DURING THE TOUR of Cap and Belles, I began to have serious doubts about my prospects for the future. I started to ask myself what I really had to offer, what I’d learned, what I hoped to achieve. I was now seventeen, still traveling endlessly, still singing the same songs night after night. My youthful “freak” voice seemed to be changing, and I worried what my appeal would be once I lost that gimmick.
My education had been pretty nonexistent, and I had learned no other craft. I was busy taking care of the family and bringing home the money, but I felt as if I was going around in circles. I had good instincts; I knew how to be decent and polite. But inside there was a locked-up individual, doing all the moves and trotting out the form like a hamster on a wheel.
Then, lo and behold, I was offered the title role in Cinderella at the London Palladium.
The theater has tremendous prestige and a great history. It was the jewel in the crown of the Moss Empires Corporation. Almost every American headliner has performed at the Palladium. It holds more than two thousand people, yet standing on the stage, one feels one can touch the entire audience. It is immaculate—nothing like the tacky vaudeville theaters I’d been playing in. It is also the best theater in London in which to see a pantomime.
Everything about that 1953/1954 production of Cinderella had a certain elegance. The show was glamorous and the costumes were fresh. The staging was by Charles Henry, who had also been involved in Starlight Roof, and Pauline Grant was the choreographer.
Richard Hearne played Cinderella’s put-upon father; Max Bygraves, the now-famous comedian whom I had first met on Educating Archie, played Buttons, who was enamored of Cinderella; Adele Dixon was Prince Charming; and Joan Mann played the Prince’s Valet, Dandini.
Richard Hearne, that masterful clown, incorporated his Mr. Pastry character into his role, and he was totally endearing. The sketch he was famous for, and the audience waited for it, was “The Lancers”—an old-fashioned dance designed for a group of people, with a driving, jolly tune. Though Richard danced “The Lancers” solo, he performed it as if he were being pulled in every direction by a large and enthusiastic crowd.
Adele Dixon was married to a Cartier. The cast would show up in rehearsal clothes each day, and she would arrive wearing some exquisite suit made of wonderful fabric. Her trademark was a beautiful silk flower on her lapel—a chrysanthemum or a soft bunch of violets. She was perhaps a tad older than most people who played a principal boy, and she didn’t have the great legs that Joan Mann did—but what she didn’t have in pizzazz she made up for in style. She was an elegant, classy Prince Charming, and I was very admiring of her.
The production values on the show were terrific; there were revolving stages, and real white ponies pulling the spectacularly gilded coach. (The ponies were adorable, but had a phenomenal talent for taking a dump onstage whenever I had friends in the audience.) There was a glorious transformation scene when the Fairy Godmother worked her magic, enabling Cinderella to go to the ball. In the grand finale wedding sequence, my crinoline was so huge that I had to arrive backstage dressed in my bodice, sleeves, and petticoat, and walk into the crinoline skirt, which was braced on a stand because it was so bejeweled and cumbersome. The company, Prince Charming, and I were brought up from below stage on a hydraulic elevator, to be revealed in a sparkling white set and costumes for the final tableau.
Cinderella was very successful, and we received great reviews. After the opening night my mother said, “Julie, this is the perfect part for you at the perfect age. It couldn’t have come at a better time in your career.” I did two shows a day from December till March, and I loved it all.
Whoever plays the Palladium has a brass nameplate nailed to his or her dressing room door. At the end of the show’s run, the plaque is given to the actor in acknowledgment of having played the great theater. My dad took mine and set it on a wooden stand, and I have it to this day.
In spite of the success of Cinderella, I still didn’t feel that I would have an ongoing career. I could perform in radio, vaudeville, and pantomime—but I felt that with Cinderella, my career had peaked.
THERE WAS A very successful musical play running in London called The Boy Friend, written and composed by Sandy Wilson. I hadn’t been able to see the show, because of my own performance schedule, but it had been playing to enormous popularity and huge success—so much so that two American producers, Cy Feuer and Ernest Martin, purchased the rights for Broadway. They were renowned for such blockbuster hits as Guys and Dolls and Can-Can. Since the London producers had no desire to release any of their talented cast members, Feuer and Martin decided to form an entirely new company for the Broadway production.
Charlie Tucker reported that a lady called Vida Hope, the director of The Boy Friend, was coming to see an afternoon performance of Cinderella. Later, I learned that Hattie Jacques—the kind comedienne who had been in Educating Archie—had suggested to Vida that she take a look at the young lead at the Palladium. Sandy Wilson accompanied Vida to the theater. The next thing I knew, I received a surprise offer of a two-year contract to play the role of Polly Browne in The Boy Friend on Broadway. I wonder if Hattie ever realized what a catalyst she was for me.
Given the fact that I was almost single-handedly holding the family together, that Pop was drunk a great deal of the time, that my mother was unhappy and my young brothers miserable, there was every reason not to go. As I have mentioned, I always had terrible separation anxiety about leaving home, and the prospect of being away from my family for two years tore at my heart.
I wrestled with the decision at length. How could I abandon everyone? It sounds a little grandiose, but I thought everything would fall apart if I left. How would they manage? How would I manage on my own in a new, strange country? It wasn’t that I didn’t have ambition. It was just that The Boy Friend seemed an impossibility for me. The anxiety was paralyzing.
I decided to talk to my father. He visited The Meuse and we walked in the garden together. I became tearful as I told him that I didn’t know what to do about the offer to go to the United States—and for two whole years, for heaven’s sake!
“Chick,” he said gently, “I think you should go. It’ll be the best thing in your life, and look, it could last a mere two weeks…two months. No one can say for sure that it’s going to last two years. It’ll open up your head, and you will see America. You should not miss that opportunity.”
As always, he was the voice of reason.
Many years later, I asked him if it had been difficult to counsel me that way.
“I was dying inside,” he replied. “I knew that I would not see you for a while, and that was so hard. But I also knew that it was the best thing that could happen to you.”
I made my decision. With uncharacteristic stubbornness, I dug in my heels for the first time in my life and said to Charlie Tucker, “I cannot do it for two years, but I will do it for one.” Charlie was simply horrified and told me I couldn’t dictate to the American producers like that. But I was adamant, and with the hysterical feeling that comes from total panic, I said, “Look, I don’t care! If they don’t want me, that’s all right.”
I think I hoped that my insistence on a one-year contract instead of two would lead Messrs. Feuer and Martin to pass on their offer. To my great surprise, they agreed to my terms.