THE AGONIES OF WRITING A MUSICAL COMEDY
Which Shows Why Librettists Pick at the Coverlet
The trouble about musical comedy, and the reason why a great manyotherwise kindly and broadminded persons lie in wait round the cornerwith sudden scowls, their whole being intent on beating it with abrick the moment it shows its head, is that, from outside, it lookstoo easy.
You come into the crowded theatre and consider that each occupant ofan orchestra chair is contributing three or four cents to the upkeepof a fellow who did nothing but dash off the stuff that keeps thenumbers apart, and your blood boils. A glow of honest resentment fillsyou at the thought of anyone having such an absolute snap. You littleknow what the poor bird has suffered, and how inadequate a reward arehis few yens per week for what he has been through. Musical comedy isnot dashed off. It grows--slowly and painfully, and each step in itsgrowth either bleaches another tuft of the author's hair or removes itfrom the parent skull altogether.
The average musical comedy comes into being because somebody--not thepublic, but a manager--wants one. We will say that Mr. and Mrs.Whoosis, the eminent ballroom dancers, have decided that they requirea different sphere for the exhibition of their talents. They do notdemand a drama. They commission somebody to write them a musicalcomedy. Some poor, misguided creature is wheedled into signing acontract: and, from that moment, his troubles begin.
An inspiration gives him a pleasing and ingenious plot. Full ofoptimism, he starts to write it. By the time he has finished anexcellent first act, he is informed that Mr. and Mrs. Whoosis proposeto sing three solos and two duets in the first act and five in thesecond, and will he kindly build his script accordingly? This bafflesthe author a little. He is aware that both artistes, though extremelygifted northward as far as the ankle-bone, go all to pieces above thatlevel, with the result that by the time you reach the zone where thebrains and voice are located, there is nothing stirring whatever. Andhe had allowed for this in his original conception of the play, bymaking Mrs. Whoosis a deaf-mute and Mr. Whoosis a Trappist monk underthe perpetual vow of silence. The unfolding of the plot he had left tothe other characters, with a few ingenious gaps where the two starscould come on and dance.
He takes a stiff bracer, ties a vinegar-soaked handkerchief round hisforehead, and sets to work to remodel his piece. He is a triflediscouraged, but he perseveres. With almost superhuman toil hecontrives the only possible story which will fit the necessities ofthe case. He has wrapped up the script and is about to stroll roundthe corner to mail it, when he learns from the manager who is actingas intermediary between the parties concerned in the production thatthere is a slight hitch. Instead of having fifty thousand dollarsdeposited in the bank to back the play, it seems that the artistesmerely said in their conversation that it would be awfully jolly ifthey _did_ have that sum, or words to that effect.
By this time our author has got the thing into his system: or, rather,he has worked so hard that he feels he cannot abandon the venture now.He hunts for another manager who wants something musical, and atlength finds one. The only proviso is that this manager does not needa piece built around two stars, but one suited to the needs of JasperCutup, the well-known comedian, whom he has under contract. Thepersonality of Jasper is familiar to the author, so he works for amonth or two and remoulds the play to fit him. With the script underhis arm he staggers to the manager's office. The manager reads thescript--smiles--chuckles--thoroughly enjoys it. Then a cloud passesathwart his brow. "There's only one thing the matter with this piece,"he says. "You seem to have written it to star a comedian." "But yousaid you wanted it for Jasper Cutup," gasps the author, supportinghimself against the water-cooler. "Well, yes, that is so," replies themanager. "I remember I did want a piece for him then, but he's goneand signed up with K. and Lee. What I wish you would do is to takethis script and twist it to be a vehicle for Pansy Glucose."
"Pansy Glucose?" moans the author. "The ingenue?" "Yes," says themanager. "It won't take long. Just turn your Milwaukee picklemanufacturer into a debutante, and the thing is done. Get to work assoon as you can. I want this rushed."
All this is but a portion of the musical comedy author's troubles. Wewill assume that he eventually finds a manager who really does put thepiece into rehearsal. We will even assume that he encounters none ofthe trials to which I have alluded. We will even go further and assumethat he is commissioned to write a musical comedy without any definitestellar personality in mind, and that when he has finished it themanager will do his share by providing a suitable cast. Is he in soft?No, dear reader, he is not in soft. You have forgotten the "Gurls."Critics are inclined to reproach, deride, blame and generally hammerthe author of a musical comedy because his plot is not so consecutiveand unbroken as the plot of a farce or a comedy. They do not realizethe conditions under which he is working. It is one of the immutablelaws governing musical plays that at certain intervals during theevening the audience demand to see the chorus. They may not be awarethat they so demand, but it is nevertheless a fact that, unless thechorus come on at these fixed intervals, the audience's interest sags.The raciest farce-scenes cannot hold them, nor the most tender lovepassages. They want the gurls, the whole gurls, and nothing but thegurls.
Thus it comes about that the author, having at last finished his firstact, is roused from his dream of content by a horrid fear. He turns tothe script, and discovers that his panic was well grounded. He hascarelessly allowed fully twenty pages to pass without once bringing onthe chorus.
This is where he begins to clutch his forehead and to grow gray at thetemples. He cannot possibly shift musical number four, which is achorus number, into the spot now occupied by musical number three,which is a duet, because three is a "situation" number, rooted to itsplace by the exigencies of the story. The only thing to do is to pullthe act to pieces and start afresh. And when you consider that thissort of thing happens not once but a dozen times between the start ofa musical comedy book and its completion, can you wonder that thisbranch of writing is included among the dangerous trades and thatlibrettists always end by picking at the coverlet?
Then there is the question of cast. The author builds his hero in sucha manner that he requires an actor who can sing, dance, be funny, andcarry a love interest. When the time comes to cast the piece, he findsthat the only possible man in sight wants fifteen hundred a week and,anyway, is signed up for the next five years with the rival syndicate.He is then faced with the alternative of revising his play to suiteither: a) Jones, who can sing and dance, but is not funny; b) Smith,who is funny, but cannot sing and dance; c) Brown, who is funny andcan sing and dance, but who cannot carry a love-interest and, throughworking in revue, has developed a habit of wandering down to thefootlights and chatting with the audience. Whichever actor is giventhe job, it means more rewriting.
Overcome this difficulty, and another arises. Certain scenes areconstructed so that A gets a laugh at the expense of B; but B is afive-hundred-a-week comedian and A is a two-hundred-a-week juvenile,and B refuses to "play straight" even for an instant for a socialinferior. The original line is such that it cannot be simply switchedfrom one to the other. The scene has to be entirely reconstructed andfurther laugh lines thought of. Multiply this by a hundred, and youwill begin to understand why, when you see a librettist, he isgenerally lying on his back on the sidewalk with a crowd standinground, saying, "Give him air."
So, do not grudge the librettist his thousand a week or whatever itis. Remember what he has suffered and consider his emotions on themorning after the production when he sees lines which he invented atthe cost of permanently straining his brain, attributed by the criticsto the impromptu invention of the leading comedian. Of all the saddestwords of tongue or pen, the saddest--to a musical comedy author--arethese in the morning paper: "The bulk of the humor was sustained byWalter Wiffle, who gagged his way merrily through the piece."