AFTER THE IMMENSE size of Toronto’s O’Keefe Centre, Boston’s Shubert seemed very small. We began rehearsals again, working in the lobby of the theater, or in the bar downstairs while the setup and technical work continued onstage. Alan gave us more cuts, and his assistant, Bud Widney, rehearsed with us when Alan had to write. We did not see much of Fritz, and I understood later that a nasty rift was developing between him and Alan. Luckily, we were all so busy with the show that we weren’t aware of it.
How difficult it must have been—first for Moss (not to mention his distraught wife, Kitty) and then for Alan, who had to withhold so much information in order to keep optimism high in the very large company.
Tony was due to return to New York from London with Tim White. I’d been talking about Tim to the company for such a long time, and everyone was excited that he was coming to visit. I knew that he would be royally welcomed and spoiled. It was understood that Tim would not see the show until it was in proper shape, perhaps not until our formal opening night at the Majestic in New York. But, by an absolute fluke, Tony and Tim’s plane was diverted to Boston’s Logan Airport because of bad weather on the very day we opened there. Tony called to give me a heads-up, since, obviously, he and Tim would be in town overnight.
I phoned Alan. He very kindly understood the situation and suggested they come see the show that evening. With all that was going on, we seemed destined to fail in Boston, but an amazing thing happened. Because we had spent so many weeks projecting into the vast auditorium of the O’Keefe, our performance at the Shubert was strong and vibrant, and the show dazzled everyone.
We received favorable notices, which gave us all a much-needed lift. The company made a great fuss over Tim. He was very generous about the show and was in his element, stomping about backstage with all the pretty ladies of the chorus loving him up.
Alan had forewarned Tim that converting his beautiful and evocative tome to a two-and-a-half-hour show was “less a matter of dramatizing incidents than capturing the spirit.” Tim was very supportive and gave Alan permission to do whatever he thought best. The following day, Tim and Tony set off for New York. I would be joining them in fairly short order.
Philip Burton, a Welshman who was Richard’s mentor and surrogate father, was brought in to take over rehearsals and to help direct whenever Alan was unavailable. Philip, a teacher, had discovered Richard as a youngster, giving him vocal coaching and inspiring his love for the theater. Richard, whose original surname was Jenkins, had taken Philip’s last name. It was Richard’s suggestion that Philip help with Camelot, and since we continued to be plagued with problems, Alan was anxious to give his star this added sense of security. No one in the company objected.
After Tony and Tim left, I felt somewhat abandoned and very alone. I had no wish to be as social as Richard, and I was weary. On impulse, I bought myself a portable turntable and some wonderful albums: Rachmaninoff, Brahms, Chopin, Ravel. At the end of each day I found the music infinitely comforting, and helpful in reducing my stress.
With no sign of improvement from Moss, our opening in New York was postponed a further week, and when we finally reached the city, we learned that advance sales were solid, despite the fact that word was out we were beset by problems.
Joyce Haber’s Time magazine article was no help. She had been so affable in Toronto, but her story about the show was a bit of a hatchet job and it surprised and depressed us all. Many years later, she did several hatchet jobs on me and my husband, Blake, prompting my remark, which Blake loves to quote, “That woman should have open-heart surgery—and they should go in through her feet!”
During our last week in Boston, Alan decided that Guenevere needed a new song to replace a protracted farewell scene with Lancelot. Alan conveyed to me that he wouldn’t have the time to write the lyrics until just before we opened in New York. He asked how I would feel about that.
I am a quick study, and we had been adding to and subtracting from the show for so many weeks that I was now used to changing on a moment’s notice. Plus, I couldn’t refuse the chance of a lovely new song, and Alan was so stressed that I wouldn’t have made waves even had I wanted to. I asked him to try to get me the song as soon as he could.
We had two paid previews in New York before our official opening, and the night before our first one, I received my song. It was called, “Before I Gaze at You Again,” and it was a beautiful, simple ballad. Fritz had already had it orchestrated, so I learned it, it was quickly staged, and it went in that night. It has always held a special place in my heart.
Camelot opened on Saturday, December 3, 1960, at the Majestic Theater, New York. We limped into town and gave the show our best shot. Moss was unable to be with us, though by now he was out of the hospital and recuperating at home.
The reviews were adequate, but not great. It is my opinion that had Camelot come before My Fair Lady, it would have had its own success. As it was, there were many inevitable comparisons with that great hit.
Every critic had a different suggestion as to what Camelot needed. One thought it should have been treated more “vastly,” another wished the unhappy ending had been omitted. Most seemed disturbed or puzzled by the difference between the acts. To an extent, we understood the reviews, but we were saddened, because with all our recent problems, we had never been able to refine the show the way it deserved. However, we never felt a negative response from our audiences.
After opening night, Alan came backstage and made us a promise. He told us that Moss was going to get better, and that he and Fritz were going to take a break. Within three months they would all come back and rework the piece. We believed him. We tried not to feel deserted, and we had just enough advance sales to see us through.