The Star Dressing Room: Portrait of an Actor

1

Alan

Whatever possessed me to think that I was going to be a star on Broadway? I was 17 years old, I had no money, no training, my parents were dead set against my being in show business, and I had just been fired from my first acting job in a touring company of Junior Miss. Yet here I was on my way to New York.

I had just given my last performance in Philadelphia, packed up my makeup kit, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the train. An actor in the company, Louis, who’d become my good friend, had taken me into the city a few days before to show me how to make the rounds of agent’s offices, and help me find a furnished room I could afford. I had managed to save a few dollars from my salary in the play, but I knew that wouldn’t last very long. It was Louis who had assured me that since so many actors were being drafted into the army, I could get a job immediately. And I was now a member of Actor’s Equity, a requirement to get into a Broadway play.

I wanted to believe Louis, but in the back of my head I kept remembering what Guerita, an actress who was in the same play, had said to me: If you insist on going to New York, have enough money saved up, because it’ll take you five years to get a Broadway show. I wonder if I’d known what was going to happen, would I have stayed on the train, not gotten off at New York and just gone home to Boston? But, of course, I couldn’t go home and let everyone know that I was a failure.

***

It was all such a miracle the way things had happened, that is except for the end when I got fired. Right after graduating high school, I saw an ad in The Boston Globe for actors in a summer theater in nearby Rockport. It was a few months after Pearl Harbor and most men who were old enough were either enlisting or they were being drafted. I was barely 16, but I managed to get a job at the theater playing middle-aged men with the help of dark makeup under my eyes and gray streaks in my hair. It taught me a lot and I even got good reviews. I had persuaded my parents to let me have a year off before college.

I had skipped a grade so I was younger than all the other kids I knew. I did some Shakespeare plays with local theater groups, got some more good reviews, and made up my mind to be an actor. I heard that radio stations were also having trouble losing their announcers to the war effort, so I auditioned and got a job at WMEX, reading the news and spinning records on the music shows. It was there that the real miracle happened. I had a show where I interviewed actors who were appearing in touring plays in Boston. Two actors from Junior Miss, an older woman Guerita, who played the maid and Louis, who played the romantic interest, turned up on my schedule. They were open, charming, and even stayed after my show to chat. I confessed I wanted to go to New York to be an actor, and they sympathized but told me how difficult it would be.

Then, a few days later, Louis called to say an actor was leaving the show and he and Guerita had gotten me an audition with the stage manager. There was a pass for me for the play that night and I went to see it. I was horrified. The role I was to read for was a loud, boorish football player who had to be totally disgusting. I was thin as a rail with a high pompadour and looked like I could only play a sensitive poet or a love sick teenager. I didn’t see how I could possibly get the job, but Guerita stole the costume that the actor wore from the wardrobe room, dressed me up in the camel-hair coat and bright yellow scarf and told me to yell since the stage manager was hard of hearing. He also turned out to be a bit of a drunk so when he saw me on the dark stage ln the costume, I looked like the character in the play. He also was able to hear me (you could have heard me in Hoboken). I got the job.

There was a week’s hiatus for the company, and I was to open on Christmas Day in Hartford. Getting my parents to allow me to go into the show was another matter. They had to sign the contract because of my age. All I heard was those people do nothing but smoke and drink and worse. Another miracle happened. I was so upset that I became ill. My father, who was a hypochondriac vegetarian, finally gave in, afraid that I would get even sicker if they didn’t allow me to go. I opened in Junior Miss with a 101 temperature, not really sure what I was doing, but I yelled loudly and the audience applauded when I exited. I spent the next weeks either in bed or in a doctor’s office having my throat painted. The day came when someone from the New York office saw the play and was appalled at how wrong I was for the role. My days as a football player were over.

Guerita had left the show suddenly to have an operation, but Louis was great. He had suggested that we room together to save money and was so solicitous of my health. I wouldn’t have been able to get through it all without him. But the night before I left the show, he surprised me by saying that he wanted to tell me something he had held back because I was so ill. He was in love with me. I was totally surprised. We had never discussed our personal lives, and I was still suffering from my first and only relationship with an older man that had ended miserably. I didn’t know how to react. The last thing on my mind was a love affair with Louis. I just stared at him trying to think of what to say. He’d been such a good friend and taken care of me, but I didn’t love him. However, Louis saved what could have been an unpleasant moment.

I know you don’t love me, he said, but hopefully one day you will. I’ve got to tour with the play for six more months. If we could just write to each other and speak on the phone now and them, maybe we could grow together and when I get back to New York, even live together.

Oh Louis, I replied, You know how much I like you. It’s just hard for me to feel anything at this point. All I can think about is New York and what’s going to happen there. But if I cared for anyone, it would be you. You’re my best friend so let’s just wait and see. I was off the hook.

The furnished room on a depressing block in Greenwich Village turned out to be unbearable and as cold as the winter outside. The furnace gave off the smell of heat without its warmth. Through a fluke, I read an ad in Show Business (a weekly paper that told actors where to go to look for work) that there was an inexpensive room for rent uptown in an elevator building, and I went to check it out. A pianist, who lived next door to it, owned what looked like a large storage room with a tiny bath and kitchen. Since he practiced all day, he had trouble getting anyone to take the place. No one could stand the noise. I didn’t care. It was warm and away from the Village where I’d been so depressed.

Looking for acting jobs was only uptown so I got back downtown just to sleep and it was dark and cold. I got the room for $35 a month, much more than the $16 that I was paying, but I had to have it. Besides, I was sure it was a matter of time before I’d get a role in a play. With the help of Madeline and Marie, two friends of Louis’ he had introduced me to, I got some of their stored furniture and fixed the place up. It even had a narrow balcony and I could walk out onto it in the freezing weather and look at the tall apartment buildings. For a moment I was living in the penthouse of my dreams and was a success in New York. Then I would rush back inside to the warmth of my tiny room. At least it was mine and an oasis from the misery of looking for work. The pianist had told me that the great Gertrude Lawrence lived in an apartment across the way. I couldn’t wait to tell Louis if he called one of these nights. She was his favorite musical-comedy star.

Finding work was not as easy as Louis had said it was going to be. Although many men were being drafted in 1943, theater jobs were hard to come by. There was no television that would one day create myriad opportunities for actors, and not even off-Broadway. The only possibilities were in plays, usually with small casts chosen by directors who already knew the actors they wanted. Musicals did have big casts, but I couldn’t sing or dance. I had even been asked not to sing at my high school graduation because I was so off key, and I dragged some of the other singers with me. Nevertheless, I set off each day to make the rounds of agents and producers’ offices.

February in New York is bitter cold, windy, and often snowy. My coat was a thin tweed suitable for spring that my mother had bought at the yearly Filene’s sale where everything was marked down to $11. Louis had told me to always dress my best since, in those days, jeans were looked down on and actors were supposed to be elegant. I had some decent dress shoes, but they had thin soles and rubbers, I was afraid, would make me look like a vagrant. So I spent the days getting colder and colder and wetter and wetter, The only relief was when I got to the warmth of an office, but I had to leave as soon as the girl at her window in the wall looked up from her phone or stenographer’s pad and said, Nothing today.

Sometimes, someone would greet me with, You’re too old for what they’re looking for, or The role calls for someone much younger than you. My only contact with the world came from Show Business, which I read religiously to check out the places I had planned to go. But very soon I discovered that the jobs listed in the paper were either incorrect or just old news of roles that had already been filled. I spent days without anyone speaking to me. There were actors in the offices looking for work, as I was, but they were all competitive and only spoke to people they knew. I was sure they would never give me a tip on where I could go to get a job.

One day, going through my list of agents, I went to one office where the secretary cut me off before I even opened my mouth. I’m too busy now, she said. Wait until I’m free. I was so excited that she hadn’t said the usual, Nothing today, that I rushed over and sat on a bench and waited expectantly for her to finish what she was doing. Actors kept coming in and she sent them away, but she said nothing to me. I didn’t want to annoy her so I just sat quietly and waited for what she was going to tell me about work.

After several hours, I finally went up to the window. I don’t want to disturb you, I said, but you told me to wait.

The girl looked up at me as if she’d never seen me before. There’s nothing for you, she said.

But you told me to wait, I said sounding like the little boy I’d been when my father took back the train that he’d gotten me for Christmas.

Nothing today, she said as she closed the opening in the glass window and went back to her work.

I did actually get a job. Well, not a part in a play but a walk-on in Janie. At the end of the second act, dozens of soldiers walked into Janie’s home for a party she’d invited them to. They didn’t have to do anything, just walk in laughing and making noise as the curtain fell. I can’t even say that it was my talent that got me paid $1 for each performance. I happened to fit the costume of a boy who had just been drafted. Several of the boys did actually speak to me, and I began to see more of Louis’ two friends, Madeline and Marie, so I didn’t feel so isolated.

The girls had just graduated Smith College so I felt nervous about my lack of education, but they quickly put me at my ease. Madeline was tall and awkward with a small head for such a big frame. She had a plain face made even less attractive by old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses. Marie had enormous China blue eyes, beautiful skin, and incisors that slightly crossed each other. Her thin brown hair was gathered in a style that seemed to be copied from the print above the sofa. She was effusive while Madeline was withdrawn. Sometimes a girl named Jacqueline (Jackie) would be with them. She had also gone to Smith. She always made me uncomfortable, staring at me with her piercing eyes. She was great-looking, but she made me feel she was about to stick a pin in me and add me to her butterfly collection.

I listened as the three talked of their college days and their plans for the future. Madeline wanted to be a writer, Marie an actress, and Jackie just wanted to make it big as she said several times. The girls served dinner every night for some of their actor and writer friends. You just had to chip in whatever the food amounted to when it was divided by the number of people who were there. I could only go when I could afford to splurge. My budget allowed me 10 cents for a Nedicks breakfast of a glass of orange drink, a whole-wheat doughnut, and a cup of coffee. For dinner, 20 cents got me a small ramekin dish with frankfurters and beans at the Automat. I had to keep part of my $8 a week from the play for rent and my mother mailed me a $10 bill every once in a while.

It was so cold that I began to dream of owning a heavy coat with a fur collar and sometimes I stood in front of Saks Fifth Avenue and looked at one in the window. In addition to being cold and often wet, I had no idea how to find work. I couldn’t go on living on practically nothing, but I was getting nowhere making the rounds of agents and producers’ offices. It just seemed to pass the time and make me feel that I was doing something, but at the end of every day, I had nothing to show for all the walking and waiting that I did. I thought that there had to be a key to unlock the mystery of getting work as an actor, but I wasn’t finding it.

The only relief was getting back to my rented penthouse, being greeted by the doorman and going up in the elevator as if I were on my way to a grand apartment. Then I would spend the hours before bed sitting in my only chair under a rickety floor lamp reading Stanislavsky’s My Life In Art that Louis had given me as a closing night present. I tried desperately to understand The Method that the actor-director talked about in the book, but it was way over my head. I would go to sleep thinking of the next day and hearing over and over we’re not looking for anyone in your age category or no casting.

One of the actors who I walked on with in Janie told me I could volunteer at The Stage Door Canteen and get to meet important actors and producers, so I went there and was immediately given a job as a bus boy. I felt as if I didn’t belong and any minute, they’d find out I’d been fired from a play and tell me to get out. But they didn’t so I began working there before going to the theater. I was so shy that I just kept my head down and went about my work. I never saw any important people, but I wouldn’t have recognized them if they were there. The best thing about the experience was that I was around music and laughter, and I did get to eat leftover food that made up for a lot of what was missing from my meager diet.

One day I walked into the office of Jane Broder, one of the most important agents in the business. I never expected to see her, but I figured I might as well put my name on her list, if she had one. It was lunchtime and there was no one at her secretary’s desk. The door was open to an inner office, and I heard a voice calling out, Who’s there?

I felt like I’d been caught doing something wrong and I replied furtively, Oh, it’s just an actor. I wanted to register with you. But I’m leaving.

A woman’s deep voice replied, Well come in here so I can have a look at you!

I couldn’t believe my luck to have an interview with such an important person. Maybe there was some point to making the rounds after all. I walked into a cozy, paneled room with many old-fashioned windows facing Times Square. Behind a huge desk was a stout woman with a weathered face and grayish hair who looked like one of my mother’s mahjongg partners.

What’s your name? she said in a warm down to earth way. I told her and she peered at me as if she were examining an insect. I know you, she said. Have we ever met?

No, Miss Broder, I’ve been on the road in a play.

Wait a minute, she said. What was the play?

"Junior Miss," I replied.

Oh my god, she shouted, I saw you. You were the football player.

Yes, I said getting excited.

You were terrible! she said and all the warmth had gone from her voice. How could you give such an awful performance? You were so wrong for the part, but you made it even worse by yelling all the time. No wonder you were fired.

I was devastated. I didn’t know what to say. I blurted out something about knowing I was wrong but wanting to be an actor.

I don’t care what you wanted, she said. You didn’t show one iota of talent. I certainly would never recommend you for anything. Now please leave. Go back where you came from or learn how to act. And don’t come here again.

I mumbled an automatic thank you and turned and left. I went back to my room. I couldn’t take anymore that day. I lay on the narrow studio couch and tried to sleep, but all I could think of was the woman saying I had no talent. I kept going over and over what people had said about my acting. It had always been so positive, but maybe they were just making me feel good.

Yet Elliot Norton, the Drama Critic of the Boston Globe had said I should be an actor when I won Prize Speaking, and he was considered one of the most important critics in the country. And the critic in Rockport who singled me out said I’d have a great career. Why would they say those things? I knew I hadn’t been right for the part in Junior Miss, but the kids in the show kept saying how good I was getting and that I was better than the boy who left. But he was a hunk and at least looked like a football player. I didn’t.

I thought of what I was reading in My Life In Art. Stanislavsky said you had to find something of yourself in a part and as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t. I wasn’t gross and blustering and I never would have smeared a partially eaten chocolate candy on my spanking-clean camel-hair coat, like the character did. I was a polite, nice boy from Brookline who would never smack a man on the back and almost knock him over to say hello, another thing the character had to do.

But maybe, if I did have talent, I would have found a way to make it work. I felt sick, almost like I did when I was caught stealing at the 5 and 10 when I was a kid. It had taken me almost a year before I could walk down the street without thinking that the whole town knew I was a crook. Now, I kept wondering if the agent would tell everyone I had no talent and whatever office I went into, they would look at me and know I was no good.

Finally, I got up and put on my bathrobe. Maybe if I read some of the Stanislavsky, I’d get sleepy. I walked over to the little table Marie and Madeline had lent me where I kept the few books that I had brought with me. Lying on top was a note that I’d been too upset to see when I walked in. It was from my landlord. I had an extension of his phone and he was kind enough to take messages for me knowing I was looking for work. The call had been from Louis and he had left a number to phone him collect after his show. He knew he couldn’t call me or it would disturb the landlord. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t too late so I called long distance. The hotel connected me to Louis’ room and he accepted the call.

Hello, he said. I’d given up waiting for you.

I’m sorry, I just found the note that you called.

Louis replied, I was just dropping off to sleep so I’m a little groggy.

Is something wrong? I asked.

No, Louis replied, as a matter of fact everything is better than it’s ever been.

I wanted to tell him the good news about getting the penthouse, but I waited to see if he would say something first. There was silence for a moment and I thought we were cut off. Hello, I said.

I’m here, Louis answered. I heard him take a deep breath and then he said, I gave my notice tonight. I’m leaving the show.

Louis! I said.

I can’t be away from you any longer. He sounded as if he were almost crying. I’m not going on tour for six months without seeing you unless you tell me that you don’t want me to come back.

I felt embarrassed to talk this way on the phone. I was sure someone was listening in. Can’t you come into New York on the weekend so we can discuss it? I asked.

If you don’t want me, Louis said, just say so.

No, of course I do, I answered, but your career.

I’ll get a job in New York, Louis said. "There may even be a replacement in the company there of Junior Miss."

I didn’t know what to say and then I blurted out, I just hope you won’t blame me if you don’t get anything.

Don’t be silly, he said, we’ll be together and that’s the important thing,

I felt I had to say something, but all I could manage was Yes.

I had to give them four weeks’ notice, he said, but it’s not forever.

After I hung up, I walked around the room looking at it as if I were Louis seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t much, but the drapes and furniture that Madeline and Marie had lent me made it seem cozy and warm. It looked so much better than when I had first seen it. I wondered what Louis would think of it. In just a short time it had become my home, the first place in my whole life that was all my own. But now, with Louis, I would be sharing a space again as I had with my brother and once even with my grandmother. At least for a while, I thought, this will still be mine.

In the weeks before Louis arrived, I went back and forth in my mind trying to decide what to do. I owed so much to Louis, but I just didn’t love him. I knew what real love was. I’d experienced it with an older man, but he went into the army and stopped contacting me. He always said that the age difference made it impossible for us to have a lasting relationship, but I know I could have been with him forever. All I wanted was to be with one person and even though Louis was handsome and bright and funny, he just wasn’t the one. What should I do? If I refused to live with him, would he do something terrible to himself? He had given up his job for me. That was a pretty strong indication of what his feelings were.

Would he want me to have sex with him? I’m sure he would, but for me sex was about love. I’d refused to have sex with an actor at the summer stock theater because I didn’t love him. Actually, I didn’t like him at all and I do like Louis. He’s my best friend. How can I hurt him by refusing to live with him? And then, of course, there’s the money. We’d be sharing everything and my life would be so much easier. I’d been so lonely. Now I’d have someone to be with.

I decided to make a list of the good and the bad of our living together. I always wrote down everything when I was trying to come to a decision. When I finished, I studied it for a short time. One column was so much longer than the other.

There was no question of what I would decide.

2

Louis

In the four weeks of March while Louis was finishing off his commitment to Junior Miss, I wrote two letters to my mother. The first was at the beginning of the month.

I had the most amazing luck, I wrote. A very important agent gave me a reading today and said I have real talent and I’m a fine actor. He thinks he can put me up for three parts and out of that number, there ought to be one that is just right. I also have a chance to be in The Eve of St. Mark. It’s a hit show…so you see things are turning out just the way we hoped they would. I know you want me to come home to Brookline for a while but now that I’ve got my irons in the fire, I couldn’t possibly. I’ve never felt better and I know I’ll succeed. Keep your faith in me. I’m going to get something and I won’t come home until I do.

Toward the end of the month, all my leads had fizzled. I’d also had a bad toothache that led to my losing a tooth on the side of my mouth. I had to learn how to smile by practicing in the mirror so I wouldn’t show the gap. I had nowhere near the money to have it replaced. I didn’t mention it when I wrote to my mother again:

I’ve put off writing this letter hoping that something would turn up and I could write to tell you of a beautiful gift I was sending you for your anniversary, but no such luck! For the first time since I was a little boy, March 23rd is here and I can’t even afford to send you an anniversary card. However, I was able to buy a three-cent stamp and so this letter will have to do. I hoped I could get a job so that I could come up to Brookline tomorrow, but you can’t do much on practically nothing a week.

Now I suppose that you want to know all that’s happened; the best news has nothing to do with the stage. Today I finally decided after six weeks in New York that I would see if I could get an announcing job. I went to about 20 radio stations and they all will arrange auditions for me. One man at WOV said I had a beautiful voice and made an appointment with me for next week. This is quite amazing as they usually keep you waiting two or three months. It sounds good but I’ve been disappointed so many times, I can’t get excited about anything anymore…There’s hope anyway.

Saturday morning, I read for the authors of Life With Father for the part of Clarence. They liked me very much but said I was 23 or 24 on stage and the part calls for a boy 17. I guess it’s almost hopeless. I’m either too old or too young for everything. But don’t think I’ve given up!!! Please send me $10 or cash one of the war bonds I sent you from my Junior Miss salary and my new ration book – I need it to get into restaurants. Hope you have the happiest of anniversaries.

When Louis arrived and moved in with me, the penthouse suddenly seemed very small. We couldn’t afford to buy a larger bed and the pianist was not about to get one for us. He wasn’t too happy having somebody else in the room, but he put up with it. We squeezed into the studio couch and were very uncomfortable. For the first time in my life, I had felt that I had my own place, but now I was back to sharing it with someone. The good part was that since Louis found humor in everything – mimicking agents, secretaries, other actors – making the rounds together became fun. We did have to pretend not to know each other too well. Louis used his parents address in New Jersey so that no one in the offices would know we lived together. The stigma of homosexuality could keep us from getting a role so we had to be careful. Our relationship became a comfort to both of us. I was no longer alone and Louis was with the person he thought he loved.

We spent free time with Madeline and Marie. I was still walking on in Janie so evenings were out. The girls adored Louis and never stopped ruffling his magnificent hair, patting his back or his shoulders and hugging him endlessly. Madeline, a budding writer, was working on her first novel. She was very tall, towering over Louis and me. She had an ungainly body that made her movements awkward. She was rather remote. She spoke perfect French and the bookshelves in their apartment were filled with French titles I couldn’t decipher. Marie, on the other hand, was outgoing and warm. I wondered about her being an actress since her teeth seemed too big for her mouth.

The apartment was on the second floor of a reconverted brownstone on 12th Street in the Village. Bookcases lined every inch of wall space in the living room except for a section above the sofa that held a large picture of people in period clothes having lunch by a river. The girls told me it was by an artist named Renoir and that it was just a print. It had a very elaborate frame and it looked like it was in a museum. There was also a grand piano that took up a great deal of room, and Marie always got Louis to play some of the Noel Coward songs that he loved. He had a charming voice and Marie often sang along with him. Madeline sometimes left us to go to the theater where Eve LeGallienne was starring in Uncle Harry. Madeline was a part-time secretary to Miss LeGallienne and dropped everything when she was summoned. Both of the girls worshipped LeGallienne and never stopped talking about her and how great of an actress she was.

Louis and I got along very well. With the disappointment of not finding work and the shock of being fired from Junior Miss that still hung over me, I had begun to lose any confidence in myself. But Louis’ constant admiration and his insistence of how talented I was, little by little, brought me back. Everything seemed possible. I secretly thought of him as if he were my college roommate, though I had never been to college. He was my buddy, and I learned a great deal from him. I began to know things about the theater and people I’d never heard of before like Bea Lillie, Tallulah Bankhead, all the Algonquin habitues like Dorothy Parker. Louis had anecdotes about them all and never stopped entertaining us. I remember one about Tallulah Bankhead that’s stayed in my head all these years. Louis loved imitating her deep, husky, raucous voice.

Tallulah was a huge star on Broadway, Louis would begin, and though she was rumored to be a lesbian, she had married the actor John Emory. Some friends, to celebrate, took the couple to a sex show in Harlem. They walked into a room as big as a basketball court that had nothing in it but two wooden kitchen chairs. Tallulah and John sat down while their friends stood in the back. A man and a young girl came in, bowed to Tallulah, and took off their clothes which they piled on the floor. When they were nude, they bowed again. Obviously, they had never performed for such a big star before and they seemed visibly nervous. The girl proceeded to go down on the man who was enormous. She had a lot of trouble getting him into her mouth. Finally, she managed it but after a few moments he slipped out. In a panic, she turned to Tallulah, bowed and said, ‘Excuse me, Miss Bankhead!’

Louis, as he told it, made the girl sound like Butterfly McQueen and his audience always roared with laughter. I wondered if this was the closest that I would ever get to the theater, just sitting with Louis and his friends, listening to stories about the stars.

Louis continued to profess his love for me, but I tried to put it aside without hurting him. We did begin a sexual relationship, but on my part, it was without emotion or caring. I’d come to rely on Louis so much that it didn’t seem wrong to me. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as love for me anyway. Maybe art would take its place and I so wanted to be an artist. But it was not yet in the cards. Instead, I got a job as an announcer at WNYC. Louis was hired to play his old role in the Broadway company of Junior Miss. It wasn’t a perfect solution to what either of us wanted, but at least we both had work.

***

Every day of the summer seemed the same. The heat was intolerable yet the sun was nowhere to be seen in the white blanket of the sky. Madeline and Marie had decided to spend the sweltering months in Nantucket so Louis jumped at the chance for us to sublet their apartment. He had been miserable in my penthouse with the tiny bed and the constant din of the pianist practicing next door. I didn’t mention it, but I was sad to leave uptown and all it symbolized for me. The first time I had ever come to New York was on a stultifying day in the summer when I was 12. My parents were taking me and my brother to the World’s Fair. The trip from Boston was hot and endless. I was irritable and I scrunched down in the back seat of the car refusing to look at anything.

"I