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  It never occurred to me that I could go backstage without seeing the show first. I hadn’t yet learned about ‘second acting’ — the art of loitering in the lobby during intermission, drifting back into the theatre with the ticket holders, and finding an empty seat for the second part of the show. I later learned that Mary (or her secretary) corresponded with lots of fans (including this book’s editor, Fran Weil,) but I thought I was unique. She seemed to recognize me when we met and was always warm and friendly. I assumed everyone in the theatre was like that. Imagine my surprise when I entered the theatre years later, and found out otherwise!

  A few years later, backstage after a Tribute to Richard Rodgers. Mary’s daughter, Heller Halliday, is behind my right shoulder. Mary’s husband, Richard Halliday, is deep in conversation behind us.

  (From the author’s photo collection)

  As our ‘pen pal’ friendship continued over the years, Mary gave me tickets to the opening night of JENNIE, and even arranged for me to meet with her personal press agent, Ben Washer, about a possible job. Ben Washer and Frank Goodman had been the press agents for all the Rodgers & Hammerstein shows. When I later worked for Frank as a press assistant, he told me to clear out a file of old photos. I found this strip of contact sheets from an early wardrobe fitting Mary had for THE SOUND OF MUSIC, playfully holding up her ‘habit’ to show her chaste nun’s undergarments.

  Mary shows nun’s undergarments

  (Photo credit: Freidman-Abeles)

  In 1978 I was handling publicity for THE MERCHANT, which was booked into the Kennedy Center, scheduled to follow a new comedy DO YOU TURN SOMERSAULTS?, starring Mary Martin and Anthony Quayle. In the interim years, Mary’s husband Richard Halliday had died, and she had continued to live on their primitive farm in Brazil. This play marked her return to the theatre.

  I casually told the Kennedy Center press agent about my longtime, quasi-friendship and endless admiration for Mary Martin, whom I had not seen in more than 10 years. I was scheduled to go down to Washington to do some advance work for THE MERCHANT so he suggested I come the day Mary and Mr. Quayle were to appear on a live radio show broadcast from the Kennedy Center and then see SOMERSAULTS that night.

  I flew to Washington, completed my work on THE MERCHANT and went to the radio broadcast. At one point, the moderator took questions from the large studio audience. A middle-aged woman stood up and said to Mary Martin, “I saw SOMERSAULTS and it was a gyp. I expected to hear Mary Martin sing, but you didn’t.”

  Mary gently explained that this was a comedy, not a musical, and that in the play, her character had attempted to sing a song she had once performed in vaudeville. However Mary’s character is overcome with memories and cannot complete the song. Mary said that during early previews, she (in character) had performed the entire song but that the audience had applauded for ‘Mary Martin’ and not the character she was playing. She explained that it had undermined the play so now she only sang a snippet of the song and stopped, as her character was choked with sad memories. I thought it was an intelligent and interesting answer but the woman in the audience was not satisfied. She replied, “Well, I felt GYPED!” and sat down.

  WELL! I could not stand having anyone speak that way to or about Mary Martin in my presence, so the next time they took questions from the audience I moved quickly to the microphone. I said, on behalf of the studio audience, how thrilled we were that Mary was back on stage after so many years. I said we’d always known what a wonderful actress she was, whether she was singing or speaking, as Maria or Nellie Forbush or Peter Pan. And I said I couldn’t wait to see her in SOMERSAULTS. I had smoothed over a very uncomfortable moment on live radio. When I finished speaking, Mary blew me a kiss from the stage and silently mouthed her thanks. Anthony Quayle smiled at me and put his hand over his heart, acknowledging that I had saved what had been an awkward moment.

  After the broadcast, my press agent friend urged me to go over and say hello to Mary. I suddenly felt shy, knowing she would not remember me after all these years. He finally marched me over to her and, before I could say anything, she smiled and said, “Thank you VERY much.”

  I said, “You won’t remember me but we used to be pen pals - my name is Susan Schulman.”

  Her smile got bigger and she said, “Well, that explains it. No wonder you bailed us out. I know exactly who you are.”

  I told her I was seeing the show that night and Mary said, “We will have time to talk later — come back after the show.”

  I did and found myself sitting in her dressing room for over an hour, chatting and laughing, two professionals in the theatre (albeit one a lot more famous and successful than the other).

  I showed her how I could sign her autograph perfectly (a skill acquired when I was 14 years old) and she said, “Where the hell were you when I was on that damn book tour? I could have used you.”

  We finally strolled out of the theatre stage door together and I watched as she signed autographs for adoring fans who looked exactly the way I still felt inside. I felt so lucky to have had the chance to publicly repay her many acts of kindness to me over the years. I could not believe that my small gesture at the live radio broadcast had saved her from embarrassment and that she was grateful to me!

  Backstage at the Kennedy Center after DO YOU TURN SOMERSAULTS?

  (From the author’s photo collection)

  By the mid 80s, I was Director of Publicity for CBS-TV Entertainment which broadcast the hit series Dallas, starring Mary Martin’s son, Larry Hagman. I organized a press party he was graciously hosting at his rambling beachfront home in Malibu. At that time, Larry Hagman was the most famous man in the world and loving every minute of it. He had spent the first 40 plus years of his life known as Peter Pan’s son, and was reveling in the fact that his famous mother was now frequently identified as JR’s Mom.

  That night I watched him work the room full of not-so-jaded TV journalists. He exuded relaxed charm as the nosy reporters peeked in his closets and opened dresser drawers. In the bathrooms Hagman had placed phony dollar bills (for the taking) printed “In JR We Trust” and had ordered T shirts for the TV reporters imprinted “I Spent the Night with JR” and emblazoned with the date of the press party.

  I mentioned that I knew his mother a little bit and said it was clear to me where he had learned to ‘work a room.’ He laughed and said, “Oh darlin’ — I can’t hold a candle to her in that department.”

  DANCIN’ OFF-STAGE WITH BOB FOSSE

  Bob Fosse was the son of a vaudevillian, raised backstage in Chicago burlesque houses, performing with strippers as a teenager. Those experiences were reflected in his sexy, suggestive dance style of hip thrusts and wide spread legs. He also used his own physical shortcomings (turned-in legs, receding hairline) to create his own unique style — pigeon-toed dance steps and lots of hats.

  Bob Fosse had won an unprecedented eight Tony Awards for choreography as well as one for direction. In 1973 Fosse won two Tony Awards for PIPPIN, an Oscar for Cabaret and an Emmy for the TV special Liza With a Z. He also played the title role in a City Center revival of PAL JOEY which showcased his dancing as well as his raw sex appeal.

  In 1978, Merle Debuskey and I were hired to publicize his new dance show called BOB FOSSE’S DANCIN’, featuring his girlfriend, the fabulous dancer Ann Reinking, plus 16 terrific Broadway gypsies (singer/dancers who moved from show to show) known unofficially in the business as ‘Fosse dancers.’ Fosse said DANCIN’, which he sub-titled ‘a new musical entertainment,’ would be a collection of new dance numbers he wanted to create before he was too old. His choreography included tap, soft shoe, sand dancing and anything else he wanted to throw onto the stage. One number featured dancers with their feet seemingly nailed to the stage floor, wiggling and moving everything except their feet. He used well-known recorded music ranging from Neil Diamond and Louis Prima, to Bach. He said DANCIN’ would have no linear story or theme — just a bunch of wonderfully sexy, show-stopping dance numbers in the unm
istakable Fosse style. It was terrific.

  But when the show tried out in Boston, the critics were expecting a book musical like his previous hits, SWEET CHARITY and DAMN YANKEES, and criticized the show for its lack of a through-line or story. Fosse always tried out his shows in Boston because he valued the opinions of the two leading theatre critics: the venerable Elliot Norton, of the Boston Herald American, and his younger colleague, Kevin Kelly, of the Boston Globe. Both critics liked being part of the creative process and Fosse valued and welcomed their feedback. No matter what they wrote in their initial reviews, Fosse always invited them to see the show again during the Boston run and then met with them to discuss the changes and improvements he had made since their first viewing.

  But with DANCIN’ we had failed to create the right expectations with both the Boston critics and the public. We did not communicate the fact that DANCIN’ was a string of wonderful dance numbers linked solely by Bob Fosse’s distinctive style and imagination. It was never intended to be a book musical yet that’s what people expected when they entered the theatre in Boston.

  Fosse adored dancers and loved many, especially his soul mate and third wife, Gwen Verdon. During DANCIN’, Fosse was living with the show’s leading dancer, Ann Reinking, while still married to Verdon who worked as his unpaid sounding board and advisor. Their connection was powerful and I cherish seeing Bob and Gwen locked in intense conversation during a rehearsal break in Boston — seated, leaning into each other, stretched across three orchestra seats, with their legs entwined and faces inches apart.

  Like Tommy Tune and Michael Bennett, Fosse had a group of favorite dancers he used show after show. They adored him and accepted his quirks because he was so obviously brilliant and showcased their individual personalities and talents so well. He devoted long, arduous rehearsal hours to going over tiny details such as the placement of a finger, the turn of a toe or the tip of a hat. It took a strong, experienced Broadway ‘gypsy’ to stand up to him and demand the required Equity dinner break before performing the show at night. Occasionally there would be an uprising and the dancers would refuse to rehearse any longer. Fosse would rant about their betrayal, their lack of loyalty, and would sulk. But every night after the show, Fosse would take his favorite dancers out to eat and drink. It was not easy to worship at the turned-in feet of the master during the day and resist his charms at night.

  During the snowy winter of 1978, there were touring companies of two other Fosse shows playing in Boston at the same time as DANCIN’. Fosse asked the company manager and me to create a big dance party for all three companies after a performance and we did. During the evening, Fosse systematically worked his way through the casts of each of his three shows, dancing with and charming every one of his female dancers.

  Up until that night, my contact with Fosse had mainly been to ask him if he would talk with a particular journalist for an interview and him replying, emphatically, “No.”

  It had become something of a joke between us. Sometimes he would grin and automatically say, “NO,” whenever he saw me, as a knee-jerk reaction to seeing his pesky, young press agent.

  That night at the party, I watched him dance with every other female in the room. I gathered my nerve and walked over to his table.

  “Mr. Fosse...” I began.

  “NO!” he said, grinning at me.

  I laughed and took a deep breath.

  “Do you only dance with dancers or do you dance with regular girls too?”

  He looked up at me, blue eyes flashing. Without a word, he stood, took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. He pulled me close, very close, and we started to slow dance. He left nothing to the imagination as he wrapped himself tightly around me. At the end of this very intimate, yet public dance, Bob Fosse looked at me as if for the first time, and said, “Susan, you are a very good dancer.”

  Overcome by his charisma and sex appeal, and in a dazed, somewhat addled state, I replied, “So are you, Bob.”

  Ten minutes later, when Fosse’s spell had slightly worn off, I realized just how moronic I had sounded. “SO ARE YOU, BOB??” I’d blurted this to one of the world’s greatest dancers and choreographers! I felt like an idiot but after our little dance he was a lot friendlier to me.

  Rehearsals continued in Boston. In addition to his well-known choreographic and directing skills, Fosse was also the consummate theatre pro. He knew everything about lighting and sound. He knew how to fix a costume to enhance a dancer’s shapely leg or tight little tush. He knew the exact angle a derby hat should be tilted to allow the audience to see the dancer’s facial expressions yet still cast an interesting shadow. He would sit in the house during a rehearsal and instruct the sound engineer to punch up the mike on the French horn two notches. Not only could he hear or see details like that, he knew how to make it better. He would tell DANCIN’ producer and Broadway’s top lighting designer, Jules Fisher, that cue #403 needed to be slower by three counts, or ask costume designer, Willa Kim, to add more polka dots to one of the costumes — and he was right. It was a dazzling display of theatrical knowledge and professionalism. There was no one like Fosse with his complete understanding of how to create a memorable theatrical experience.

  Even the curtain call for DANCIN’ was interesting and different. Fosse flashed the name of each dancer on a large screen, like closing credits for a film, while each dancer leaped or spun across the stage, one by one, getting their personal moment of glory and acknowledgment from the audience. It was the opposite of how Michael Bennett treated HIS dancers in the finale of A CHORUS LINE, making them faceless and anonymous.

  Fosse also helped create the logo art for DANCIN’. He took Ann Reinking and a male dancer (possibly Chris Chadman) into dance photographer Jack Mitchell’s studio and put them through a variety of dance moves. He and graphic designer Bob Gill cut up the photos into arms, legs, heads, elbows, feet, etc., and laid them out.

  Here is the striking result of their collaboration.

  DANCIN’ poster

  (Courtesy of Jules Fisher and Bob Gill)

  Before DANCIN’ came to Broadway, we knew we needed to make it clear that this was not a book musical like SWEET CHARITY or DAMN YANKEES. Despite all the tinkering and rehearsing, DANCIN’ was 95% the same show the Boston critics had disliked. So we prepared Fosse for his pre-opening interview with the New York Sunday Times’ Arts & Leisure section. He needed to stress that his show did not have a theme or a story line and make it clear that DANCIN’ was just a bunch of wonderful dance numbers he wanted to create. Since critics, as well as theatre-goers, read the Sunday Times, that feature was extremely helpful in creating the right expectations for DANCIN’.

  When DANCIN’ opened, the critics raved, praising Fosse’s plotless dance show for not having a theme or a storyline. Fosse had gotten it right and so had we.

  The year after DANCIN’ opened, Fosse co-wrote and directed the autobiographical musical film All that Jazz, which featured Ann Reinking and many members of his DANCIN’ team, including the stage managers, lighting designer Jules Fisher, dance assistants and most of his ‘Fosse dancers.’ In the film, Roy Scheider played a charismatic, womanizing, self-destructive director/choreographer, who looked and acted exactly like Fosse, right down to the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. In the film, the Fosse character literally choreographs his own death. Bob Fosse died of a heart attack outside the National Theatre in Washington, DC in 1987, while in rehearsal for the national tour of SWEET CHARITY. He was 60. Gwen Verdon was at his side.

  A press agent usually knows where all the bodies are buried. We know who is sleeping with whom and where. We hear gossip from the dressers and the stage hands, as well as the house and company managers. Bernie Jacobs, the late head of the Shubert Organization, would regale colleagues with details of Liza Minnelli’s active social life when she was appearing on Broadway in THE ACT. Liza, who was reportedly dating both Mikhail Baryshnikov and Ben Vereen at the time, would entertain one or the other in her
dressing room after her show. Bernie would gleefully announce that, according to the stage doorman’s log, Liza had been ‘entertaining’ until 3 am.

  The morning after Bob Fosse’s DANCIN’ opened triumphantly on Broadway, I received a call from the Editor of the Arts & Leisure Section of the New York Times. He wanted to photograph lead dancer Ann Reinking later that day for a photo layout to run the following Sunday. This was a big deal for Annie and for the show, but first I had to find her. She had been living with Bob Fosse until they split during the previews of DANCIN’. I’d heard, off the record, she had moved in with one of the male dancers in the cast. A few discreet calls confirmed it. I girded my loins, called his apartment, and woke them up. She was groggy and a little surprised to hear from me only hours after the opening night celebration had ended. But Annie is smart and professional and knew the importance of a Sunday Times feature. She pulled herself together and two hours later we met at the Times’ photo studio where she jumped and twirled for the photographer, flinging those long gorgeous legs into the air ... over and over. She never asked how I found her that morning.

  ROBERT REDFORD AND THE ART OF DISAPPEARING IN PLAIN SIGHT

  Carlin Glynn and Lola Redford created CAN (Consumer Action Now), an organization that raised environmental awareness and created ‘Earth Day,’ now an annual, international celebration. I was Carlin’s personal press agent when she was starring on Broadway in THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN TEXAS. She asked if I would handle the press, pro bono, for a CAN charity event which would be attended by ‘Bob.’ Bob, of course, was Robert Redford. I said yes.

  The evening would begin with a cocktail party, followed by dinner where Redford would present awards to several important environmental advocates. I was to manage the press photographers during the cocktail party where Redford had agreed to pose for photos with the honorees.