“That’s what tryout towns like New Haven and Boston are for,” Edgar explained to Danny and Stu. “Bostonians are as sophisticated as New Yorkers — but more tolerant. They appreciate the fact that we’re there to cut and trim and polish. Even the critics can give you a useful tip or two.”
“Suppose a show is perfect?” Stuart asked tongue-in-cheek.
“Then we just make it more perfect. Even My Fair Lady polished all its diamonds on the road. And, boys, let me tell you, this show is a thousand times better.”
Manhattan Odyssey opened its Boston run on February 12, 1968. The initial reviews were not quite as enthusiastic as Edgar Waldorf had predicted. Indeed, they were not very good. To be more precise, they were scathing.
The only “useful tip” the Boston Globe could offer was that “this unmitigated disaster should fold its tents as quickly as possible and creep away in the night.” The critic found the words pretentious and the score incongruous. The other papers were even more disparaging.
Danny was in shock. These were the first hostile reviews he’d received since the Harvard Crimson panned Arcadia.
When she heard of the catastrophic reception, Maria offered to fly up and give him support.
“No,” he told her on the phone, “I have a feeling we’re going to be working night and day. You’d be better off out of the line of fire.”
“Danny,” she said reassuringly, “this has happened to a lot of out-of-town shows before. You’ve got plenty of time to fix whatever is wrong.”
“Yeah. Besides, I think the Boston critics are being a little bit snobbish. I’ll wait and see what Variety has to say. That’s the only opinion I really trust.”
Variety, the respected publication of the show-business world speaks unvarnished truths in its own unique idiom. And, from its opening headline, “No Cause to Rejoyce,” it was an unmitigated pan.
Danny quickly skipped over the unfavorable comments about Stuart’s words, Sir John’s staging, the stars’ heroic efforts to overcome the feeble material, and shot right to the paragraph that addressed itself specifically to his work.
On the cleffing side, Rossi is clearly out of his element. He seems to write noise, not tunes. His material is distinctly unhummable. He seems allergic to melody, which may be chic in his longhair circles, but It’s not likely to send the average playgoer stampeding to the wickets.
In short, Manhattan Odyssey is going to need mucho work to make it on the Main Stem.
As he sat there in the quiet splendor of his suite at The Ritz, Danny read the review several times, still unable to dispel his incredulity.
Why were the critics so vicious? That music was the best he had ever written. He was sure of it. At least, until this moment.
There was a knock at his door. He glanced quickly at his watch. It was twenty minutes past midnight. But, as his New York friends had often reminded him, when a show is out of town it’s like an obstetrics ward. There is no night and no day.
His nocturnal visitor was Edgar Waldorf, their no-longer-ebullient producer.
“Did I wake you, Dan?”
“No, I was just about to jump out the window.”
“Then you’ve seen Variety?”
“Yeah.”
Edgar flopped onto a couch and breathed a histrionic sigh.
“You know, Dan, we’ve got trouble.”
“Edgar, I’m aware we have problems. But isn’t that what out-of-town tryouts are for?”
“Stu has got to be replaced,” he replied quickly. “I mean, he has big talent, a huge talent. But he’s too inexperienced. He’s never worked under the gun like this.”
Danny did not know how to react. His friend and college classmate — a fine and intelligent writer — was going to be summarily fired.
He brooded silently for a moment, and then said softly, “He’s a sensitive guy, this’ll kill him.…”
“No,” the producer replied. “He’s a big boy. He’ll live to write another day. And when we save the show he’ll have royalties to live very well. But right now we need to play doctor — somebody who writes great, funny, and fast.”
“Uh, who’d you have in mind?” said Danny, dreading what might now become of Stuart’s elegant dialogue.
“My wife is calling New York to see who’s available.”
“But Stu’ll still stay on as lyricist….”
“God knows, we still need work there, too,” Edgar commented, a perceptible tinge of uneasiness in his voice. And then quickly added, “Stu’s back in New York. I don’t want him on the lyrics, either.”
“Dammit, Edgar, the least you could have done is let me tell him! Aren’t you being a bit brutal?”
“It’s not me who’s brutal, Dan, it’s the business. Broadway is strictly sink or swim, either one night or ten years! It’s a goddamn war between the artists and The New York Times!”
“Okay, okay, I’m getting the idea,” Danny acquiesced. “But who’m I gonna work with on the lyrics?”
Edgar now took a prodigiously deep breath. It was as if the entire hotel suite had suddenly become an oxygen tent. He squirmed, clutched his heart, and in his most mellifluous lower register said, “Daniel, we have to talk about the music, too.”
“What about it?”
“It’s terrific, sensational, brilliant. It’s just maybe a little too brilliant.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, not everybody can appreciate such quality. I mean — you’ve read the reviews.”
No, thought Danny Rossi, this can’t be happening. He doesn’t want to fire me!
“We need some songs,” Edgar explained. “You know, tunes.”
“I’ve read Variety, Edgar. I’ll simplify the stuff. I’ll write catchy melodies.” Panic had gripped him, and his tone of voice had involuntarily become a plea, a supplication.
“Danny, you’re a classical composer. God knows, you may be a modern Mozart!”
He seized the feeble compliment to use as a weapon for his own survival. “That’s just the point, Edgar. Mozart could write in any style — from Requiem Mass to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ ”
“Yeah,” replied the producer. “But he’s not available. And listen, baby, you need help.”
There was a frightening pause. What was this ignoramus going to propose?
“You’ve gotta understand there’s nothing personal about this, Dan. It’s for the show. We’ve gotta do this to save the show. Ever hear of Leon Tashkenian?”
Indeed, to his ineffable distress, Danny had. Tashkenian was known among his serious musical friends as “Trash-canian.” A two-bit, Tin Pan Alley hack!
“He writes shit, Edgar, pure unadulterated shit!”
I don’t give a damn what you call it,” Edgar retorted. Leon’s got it and we need it. Do you hear me? Does reality ever pierce your magnificent ego? Like the fields need manure, this show needs some shit!”
Daniel Rossi was choking with rage and humiliation.
“Edgar, I know my rights under the Dramatists Guild contract. You can’t bring in a new composer without my consent. And I hereby refuse to consent.”
“Okay, Mr. Rossi,” Waldorf said calmly, “I know my rights, too. This show sucks. Your music is putrid. The people hate it. So if you don’t want the helping hand of Mr. Leon Tashkenian, you have a simple alternative. You can die in Boston and be buried in your beloved Harvard Yard, Because if you say ‘no Leon,’ I’ll go right over to the theater and post the notice.”