| Knowing what evil lurks in the hearts of men, Orson Welles flew to Washington, where he was told that there was absolutely nothing anybody could possibly do. As they continued to fight for Cradle's right to open, Welles and Houseman kept the cast in rehearsal and assured all concerned that the show would go on. The dress rehearsal took place as planned on the night of June 15, but according to all accounts, it didn't go well. Privately concerned that Cradle wouldn't open, the producers made sure that many prominent theatrical colleagues were in attendance, and what they saw was apparently a mess. The simple, forceful eloquence of Blitzstein's satire was lost amid a nightmare of missed cues, collapsing scenery, and technical glitches. As directed and designed by Welles, The Cradle Will Rock was an elaborate, spectacular production; there were hundreds of lighting cues, glass carts hauling complicated scenery, and even a moving stage -- it was to literally rock back and forth during the title song. The title song, according to several sources, was the only thing that went over well at the dress rehearsal. Howard da Silva, later to play Benjamin Franklin to perfection in 1776, delivered it with quiet vigor, and for a moment the power of the play broke through. The next day, however, the men and women of Federal Theatre Project #891 arrived at Maxine Elliott's Theatre to discover padlocks on the doors, as well as armed guards who Houseman famously denounced as "Cossacks." The producers announced to the press that Cradle would open that night at another theatre -- sans costumes, sets, or props, to which they were forbidden access. But then the word came down from Actors' Equity that no Federal Theatre employee would be permitted to perform the show in a non-Federal Theatre theatre. It is painfully ironic that The Cradle Will Rock, one of the most pro-union works of art ever conceived, would be shut down by the actors' union. But if you've ever dealt with Actors' Equity, it's not surprising. Still determined that the show would go on, Welles and Houseman seized the dormant Venice Theatre on 59th Street -- it cost them $100 to rent a Broadway theatre for the night -- and announced that Cradle would be performed solo by Marc Blitzstein at the piano. And so began the legendary march -- a thousand ticket- holders, walking uptown from Maxine Elliott's to the Venice with the cast, the crew, the producers, the press, and the worried composer. As the uptown march continued, the audience increased in size, curious onlookers joining the throng. In Mark the Music, Eric A. Gordon writes: "The Venice had seen better times. Lighting man Abe Feder discovered a single working spotlight in the house. The theatre's principal activity was a weekly Italian variety show. Stage rear, a huge backdrop depicted the Bay of Naples in gaudy colors, with Mount Vesuvius smoking off to one side. Over the edge of a box hung an Italian fascist flag. Someone ripped it down and the audience cheered. "By ten of nine, every seat was filled. Newspaper reporters and cameramen lined the aisles. There was nothing left to do but begin. No one knew what might happen. Maybe Marc, in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, sweating in the light of the single spotlight, would simply play through The Cradle Will Rock and sing all the parts himself, just as he had done hundreds of times at backers' auditions and rehearsals." After introductory remarks by Houseman and Welles, Marc Blitzstein appeared on stage, sitting at a battered upright piano. "And there I was alone on a bare stage," Blitzstein later recalled. "Myself, produced by John Houseman, directed by Orson Welles, lit by Abe Feder and conducted by Lehman Engel. Houseman: "The Cradle Will Rock started cold, without an overture. A short vamp that sounded harsh and tinny on [assistant] Jean Rosenthal's rented, untuned upright, and Marc's voice, clear, precise, and high-pitched: 'A street corner -- Steeltown, U.S.A.' Then, the Moll's opening lyrics:
Going up to my room, turn on the light -- Jesus, turn off that light! "It was a few seconds before we realized that to Marc's strained tenor another voice -- a faint, wavering soprano -- had been added. It was not clear at first where it came from, as the two voices continued together for a few lines --
I work two days a week; The other five my efforts ain't required. "Then, hearing the words taken out of his mouth, Marc paused, and at that moment the spotlight moved off the stage, past the proscenium arch into the house, and came to rest on the lower left box where a thin girl in a green dress with dyed red hair was standing, glassy-eyed, stiff with fear, only half audible at first in the huge theatre but gathering strength with every note:
Two dollar bills I'm given... "It was almost impossible, at this distance in time, to convey the throat-catching, sickeningly exciting quality of that moment or to describe the emotions of gratitude and love with which we saw and heard that slim green figure. Years later, [cast member] Hiram Sherman wrote to me: 'If Olive Stanton had not risen on cue in the box, I doubt if the rest of us would have had the courage to stand up and carry on. But once that thin, incredibly clear voice came out, we all fell in line.' On technical grounds alone, it must have taken almost superhuman courage for an inexperienced performer (whom we had cast in the part only because we had already exceeded our non-relief quota) to stand up before two thousand people, in an ill-placed and terribly exposed location, and start a show with a difficult song to the accompaniment of a piano that was more than fifty feet away. Add to this that she was a relief worker, wholly dependent on her weekly WPA check, and that she held no political views whatsoever.
For on those five days it's nice to eat. Jesus, Jesus, who said let's eat? "That was the end of her song. A flash-bulb went off. The audience began to clap -- not sure what they were applauding -- the girl, the song, Marc or the occasion. And immediately, with no musical transition -- "Enter Gent," said Marc at the piano and was prepared to speak the next line, but again it was taken out of his mouth, as a young man with a long nose rose from a seat somewhere in the front section of the orchestra and addressed the girl in green in the stage box. So a scene which, three nights before, had been acted in atmospheric blue light, around a prop lamppost, downstage right, was now played in the middle of a half-lit auditorium by two frightened relief workers thirty feet apart. "From then on, it was a breeze. Nothing surprised the audience or Marc or any of us after that, as scenes and numbers followed each other in fantastic sequence from one part of the house to another. Blitzstein played half a dozen roles himself that night, to cover for those who 'had not wished to take their lives, or rather, their living wage, into their hands.'" TO BE CONTINUED |
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