality Street, after I played him first drafts of the score, he reprimanded me on not seeing what was obvious to him: I must raise the emotional and intellectual stakes of the music. “You’re holding back, assuming this is quaint and delicate. It’s not.” He was right, of course.
Back to the phone call at Citicorp…“Roger, I want you to consider working with me on a new musical. I swear it’s the most original and important idea since Cabaret. Betty and Adolph have brought it to me and I have to take it on. It’s just spectacular, and I think a new musical voice is what it needs.” Wow, I thought. How lucky can you get, Anderson? I couldn’t wait to hear what it was. Then he said, “I am sworn to secrecy and can’t tell you what it is. But I want you to spend some time with Betty and Adolph and convince them you can do it.”
In short, my time with Comden and Green at Betty’s Upper East Side townhouse might be facetiously described as “composer abuse.” I performed like a trained seal, playing and singing practically all the music I had ever written, plus a two-handed brandy snifter full of requests (or tests) I conjured on the spot—improvising intros, vamps, or new melodies to famous lyrics. (Forgive me, Burton Lane.) By the time I was demonstrating what I thought ambition sounded like in 3/4 time, I was getting into it. Meanwhile, not once was I offered something to eat or drink or “Do you need a bathroom break?” (Surely this all had to be calculated.) Adding to that, Betty had made sure I was staring at a new over-sized embossed hard-bound score of On the Twentieth Century, prominently displayed on the living room grand. You’d expect leather binding that regal to contain Das Rheingold or better. A bit of overplayed intimidation? Or just a vain business expense?
“What’s this new musical you’re writing about?” They both ignored that question the first couple of times I asked. But eventually I got the official response: “Oh, we couldn’t possibly reveal that to you yet. I’m sure you understand with a concept this unique, even precious, we have to protect it.” I pictured those rugged guys who locate some sunken treasure galleon off the coast of Florida, threatening to kill anyone who blabs the coordinates.
Hours passed with many compliments on my singing, a lot of “Mmm…interesting” from Betty and “What else ya got?” from Adolph, along with “Lenny this, and Lenny that” stories. But, in all honesty, both expressed frequent admiration for the music, while noting all my self-evident Germanic musical influences. (Is that good?)
Finally, I was politely dismissed, being told they would discuss things with Hal. A bit dizzy and desperately needing to pee, I headed down the front steps to the street where I hesitated for a minute while I found my bearings. Betty remained at the slightly open door and I heard her from behind as I walked away: “Do you know where you are?” — A good curtain line for the day.
Prince called the next afternoon to sum up the true challenge I had been sent there to confront. They had already decided to use Larry Grossman. They were committed to him, but Prince urged me to continue to try and win them over since they had found I was very gifted but not experienced enough yet. I could hardly argue with that.
Still not having a clue as to the nature of this “Manhattan Project,” closer to summer Hal suggested I come stay in Majorca (or Mallorca) where he vacationed yearly and work on some numbers there. “Is that upstate?”… a big pause…then, realizing I really didn’t know…“It’s an island off the coast of Spain.” I think that ignorance in itself might have killed my chances, but overwhelmingly more so when I unexpectedly declined the invite. The spell was broken.
It didn’t take long for Grossman to be announced as the composer of the now unveiled attraction: A Doll’s Life. On learning at last the details of the Ibsen sequel, it was the biggest head-scratching anti-climax I could have ever expected—not since I got a used Jackie Gleason game for Christmas when I was sure daddy had hidden a new bike in the garage.
Over the years ahead I would get a call or a letter, and then an occasional email from Hal. Brief, professional, meticulous and kind. The last contact I had was just after Shine’s modest New York premiere at the 2010 NYMF. The newly trimmed Disney-fied version of my once ambitious score bore little resemblance to the work he had promoted so heartily some 30 years before. I’m certain he hated the alterations. But he sent a note: “Come see me. You must keep writing. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re out of fashion. That’s when you’re on the verge of something new.”
But I never went to see him. As Tennessee wrote, “Time is the longest distance between two places.” I was told later on he wanted me to consider Earl Hamner’s You Can’t Get There From Here as a project, apparently an unfulfilled notion of Richard Rodgers.
Through all of his brave hits and misses, Hal Prince stoked the fires of new talent. For me, he helped my defeated career in New York theater to remain less devastating in memory. Along with so many others—renowned or forgotten or lost to the plague—he stirred my imagination and courage, gifting the younger me with an enviable lift up and a brief peek above the ordinary.
I am grateful, as I travel on.
