L.A. at the time was flooded with talent, and Lee Strasberg, who loved talent, and especially stars with talent, was going to spend three months at a new branch of the Actors Studio on the West Coast. I was assigned to win over Mayor Sam Yorty so he would give us a home in L.A. We had two dinner dates and my mission was accomplished. The Actors Studio was given a home in perpetuity in West Hollywood, rent-free, on De Longpre Avenue, a gift that exists to this day. A more personal gift to me from the mayor was having him use his influence to take five years off my age on my driver’s license.
“Please correct a terrible mistake on my driver’s license.”
“Sure.”
I breathed, relieved. If I can only get ten years off my official birth date, I’ll be safe. I can work ten more years.
I went to the newly formed Actors Studio production of The Threepenny Opera, playing at a small theater, under a hundred seats. The work was embarrassing. Actors sitting behind me—non–Actors Studio actors—were making nasty comments all through the play. “This is supposed to be good acting? This is the Studio?” And they were right. The play hadn’t officially opened yet.
I marched onto the stage, told everyone they were terrible, and offered a day and night of free labor if they would let me fix it. Then the director, who was there, could take over again.
I felt the reputation of the newly established L.A. Actors Studio was at stake. I could save it.
The first thing that happened was my beloved Burgess Meredith quit. He had been playing his non-gay character gay and goosing the other players. Another favorite actress of mine was playing with herself while singing “Pirate Jenny,” the great song Lotte Lenya made famous in Berlin. One actress couldn’t carry a tune, so I had her talk the song instead. The orchestra was put back onstage where it traditionally belonged. Midafternoon of my first day rescuing the play, Lee Strasberg stopped me outside the theater. He was snorting, a clear sign he was very angry. “What do you know about Brecht?” he yelled. “What do you know about German theater? What do you know about Germany in that period? The history? The music? What do you know?” He was furious and indignant.
“I don’t know anything about Brecht,” I yelled back. “I only know what works!” Suddenly, he smiled. He laughed at me and nodded. I nodded back and went to the theater. The sad end of the story has a “Beware what you wish for” moral. The rescue worked so well that when Jimmy Doolittle saw it, he decided to bring the show to his big L.A. theater.
I had reworked the show for a day and night in a comfy, small space. Suddenly I was facing a responsibility I knew I was totally unprepared and unequipped for. The original director had fled. I asked everyone I knew to take over the direction. I begged Lee, who said no; Burgess, no. There was no money for sets. I knew nothing about lighting. And I was suddenly faced with snarling actors demanding that they not be replaced for the move to the Doolittle, that they get their “big chance.” The actor who replaced Burgess walked back and forth in the theater. “I know things about people in this organization that I won’t hesitate to use if you try to put someone in my part . . .” Ugly, ugly, ugly.
Camaraderie disappeared. The whole atmosphere changed. The Threepenny Opera is a famous musical. The only real singing pros in Threepenny were Lesley Ann Warren and Pat Carroll. Opening at a small off-Broadway theater was one thing. But the Doolittle was the Broadway equivalent in L.A. I was stuck and I was sick.
I wandered up and down the Red House in Malibu, praying for the original director to return. He didn’t. We were waiting for word whether it would be a go. I was praying for a no. Then Jon Peters, the hairdresser/producer who was going with or was married to Lesley Ann at the time, said, “I don’t want the little girl to be sitting on the curb wearing her toe shoes. I’m putting some money in for her.”
When I got the call that Jon had financed the play, I leaned over to pick up my travel bag and couldn’t get up. I ended up directing at the Doolittle from an electric wheelchair. It buzzed up and down the aisles. We had a week, maybe two weeks to adjust to a Broadway-size space. “Speak up, sing out,” I shouted from my wheelchair. The stage was bare. Opening night, the curtain parted. Someone had decided to dress the stage with a tall piece of wood, a phallic wooden sculpture that stretched from the stage to the top lights. A senseless symbol of the whole project. Lesley Ann had the quality of Snow White in this gritty musical. It was a motley crew—brave, but motley. My wheelchair protected me from the hard critique I richly deserved. Lee Strasberg was there. At intermission our eyes connected. He smiled and nodded.
Allen Garfield, a very passionate actor, placed himself on the steps in the theater lobby during intermission and screamed, “This is not Actors Studio work. This work is not the work of the Actors Studio! This does not represent us.” He got star billing in one of the reviews. Actually, the reviews were tolerant and kind compared to what we would have gotten in New York. Some of the reviewers from Variety and the Hollywood Reporter were friends. I’d done so many interviews with them over the years. But by the time we opened, I was in love with the show, which is what always happens. We need to fool ourselves. I was crippled and delusional.