TALENT, THE "IT" FACTOR, ETC...


(I updated this the best I could on 04-07-12 but there still might be some things here I missed. Please be forgiving.)
"Talent" is a noun, the origin of which is from the Greek word "talanton," the definition of which is "weight, sum of money." More commonly the word "talent" means: 1) natural aptitude or skill; 2) people possessing such aptitude or skill. The keyword here is "natural." To me, that indicates "talent" is something one is born with, whether it be carpenter, surgeon, physicist, architect, chef, ball player, etc.

But if someone has won a medal or been awarded a certificate or has even been the recipient of a degree conferred by a college or university after completion of a course, does that really mean that the person is talented? If you think that’s true I’d like to send you to a couple of rotten dermatologists I had the misfortune to come across. And did the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of OZ really become brave just because he was given a medal to wear around his neck that said he was? See what I’m talking about?
More often than not, one seems to use the word "talent" when one refers to someone in the arts, such as artist, sculptor, writer, performer, or any of the other creative forces. I guess the Greeks were right because people with enormous talent do carry a lot of "weight" and during their lifetimes they are certainly capable of earning an outrageous "sum of money."

And then there are those who have a "talent" for making money. From what I am hearing on television, one of those is currently trying to win the Republican presidential nomination. Does the name Romney come to mind? I wish it didn’t.

Some people call talent "the ‘it’ factor" and they believe–beyond a shadow of a doubt–they know who has "it" and who doesn’t. But the reality is, people don’t always agree on who has "it" because one person’s "it" may be another person’s "yuck."

A good example of this is the phenomenal TV show, American Idol. Randy and Paula (this was written a while ago) both think "Joe" has "it" but Simon hates Joe. He hates Joe every week. If Simon thinks Joe is such an untalented, pathetic creature, why did he allow him to be chosen in the first place from the reported thousands and thousands of young hopefuls who turn up for the auditions? Is it just because Simon is known for raking people over the coals and he can’t function without having someone on the show to hate? Maybe. Do we miss Paula? I actually liked her okay but I don’t miss her. And, for whatever, reason, the current crop are, in my opinion, the best group ever as I sit here today (04-07-2012).

In the twenties and thirties there was an actress named Clara Bow. The powers that be in Hollywood knew she had something special but they weren’t sure what it was so they called her "The ‘it’ girl". Maybe that’s where it started. I don’t know.

If someone starts young enough and studies long and hard enough, and is determined and dedicated enough, can a person develop "it?" Unfortunately, the answer is a resounding, "NO!" At least that’s my opinion. Why can’t a person develop "it?" Although I am not a deeply religious person I firmly believe "it" is a God-given (once again) natural talent. You’re either born with "it" or you’re not. You can certainly develop a specific skill or talent in any given area, in or outside of show business, but that’s not the same as being born with "it."

Judy Garland, for instance, made her first stage appearance at the age of two and stopped the show. She kept right on stopping the show throughout her life. That is, when she showed up and was well or sober enough to perform. As far as I’m concerned, Judy and "it" are synonymous.

Some people, who are born with "talent" or "it," never even know they have it. That almost happened to me. In saying this, I am not suggesting I had "it," but I did discover, quite accidentally, that I had a natural aptitude for dancing. How else could I have gotten my first professional job at the age of eighteen, less than one year after I attended my first dance class? Throughout my career, I often auditioned with people who were far more accomplished than I was--technically--but I usually got the job. Could it be that I was "born
to dance" and they were not? Possibly.

Shirley MacLaine, one of the few major musical performers I never had the opportunity of working with during my thirty year career, has had a very long and successful career in films. It’s common knowledge among theatre and movie buffs, that Shirley, a chorus dancer who understudied Carol Haney in the 1954 Broadway production of The Pajama Game, replaced Carol, who was ill, one lucky night in the role of Gladys. Hal B. Wallis, a very influential movie producer who just happened to be sitting in the audience that night, thought Shirley had "it," and signed her to a five-year contract.

In 1958, a couple of years later, Shirley was nominated for her first Academy Award for Best Actress in Some Came Running. Subsequently she received three additional Best Actress nominations for Irma la Douce (1963), The Turning Point (1977), and Terms of Endearment, for which she finally won the Oscar (1983). All these years later, Shirley still works in films and receives decent, if not star, billing. Obviously, movie audiences agree with Mr. Wallis that Shirley has "it." Prior to her discovery, had she ever studied acting. I don’t think so. Had Jennifer Hudson ever studying acting prior to winning an Oscar? I don’t think so? What about Queen Latifah? She may not have studied acting but she was nominated for an Oscar. What a smart woman she is. And what smart women Madonna and Lady Gaga are. You have to really love it to do what those last two women do. That is hard, hard work!

Back to Ms. MacLaine. When I was studying acting with Aaron Frankel at the HB Studio in New York, Shirley’s name came up in class and Aaron had never like her. In fact, he said he would not even watch a film if she was in it. And Mr. Frankel isn’t just anybody. He has directed people like Robert Redford, Walter Matthau and Louise Fletcher, all Oscar winners themselves, on stage. Plus he is the author of the successful Writing the Broadway Musical.

What about Barbra Streisand? Is there anybody alive on the face of this earth who doesn’t adore Barbra? You might be saying, "Please God, tell me, ‘No!’ Who, in their right mind, would not drop down on their knees in adulation at the shear mention of her name?" Well, I once worked with Helen O’Connell, a well-known singer from the forties and fifties, who had hit records and was voted best female vocalist in a 1950 Metronome poll. After that she toured with Rosemary Clooney in an act called Girls Four. During a rehearsal one day when she was a guest on the TV show I was dancing on, Helen said, in no uncertain terms, "If I hear her (Barbra)on the radio I change the station. I just cannot listen to that girl’s whiny voice!"

In 2003 Johnny Depp was nominated for the Best Actor Oscar for Pirates of the Caribbean and lost to Jamie Fox, for his performance in Ray. He was nominated again the following year for Finding Neverland, and lost to Sean Penn. I’m a big fan of Depp’s and not long ago I asked my friends Grant and Valedia Sullivan if they had seen Finding Neverland, which in my opinion should have won the Oscar for best picture that year instead of Million Dollar Baby. Grant and Valedia see a lot of movies and Grant, who once starred in the television series, "Pony Express," surprised me by saying, "I can’t stand Johnny Depp. He annoys the hell out of me."

All this to prove my point that one person’s "it" is another person’s "yuck." How many times have you seen a film or a play and disagreed vehemently with the reviews? It happens to me all the time.
Also, have you ever noticed how people have a lot more to say when something’s bad than they do when something’s good? And it’s not only when their talking about stars or films or Broadway shows. It’s about everything.

You might ask a friend, "How was your trip to Italy?" and hear something like, "Italy is such an incredible country. The restaurants, the food, the museums, everything about the place was terrific. It was absolutely the most wonderful vacation we’ve ever had." He or she may speak of a few more specifics but if everything went really well without any hitches, a lot of people don’t seem to have much to say. I love to travel and want to hear all the details. "Did you go to Florence?" I prod. "Florence is a beautiful city. We loved the statue of David." Okay, so, "Did you go to Venice?" "We loved Venice. We were serenaded on a gondola." Eventually I give up.

However, if the trip was bad, you might receive a reply like this, "First of all, our plane was late departing and we had to sit on the runway for two hours. They didn’t even ask us if we wanted anything to drink. We just sat there. And as if things weren’t bad enough, my goddam seat wouldn’t recline. And a crying baby was sitting in front of us. The food? Don’t ask! It was inedible, like eating garbage! And where did they get those flight attendants? They were downright rude. And old? And fat? I’ll never travel on that airline again." And they haven’t even gotten to Italy yet.

So how was Italy? Did you love it? "Italy is overrated. And I wouldn’t go back to Florence if they paid me. We actually saw this man get pick-pocketed by a gypsy girl. She ran down the street, turned around, pulled down her underpants exposing her, uh, you know, pussy, and stuck her tongue out at us, before running down the street again and jumping into a big limo. That’s what they do, you now. They bring down all these gypsy kids in limos so they can spend the day robbing people. Can you imagine?" Actually I can because I was a witness to that incident. Some critics seem to enjoy writing reviews much more when they don’t like the show. They go out of their way to be brutally clever and downright bitchy. When I was in a one-performance flop called Happy Town, one of the critics wrote, "The orchestra played with great enthusiasm just as if they were playing music," and, "The entire cast is to be commended because they got through the performance without flinching." Actually that wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Frank Rich of The New York Times had quite a good time for himself after he saw another four-performance disaster I was unfortunately in called "Bring Back Birdie, the dismal sequel to you-know-what, when he wrote, "The score that interrupts this book has a death wish." And Mr. Rich wrote this about the set, "Even David Mitchell, the inspired designer of Annie and Barnum, has gone haywire here. His scenery is built around a multitude of television sets - a mild satirical notion that’s so overdone the show looks like a discount appliance outlet." Isn’t show business fun?

However, like anything else, there are always exceptions. Walter Kerr, a New York critic, adored Ethel Merman and was a master when it came to expressing his overwhelming jubilation every time he saw her on the stage.

When Ethel opened in Happy Hunting on Broadway, Tom Donnelly in the World-Telegram and Sun wrote, "She is monumental, magnificent, and miraculous." Three "M"s, that’s pretty good alliteration. He went on, "Can anyone else touch her when it comes to demonstrating the absolute mastery of the musical stage? Certainly not." He continued and here’s the kicker, "Can anyone think of a new way to describe the glory of her voice, a way which would not involve the standard comparison to a brass band? I wish I could." Merman was so good Mr. Donnelly admitted he was somewhat at a loss for words when it came to describing Ethel and her performance. That was how good she was! If she had been rotten he might have conjured up quite a bit more to say.

Perhaps someone should have suggested to Mr. Donnelly that he take some lessons from Mr. Kerr who, after seeing that same show, wrote in the Union Tribune review, "How can you resist an un-ladylike Kewpie-doll with sunrise eyes, tadpole eyebrows, and rhinestones all over her toes–who rolls in from the wings, winds up her head like a pitcher getting ready to win the ball game, and fixes you with a blinking stare that’s like something seen at night in a very dark forest? Owls can’t do it, but Miss Merman can...
"The thing about Merman is that she doesn’t need comedy because she just naturally drips comedy the way some trees drip maple syrup. Lines? Who needs Lines? Her tone is funny, her attitude (whatever it may be at any slapdash moment) is funny, her simple presence in the
neighborhood is humor itself."

WOW!!! Now that’s positive writing!

After seeing Merman’s opening night performance in Gypsy, Mr. Kerr declared, "... the best damn musical I’ve seen in years" and went on to say about Merman, "a brassy, brazen witch on a mortgaged broomstick, a steamroller with cleats, the very mastodon of all stage mothers."


Merman was David Merrick’s first choice to play the role of Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly, but she turned him down. Subsequently, she followed Carol Channing, Ginger Rogers, Pearl Baily, Phyllis Diller, and Betty Grable to become the last Dolly of the original Broadway production.


Of her opening night performance, Mr. Kerr wrote, "My God, what a woman she is. Her comic sense is every bit as authoritative, as high-handed really, as her singing voice. At the very opening, as she’s offering one of her calling cards to a horse, she makes the gesture with such confidence that you expect the horse to take the card...

"Merman is odd. She has won love by never asking for it. She does what she does, on her time and in her tempo, and its up to you to decide when you want to come around. Everybody’s come around by this time and there she still is, cocky, chin tilted, half-dollar eyes sprouting sunburst black lashes, power flowing from her that will still light the town when Con Edison fails."


In his review of Merman’s concert with Mary Martin in 1976, Mr. Kerr, continuing his love affair with Merman, found even more new and original ways to express his adulation when he wrote, "... at the Broadway (Theatre) she was an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a brushfire claiming a whole mountainside, a pop and snap and a crackle that kept her rocking from side to side, like a metronome on wheels, slipping without warning into a fiercely infectious jig-step for ‘Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly,’ throwing her substantial but untamable body around as easily as she tossed breathless key-shifts to the winds, and–I guess I still don’t believe it–unleashing ‘Everything Coming Up Roses’ like a freshly tapped gusher with a sound soaring high in the air, straight up and off and into eternity. Incredible."

Mr. Kerr definitely believed Merman had "it." Sadly, however, while Broadway audiences adored Merman, movie producers knew that her popularity with the public at large had faded by the fifties when her film, No Business Like show Business, the first film I was in, wasn’t a box office success. Consequently, Jack Warner chose Rosalind Russell for the role of Rose in the film of Gypsy, which understandably devastated Merman, as well as a lot of her fans.

You might be thinking, "Okay, we know you were a dancer. But were you some kind’a staaar?"
"Nooo."

"Then exactly who are you and what’d..."
"Pardon me for interrupting but you don’t have to finish that sentence. I know where you’re headed."

"You do?"
"Yes I do, because when I tell people I was in show business, it often goes something like this."

"What’d you do?"

"I was a dancer, movies, TV, Broadway."

"You’re kidding! Did you work with anybody famous?"

"Uh-huh."

"Like who?"

"Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Ethel Merman, Mary Martin, Red Skelton, Bob Fosse, Agnes De Mille..." and when their eyes start to blur, I stop.
If the person I’m talking to is under fifty, there’s a good chance they’ve never heard of any of these people except Marilyn, and maybe Judy.

Recently, when I was shopping at a super market, the checker, who looked to be in her early twenties, said,

"How’s your day going?"

"Pretty well," I answered.

"So what’s goin’ on?" she asked. People in California are pretty casual but that took me by such surprise I told her the truth.

"I used to be in show business and I’ve been working on a book all day about my experiences."

"Cool," she responded as she continued scanning my groceries, "So who did you work with? Anybody famous?"

Hmmm, she certainly is curious. "Marilyn Monroe and..." "You worked with Marilyn?" she interrupted,
"Who else?"

I didn’t want to be there all day so I just said, "Fred Astaire."

"Fred Astaire? You worked with Fred Astaire? I just loved him in An American in Paris!"

"Uh, that was Gene Kelly."

"Who?" By that time the transaction was complete so I paid her, gathered up my groceries, tossed her a,

"Have a nice day," and walked away with a smile.

When people over fifty start questioning me I never know what to expect. Some zero in on a particular celebrity and ask that other inevitable question, "What was she (or he) really like?" and let it go at that.
Then there are the others, and these are the ones who truly fascinate me. The minute they hear the word "dancer" they interrupt me with something like, "Oh, I just love dancing. I started ballet classes when I was four. And tap, too. I remember dancing to Buttons and Bows in my first recital. I couldn’t have been more than seven. I wore the cutest costume, all pink ruffles from top to bottom. After that, it was over. I mean, totally over, because that’s all I wanted to do for the rest of my life. But then, my dad lost his job and we couldn’t afford dance lessons anymore so I had to stop. But..." These one-way conversations usually end without them ever asking me a single question about who I worked with or anything else. I’ve experienced this so often it’s become funny. Perhaps I should qualify that, it’s funny most of the time. Other times, when I’m not in the mood, I find it’s downright annoying.

One of my best female friends once tried to match me up with a friend of hers named Bob, who she thought would be perfect for me. He was about my age, had been married, had a couple of kids, and hadn’t been "out" very long. She said he was a decorator, very interesting, gave me his phone number, and suggested I call him. Which I did. We talked for about an hour and he was nice enough on the phone so we decided to get together.

Bob was going to pick me up at my place so we could have a get acquainted drink before going out to dinner. When I opened the door, I saw this fairly nice looking guy with a rather large nose–certainly not George Clooney–but perfectly acceptable. As he walked into my apartment, he noticed some of the pictures hanging in the entrance hall, including some autographed photos of Carol Burnett, Doris Day and Lana Turner, a large 11 by 14 shot of me doing my trademark high kick, as well as a "still" from Silk Stockings, the movie I danced in with Fred Astaire.

He recognized me in the kick picture and asked, "You used to be a dancer?"

"I did," I said, as I walked over to the Astaire picture, "that’s me right there."

Without asking a single question about my career, or Fred, or Carol or Doris or Lana, he got all excited and started ranting, "My daughter, Melanie, is an incredible dancer! We, her mother, my ex, and I started giving her dancing lessons when she was three and you could tell, she was one of those kids with a natural talent. Everybody who saw her was sure she was going to grow up to be a ballerina. I’ll never forget seeing her the first time she performed in front of an audience. She couldn’t have been more than, I don’t remember exactly how old she was, five, maybe six. She was the most adorable thing in her little parrot costume with all these feathers, red, green, blue, yellow..." Yeah, I thought, I know what a goddam parrot looks like. If Melanie has a beak like her father’s I understand why they decided to put her in a parrot costume. Throughout all this we’re still standing in the hall.

Although I did my best to look interested in what he was saying, what I really wanted to do was open the door and shove him out into the hall and slam the door in his nose, I mean, face. Instead, I walked into the living room and sat down hoping he’d follow me and he did. Without skipping a beat, he continued his soliloquy about this daughter of his I never met, "She wanted to be a professional dancer but when she was fifteen, or was it sixteen, no I’m sure it was fifteen because that’s the year she started wearing braces, she had a skiing accident–someplace place in Utah where–you might know–her mother had taken her, and that put an end to her dancing career. If I had been there it never would have happened because I wouldn’t even let her get close to skis, for God’s sake... "

He finally stopped to take a breath and still trying to be nice to this guy, I jumped in with, "Well, I did a Broadway show with Chita Rivera, who had an auto accident some years ago and she can still dance even though she has a steel rod in one leg. Maybe your daughter... "

"You worked with Chita Rivera? I love Chita Rivera. One time when I was in New York, I went to see some Broadway show, I don’t remember which one, maybe Hello Dolly, no it couldn’t have been Hello Dolly, I saw that in L.A., well, it doesn’t matter which show it was, anyway, at intermission I saw Chita Rivera standing in the lobby talking to a couple of gay guys. She was wearing this black form fitting dress, really slinky. I think she is the most fabulous performer I’ve ever seen so I didn’t care if I was being nervy or whatever, I knew I was not leaving that theatre without getting Chita’s autograph, so I went over to Chita and..."

He didn’t want to know what show I was in with Chita, he didn’t want to know what Chita was really like, he didn’t want to anything about Chita, or me, or anything else. By this time, he’s starting to look like Pinocchio! And I have to go out to dinner with this idiot? I don’t think so!
I was so desperate I was willing to do anything to get this guy out of my apartment. I finally thought of doing something I had never done before. I excused myself and went out to the kitchen, sniffed some black pepper–far more than I should have–and promptly had a sneezing attack unlike anything he, or I, had ever experienced before. " I, I, I, ahhhh-chooooo, I, I, I ahhhh-chooooo, it’s ah, ah, my, my, al, al, aler-gieeees-chooooo. My eyes were watering, and I thought maybe I had third degree burns on the inside of my nose, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get rid of this imbecile.

Long story short, we did not go out to dinner. As soon as I could speak, I told him these allergy attacks sometimes hit me unexpectedly and lasted for days, so I thought it would be best if he went home. He said he hoped I felt better and as he tried to give me a hug before he walked out the door, I sneezed all over his big you-know-what. It wasn’t pretty. Thank God he had a handkerchief. He called me a couple of times afterward but, needless to say, Bob was not the perfect match for me and that was the last time I ever let my ex good friend–just kidding–fix me up with a date. Even though I’ve never let her forget it.

Other people, those who are completely enchanted and enthralled with the world of show business, ask endless questions, hanging on my every word, until I’m so sick of hearing myself talk I could scream. However, if it weren’t for those people, you wouldn’t be reading this, because they’re the ones who always say, "You ought to write a book."

I actually worked on a book once before, when I was in my forties, called The "Kids" in the Chorus, interviewing other cream-of-the-crop Broadway and film dancers like myself, to find out what had happened to their lives after they were considered to be too old to dance in the chorus.

Some, had made the transition to acting, teaching or directing smoothly, managing to stay within the industry. Beth Howland, a dancer I had known for many years, who was in the original Broadway cast of Bye Bye Birdie and Company, was one of the people I interviewed. Beth was thrilled because, a couple of days earlier, she heard that she had won the plum role of Vera, on the television series Alice with Linda Lavin.
Many dancers, like Steve (Johnny) Harmon, who once played the title role in the short-lived television series "Ensign Pulver," became successful California real estate agents. Others, who weren’t as resourceful, or just plain lucky, ended up doing whatever they had to do to make a living.

A friend of a friend, knew an editor at Doubleday named Allen Smart, who was, in his words, "a show business nut," and suggested I contact him. When my book was finished, I phoned Mr. Smart and he was kind enough to meet with me. After reading it he called to say that he thought it had great possibilities and he was going to present it to a group of his associate editors to get their reactions, which I found out was the way it’s done in the publishing world.

He let me read the critiques and I couldn’t believe they had all read the same book. One person described the author as being likeable and interesting, with a good sense of humor, and agreed with Mr. Smart that my book should be published. Another said my writing was amateurish and described me as arrogant and bitchy. Go figure.

Mr. Smart had a friend at another publishing firm and suggested I send him a copy, which I did. A couple of months went by before I heard from him and by that time all of the interviews needed updating. Alice, for instance, had become a big hit and Beth, a relative unknown at the time of our interview, was now a well known television actress. As I had interviewed dancers on both coasts, updating the book seemed to be an impossible task so I just forgot about it.


Since that time I’ve written a couple of articles that have been published here and there, including one in Playbill. But I never tackled anything like writing a book about my personal show business experiences because, quite simply, I couldn’t think of a concept.

Then one morning I got a call from Bill, a good friend of mine, who said, "I was watching Silk Stockings on television last night and I had forgotten you were in that Ritz Rock and Roll number with Fred Astaire. It reminded me of those stories you told me about all the stars you worked with."

"Yeah, but isn’t it a shame so many of those people are dead?"

"Wouldn’t it be great," Bill said, "if you could tell all of ‘em what it was really like working with them, you know, the good, the bad and the ugly? Too bad you can’t write ‘em letters."

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Bill said. I am one of those rare individuals who has always enjoyed writing letters so a book of letters just might work. Maybe that’s the concept I’ve been searching for. If I wrote letters to all those people who were no longer with us, this time I certainly wouldn’t have to worry about updating. And when it’s appropriate I can insert interesting tidbits about some of the people I worked with who are still around, as well as some things about my personal life, just like one does in a letter to a friend.

One aspect of my career many people, even good friends, don’t know about is that I’m a pretty good song writer. I’ve been writing songs since I was a kid and I’ve even been lucky enough to have a few of them recorded.

When I was directing and choreographing the shows at Radio City Music Hall, we were planning the tree lighting ceremonies at Rockefeller Center, to be televised on NBC. Bob Jani, the producer, wanted the show to open with a song about New York and Christmas. When someone presents a targeted idea like that to me, I’m often quite good at coming up something that’s right on the money. It’s like, you want a hamburger? Okay, I’ll make you a hamburger.
As soon as I got home that night I started writing down some ideas. Bob wants a song about New York and Christmas, huh? I think New York At Christmas sounds better. Let’s see, there’s the big tree at Rockefeller Center and ice skating. How about, "Come and see Rockefeller Center all dressed up for winter. Bring your skates, the ice is waiting, underneath a Christmas tree, the biggest one you’ll ever see." Yeah, that sounds pretty good. What else is there? Chestnuts roasting on all the street corners, Fifth Avenue all lit up and decorated. Let’s trythis, "Everywhere, the smell of chestnuts roasting fills the air, along with pretzels toasting. Window shop until your eyes are popping, once you’ve seen Fifth Avenue, you’ll want to take it home with you." Yes, I like that.  I like it a lot.  Now, how should it start???  .

People always seem to think the country is the best place to be at Christmas... not the city.  Hmmm.  Here goes, "If you're gonna be in the city at Christmas time, make sure you're in the city of New York.  For there's no city prettier that New York at Christmas, New York and Christmas go together... come and see Rockefelled Center."  Yeah, that's works great!   It's a very comfortable lead in to, "Come and see Rockefeller Center..."  And I love "no city prettier"  What a great inner rhyme that is if I do say so myself.  Before I knew it, my song was finished.

The next morning I got one of the singers in the show to make a rough recording for me and presented it to Bob. He said it was exactly what he was looking for and New York At Christmas did, indeed, open the show, much to the chagrin of Don Pippin, the musical director. Don had submitted a Christmas song he had written, which had nothing whatsoever to do with New York, and he was furious Bob chose my song to open the show.

The most interesting thing about writing a song is I often start with just an idea or a title in mind and I don’t have a clue where the lyric is going to take me. I just let the creative process do its thing and see what happens. Sometimes I get nowhere. Other times the process leads me down a path I never intended to take. The results are often quite surprising.

So I thought, Hmmm, I think I’ll give this book of letters a shot. It’s certainly worth a try.

For one thing, I could clear up something that happened all the way back in 1955 when I worked with Judy Garland on that concert tours. I’d like to say, "Hey Judy, why were you so mean to me? It wasn’t my fault your favorite dancer got fired and I was hired to replace him! Why’d you get mad at me?" Bob Fosse liked me a lot until he sent me a telegram asking me to come out to L.A. to be in the movie of Damn Yankees and I had to turn him down. When I called him, I explained that I was doing a featured role in a summer stock production and I couldn’t get out of my contract. Even so, I could tell he was pissed off. A couple of years later he was doing a new Broadway show and when I showed up at the audition he acted like he didn’t even recognize me and eliminated me after the first combination. I’d like to get that off my chest.

Michael Bennet, on the other hand, thought I was terrific when I worked for him in Ballroom, his first Broadway show after A Chorus Line. Working for Michael is one of my fondest memories. The irony is Michael and I both landed in Tucson, Arizona, of all places, a few weeks apart. I ended up there quite by accident, after my partner Curt died, when I was in search of a new home and a fresh start. The tragedy is, Michael went there to die. I had no idea Michael was there until I read in the local morning paper about his death. Had I known Michael was there, would I have had the opportunity to tell him how grateful I was? Probably not. But I can do that now in a letter.


Some of these stars and I have things in common, other than the fact that I worked with them. Judy Garland, Ethel Merman and Mary Martin and I all performed at the famous Metropolitan Opera House in New York before it was torn down. It’s actually stretching the truth to say I performed there, but I was on that stage in front of an audience. Twice. They might get a kick out of that story.

Okay, here’s the story. I was nineteen and I went with a friend to a ballet class at the Met. He asked me afterward if I wanted to "super" and get two bucks. I didn't know what "super" meant but I said, "Sure."  He led me to the wardrobe department where we were outfitted in long flowing robes and headgear. Then the prop master handed us candles which were really flashlights. My friend told me to turn it on and we followed all the other people out onto the stage. When I looked out into the audience I was over whelmed. All those balconies. Wow, what a theatre. I had no idea where I was. We all walked slowly to the other side of stage, handed in our robes and our candles and collected two bucks. The whole thing took less that five minutes. What a deal!

The next night my friend asked if I wanted to do it again and I, of course, said that I would. This time I was put in some kind of awful heavy costume and helmet. Instead of a candle I was handed a spear. I was told where to stand and the curtain went up. As I remember it, I had to stand there during the entire first act of that opera.  At intermission, my friend told me I had to do the same thing in the second act. I told him I was not going to do that. That is wan't worth two bucks.  He took over to the person in charge, told him I was sick, and I ended up getting the two dollars anyway. I never did that again.

Fans, including me, are inclined to put people like Ethel and Mary and Shirley on these gigantic pedestals because they acquired such incredible fame during their lifetimes. Over the years I’ve read many of their biographies and autobiographies, and they were, after all, mere mortals. They experienced great highs and lows, chaotic ups and downs, tremendous successes, horrific failures, and devastating disappointments, just like the rest of us. Many of them suffered from insecurities, self-doubt, and major depression. God knows, I’ve had more than my share of the latter. They experienced the same joy when they fell in love and the same heartache when their relationships failed. The only difference between those of us "normal" people and them is that they lived their lives in a fish bowl hounded by the "paparazzi," and couldn’t go to the toilet, without making headlines.  Cant you imagine Ethel Merman being such a huge Broadway star and winning such fabulous reviews for all those years losing the part in "Gypsy" to Lucille Ball?  How hearbreaking that must have been.

And when they lost loved ones, did they hurt any more than we hurt when we lose someone we love? When they got fired from a job, and many of them did, did it hurt them any more than it hurts us if we find ourselves in that same situation? I don’t think so. Even though they got paid enormous sums of money, some fought for their financial security, and some even faced bankruptcy. Once, having risen to the top of the heap, some readily admit they had to scratch and claw and fight tooth and nail, to stay there.

As I said earlier, it’s often said that everybody has at least one book in them and I believe that’s true. That’s because, excluding fame and fortune, we’re all just people and we all have a tale to tell. Some authors have extraordinary success writing about everyday things that occur in their lives. Some years ago, I read a book that became the number one book of nonfiction on The New York Times Best Seller List called Marley & Me, life and love with the world’s worst dog written by John Grogan. While Mr. Grogan lists some of his writing credentials on the flap of the back cover, he doesn’t list any other books he’s written. It seems he simply sat down and wrote–and that’s the hard part–a tender and heart warming story about his dog.

(Even though I scrapped the letters to dead people idea a long time ago because it just didn’t work out, I am going to include what I wrote here because I liked it. Okay, reading it now, I will accept the possibility that it may be a little hokey but hey, so what?  Yes, I am a recovering perfectionist but I have learned the hard way that nothing is perfect.  Including me.  Oh, you are too?  That is so good to hear.  We do belong to a very large group, don't we?  I'm still dealing with it, what about you?)
You might be thinking, Writing about your dog is one thing but you’re writing letters to dead people.
Yeah? So?

"Why write letters if nobody’s ever gonna get ‘em?
It’s not like I’m going to put these letters in envelopes, stick stamps on ‘em and drop ‘em in a mail box.
We all have our own views on this subject and although you may not agree with me, I happen to believe there is an afterlife. I also happen to believe in guardian angels. Furthermore, I believe there is a good chance many of these people may receive my letters, one way or another. Maybe not all of them will answer, but I am expecting to receive responses from some of them.

"Like a postcard? Or an E-mail?"

Hardly. What I’m talking about is some kind of unexplainable communication, either metaphysically. Or telepathically. Or maybe telekinetic. Or may even via some kind of situation that some people may call a "coincidence." Over the years I have come to believe that there are no coincidences in life. And perhaps there are none in death.

"That’s a lot of hooey!"
I’m okay if you think that because that’s your prerogative. And don’t worry, I’m not going to proselytize with a lot of blah-blah-blah in an effort to change anyone’s mind. That, I’ve learned, is an impossible task. I only know that I, and you may believe this or not, have, on occasion, received communication from the other side. In fact, I believe in my heart that my guardian angel saved my life. What do you think of that? Speechless, huh?

As far as responses to my letters go, if I receive none whatsoever while I’m here on earth, I’ll just have to wait until I pass over to the other side myself.

On television’s Inside the Actor’s Studio, James Lipton always ends every interview asking his famous guests to offer their answers to the famed Bernard Pivot questionnaire. Mr. Lipton’s final question is, "If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?"

Although I never expect to have Mr. Lipton ask me that question I have given a lot of thought to what my answer would be. What I’d like to hear God say when I arrive is, "They’re all over there waiting for you." I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than seeing all those people and pets I’ve loved and lost welcoming me into heaven... although with all those talented luminaries I worked with.

And scattered among my loved ones, I hope to see–make that expect to see–some, if not all, of the people I’m writing to in this book. Then and only then, will I find out the answer to the question, "Will they let me dance in heaven?"

(Good title I thought. Books and songs with the word "heaven" in the title seem to sell well. We’ll never know if this one would have."