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TRICKSTERS AND HUCKSTERS: SHOW BIZ ARCHETYPES
by Addison De Witt
“The Mentor” Part II
Imagine, if you will, Dear Reader, a young neophyte writer being asked to write a musical with one of Broadway’s greatest living composers. Heady stuff. Almost too good to be true. Just a crazy enough development to make an insecure, if not unambitious, young Addison wonder when the other shoe was going to drop.
Buddy Fields (not his real name) himself was a paradox. He was an Oscar and Tony-winning songwriter who had worked with so many legendary artists that he had become a legend himself. But he was also a little meshugah, brash, cocky, anti-intellectual, with a serious gambling addiction. Still, certainly a man of his brilliance and accomplishment would know talent when he saw it. Wouldn’t he?
Like Woody Allen quoting Groucho Marx, I was wary of joining any club that would have me for a member. And yet, this was a dream come true being handed to me on a silver platter and it would have been the height of self-destruction, or arrogance, or both, to turn down the opportunity to write a show with Buddy Fields. So it was with a combination of awe and trepidation that I entered Buddy’s office, a fateful step that would lead to the ride of a lifetime – though not necessarily on the route I expected.
The word “mentor” itself derives from Greek mythology, meaning literally, a wise, loyal advisor, a teacher or coach, and refers specifically to Mentor, the loyal friend and advisor of Odyssesus, and teacher of his son, Telemachus, in The Odyssey. Though Buddy Fields and I first met in our roles as teacher and student, once we began to work together, he never treated me as anything less than an equal. He seemed to respect me as a writer. And it didn’t take me long to realize that he was counting on my youth (his birth preceded mine by half a century) to keep him young and vital.
Though, in many ways, Buddy was as young as I was. Unlike many people of his stature and chronological years, he seemed to live in the world of the possible, the world of today and tomorrow, rather than in the past. Though he hadn’t had a hit show on Broadway in many years, Buddy was always looking forward to the next one, his next big hit, seemingly unaware of how unlikely it is to have such success so late in life, particularly in what was said to be a dying artform.
(As if to prove Buddy right, Betty Comden and Adolph Green won a Tony in their 70’s [for “The Will Rogers Follies”], and such diverse talents as Edward Albee [“Three Tall Women”] and Mel Brooks [“The Producers”] are still doing some of their best work.)
That first day in his office, Buddy sat at his desk with an unlit cigar, a jar of prunes, and a Tony Award used as a paperweight for a pile of Racing Forms. He told me his idea for the show he wanted us to write with an excitement so overwhelming that all I could do was watch and nod. Sure, it sounded a little old-fashioned, but I felt sure I could overcome some of Buddy’s antiquated notions about male-female relationships and write something great. He had a zillion ideas, some only half-formed, for the plot, the characters, even the casting. He yelled to Sylvia, his devoted assistant, stationed just outside his office: “Who’s that girl? The one who’s in that movie? Marilyn somebody...!” Sylvia shouted back: “Meryl Streep!” “Can she sing?!” “I don’t know!” Later, onto another topic: “Sylvia! Get me Katharine Hepburn!” I sat there, dumbstruck, while Sylvia dialed the number and Buddy prepared to address The Great Lady on his speaker phone. Miss Hepburn, perhaps fortunately, was not at home.
Best of all was when, during a discussion of one of his greatest hits, Buddy got so caught up in telling an anecdote that he ended up singing the entire overture a capella for me while standing on a chair. Before I left, Buddy told me about a young writer he had discovered and hired to write the book for a musical he produced in the early 1960’s. And that young writer...drum roll...was Bo Goldman, the Oscar winning screenwriter (“One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”, “Melvin and Howard”, etc.) And I, Buddy insisted, reminded him of Bo. “Tell him, Sylvia!” “Buddy’s always had an eye for talent,” she insisted. If Buddy thought I was the next Bo Goldman, I told myself as I emerged from the darkness of Buddy’s office and out into the glaring light of West 51st Street, a distance of about 100 feet and 30 years, who was I to disagree?
Armed with Buddy’s idea, I went home and wrote a detailed outline and even a few song lyrics. I arrived for my next appointment in Buddy’s office excited, but nervous about Buddy’s reaction to what I wrote. I needn’t have been – because Buddy never looked at it. Instead, he handed me a script and a tape recording of the score of his first Broadway hit, “Girl With The Parasol” (not the real title), from the late 1940’s. The prestigious Goodspeed Opera House was planning to produce this rarely-revived show, and Buddy wanted me to rewrite the book. The “Parasol” score was still great, everyone agreed, but the book was old-fashioned and needed a new writer (the original writer was long-dead) to come in and freshen it up and make it work. Just to prove this was real, Buddy instructed Sylvia to write me a check for $200, a “down-payment”, promising there’d be a contract and real money, eventually. I left, with my head-spinning, and it wasn’t until I was out on the street and heading for the subway that I realized we had not discussed our new musical at all.
Before I left, Buddy had also handed me a script and audio cassette from a long-forgotten show he’d produced, but not written, in the early 1950’s. It was a big enough hit to run for a season or two in those days, but had by now sunk into obscurity. Buddy never said why he’d given it to me. But a few days later, when I sat down to read it, it all became painfully clear: The plot of this show was the same as the idea he had pitched to me for our “new” musical. But exactly. I was dumbfounded, angry even. Why he had chosen to give this to me only AFTER I worked so hard trying to bring his “idea” to life? Why had he never mentioned that the show had already been done! No wonder the male-female relationships seemed a little old-fashioned!
I was confused and upset, but now Buddy had given me “Girl With The Parasol” to rewrite for Goodspeed, so how could I complain? Buddy never responded to the detailed outline and the song lyrics I gave him. It was as if it had never happened. I worked furiously on my “Parasol” rewrite, and loved every minute of it. And I honestly thought I had improved the book tremendously – treating it with respect, but tightening it here and there, restructuring when needed, making it faster and funnier.
I called Sylvia to tell her I was finished and ready to show the revised script to Buddy, and Goodspeed. Sylvia hesitated, and said she’d have Buddy call me. I wondered if he had taken ill – not an unlikely event for a man of Buddy’s advanced years. But in a few days, I got a call. It seems that a famous Broadway book writer had ALREADY rewritten “Girl With The Parasol” a few years earlier, for a proposed revival that never happened. And, for some reason that was never adequately explained to me, Goodspeed was legally obligated to use that script for its revival.
So no one ever read my brilliant “Parasol” revision. I don’t even know if Buddy ever even told Goodspeed I was writing it. I’m not even sure if Buddy had the authority to “hire” me to do it in the first place. With Buddy, you never really knew what was real or what was not. But for some reason, I never blamed Buddy, because I never thought Buddy meant me any harm. He was just...eccentric. Child-like in his enthusiasm. Sure, I was disappointed, but hadn’t Buddy been trying to help me?
Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned, the young Addison said to himself. Little did he know he would soon be learning the same lesson all over again. Yes, Dear Reader, Buddy Fields came calling again. This time with another exciting and promising offer: A prestigious, Tony-winning regional theatre wanted to do a brand new revue of the Buddy Fields songbook, and they were looking for a writer with a fresh concept to make it all happen. Like Charlie Brown with the football, I took the bait, and soon found myself on a train to meet with the theatre’s esteemed Artistic Director, who was going to direct the show himself. There was something different, this time. I was actually meeting with someone OTHER than Buddy. (I never actually met or spoke to anyone at Goodspeed.) This time, it had to be real. Didn’t it?
And it was. The director liked my concept. I got my first theatrical agent, Shirley Bernstein (Lenny’s sister) to negotiate my deal. I even got a small advance. I was working in The Theatre. At last.
After a couple of months (and a couple more train trips), we were ready to present the show to Buddy for his approval before we set a date for the production. This time, instead of meeting in Buddy’s old, dusty, cramped little office, we met in Buddy’s sprawling, modern apartment on Fifth Avenue – the first time I’d ever been there. Was this the “real” Buddy, the sophisticated songwriter with the grand piano and the white-on-white decor, and the oil paintings on the walls? My head was spinning again, but this time I was truly confident. Not only was I proud of my work, but I had a great director backing me up.
The concept, in a nut-shell, was to place the audience in the world of Buddy Fields, and the Broadway of Buddy’s era, with a character very much like Buddy as our guide. We talked through the show, and from the get-go, Buddy loved it. He’d jump out of his seat with excitement, toss out ideas, rush to the piano to demonstrate a song. It was heaven, and we were in business. I walked through Central Park back to the West Side on a cloud. I imagined the show being a hit out-of-town and coming into New York.
A few days later, the phone rang. Sylvia said we were all reconvening at Buddy’s apartment the following week to discuss the show. I arrived, notebook and script in hand, to find the director sitting there. Neither of us were sure what the agenda was, but obviously we were moving forward. Then Buddy entered the room. But this was a Buddy I had truly never seen. He was nattily dressed, as always, in a crisp jacket and tie, a handkerchief jauntily stuffed in the breast pocket. But Buddy remained standing the entire time, and with a bizarrely haughty air, he gave what seemed like a well-rehearsed speech. Essentially, he said, the revue was “beneath his dignity” as an artist. “Dick Rodgers”, he said, referring to the deceased composer of some of Broadway’s biggest hits, “Would never have allowed himself to be portrayed in such an undignified fashion.”
I was dumbfounded. And devastated. No matter what I said, or what the director said, Buddy would not be moved. His mind was made up. He was withdrawing his permission to do the show. Ain’t gonna happen. Over. Kaput. The director beat a hasty retreat. But as I was leaving (and I couldn’t get out fast enough, I felt so blindsided), Buddy pulled me aside, and quietly announced: “Public television is going to do a tribute to me.”
Aha! Now I realized what had happened. Public television had “dignity”. And they
didn’t want any competition from a new revue. I congratulated Buddy – in spite of everything, I was truly happy for him. It had been his dream to be regarded with the same respect as Richard Rodgers, George Gershwin, Cole Porter, and his idol, Irving Berlin. And now, it seemed, his time had come.
When I heard the next thing that came out of Buddy’s mouth, I almost didn’t believe my ears: “And I want you to write it.”
(For a detailed account of my experience writing the television tribute to Buddy Fields, please see “The Monster, Part I and Part II”, in the April and May 2001 issues of HeadlineMuse.com.)
Postscript: A couple of years later, Buddy asked me to come meet him in his office. He handed me the screenplay for a film classic for which he had finally, after many years, succeeded in obtaining the stage rights. This was to be a very, very classy musical, he assured me, and would give him the opportunity he had long craved to prove that he was a serious composer. The centerpiece of the musical, as in the film, would be an extended ballet sequence. Buddy had to leave for an appointment, but left me there with Sylvia to “work out the details.”
Having been through the mill with Buddy in the past, I was determined to be very clear and direct with Sylvia. “Am I being asked to write the book for this show?” Sylvia answered that she wasn’t sure. “So what am I being asked to do?” Sylvia told me I was being asked to write a detailed outline for a musical stage version of the screenplay. “Does Buddy actually have the rights?” Yes, Sylvia assured me. “But he’s not hiring me towrite the book?” Not yet, Sylvia responded. She told me the original film’s producer is involved, that Buddy couldn’t make this decision without him. But Buddy was giving me the opportunity to audition for the job. If I did a great job on the outline, who knows? Whether you end up being the book writer or not, Sylvia repeatedly insisted, “You will be involved in some way.” “Involved how?” I asked. “Involved.” “Financially?” I pressed her. “Yes.”
So, as if I had every reason in the world to trust her, I took the screenplay and got to work turning it into a book for a Broadway musical. A couple of weeks later, I got a frantic call from Sylvia: “Where’s the outline? Are you finished?” Not quite, I told her, soon. “How soon?” Next week, I suggested. But that wasn’t good enough. “I MUST have the outline by Friday,” Sylvia insisted. “I MUST HAVE IT BY FRIDAY.” She seemed almost desperate. So I pulled an all-nighter, for old times’ sake, and I finished it. I personally dropped it off at Buddy’s office on Friday – he wasn’t there, but I handed it to Sylvia.
To my surprise, Buddy called the very next day, in a very upbeat mood. He couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about my work. “I just finished my meeting with Simon Gray (famous British playwright) and he’s agreed to write the book. Thank you!” I was flabbergasted and completely at a loss for words as I realized what he was saying: Buddy had presented my hard work as his own outline in order to entice SOMEONE ELSE to write the book. He had left it to Sylvia to do his dirty work, to entice me with false promises. I realized, of course, that I had only myself to blame.
Two years later, Buddy’s long-awaited new musical, his much-anticipated return to Broadway, opened to devastating reviews and closed in short order, though there was praise in some quarters for Buddy’s “dignified” ballet music. While the show was in previews, I sucked in my gut and asked Sylvia for comps. She refused.
I never saw Buddy again. By the time he passed away, I had long since attempted to follow in Bo Goldman’s footsteps: I had moved to Los Angeles and become a screenwriter.
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