Return to flip book view

THE 1960S

The 1960sSkittering HomeMy second day back in New York starts with a visit to the orist shop across the street from my apartment. With a bouquet of tiger lilies in hand, I head towards Tony’s house.After ringing the buzzer at 137 West 55th Street, the unmistakable sound of Skitter galloping down the stairs comes through the door.Helen Merrill’s voice isn’t far behind. “If that’s Grover out there,” she shouts, “I’ve got a puppy who can’t wait to see you!”Click, click. Buzz, buzz. e security system is triggered. e door swings open.Skitter, leash already attached, leaps into my arms. After the rst round of hugs, treasures are ocially exchanged. Helen gets the owers, I get my puppy.“Tony will be home in two days,” she advises me, unaware that he’s already installed in my apartment on 56th Street. “He’d probably like to hear from you.”“Believe me, he will, Helen,” I respond, lowering Skitter to the sidewalk, relishing that she doesn’t have a clue Tony and I have already spent a night together.“He’s booked on a ight to London this weekend,” she adds, “to meet with Orson Wells. You guys won’t have much time to share.”

Grover Dale • 131“No problem,” I reply, tightening my grip on Skitter’s leash. “Rehearsals for Sail Away don’t start until Monday. at’ll give us twenty-four hours.”Skitter tugs at the leash. She knows where her home is. As we run towards 56th Street, I shout, “anks, Helen, for taking care of my little guy.”Anchors Aweigh!Following Sail Away’s tryout in Boston, critics agree that Elaine Stritch’s portrayal of Mimi Paragon and Joe Layton’s choreography is a perfect match for Noël Coward’s light-hearted romp of a musical. Concerns, however, surface about the show’s top-billed star, Jean Fenn, an opera singer with no previous Broadway experience. Hmm. What are Coward and Layton gonna do now?Joe Layton keeps the ship from sinking. “What would happen,” he suggests to Coward, “if we eliminate Jean Fenn’s role and just give everything to Elaine Stritch?”Coward buys it. Stritch buys it, too. Within a dozen performances, Joe’s suggestion is in place. By the time Sail Away opens at the Broadhurst on October 3, 1961, Jean Fenn is gone. Elaine and the cast dazzle critics enough to justify a ve-month run in New York followed by a year at the Savoy eatre in London.

132 • a Boy like ThaTPlaying Barnaby Slade to Patricia Hardy’s Nancy Foyle was smooth sailing!

Grover Dale • 133An opening night gift arrives in my dressing room. It’s a watercolor of Barnaby Slade painted by Coward. Wow. e party is just getting started. Patricia Hardy and I celebrate opening night with Noël Coward. Working with him was a pleasure and an honor.A personalized watercolor from Sir Noël Coward. Does it get any better? I write a quick note.Dear Mr. Coward,Four months ago, you invited me to step into the shoes of Barnaby Slade. ese months have been the most joyous of my life. Tonight is Oct 3, 1961. We nally made it to Broadway. I’m grateful for the guidance, care, and patience you gave to a skinny tap dancer from McKeesport, PA.ank you, GroverP.S. I still have the cork from the bottle of wine we shared with Marlene Dietrich.

134 • a Boy like ThaTA “Nauti” NightSix weeks later. New Year’s Eve.It’s a Sunday. No performance. No six-block walk to the Broadhurst eatre. No updates on Tony except what gossip columnists are reporting: He’s been seen hanging out with another Hollywood actor, Tab Hunter.After an improvised dinner, Skitter and I settle down in front of the TV, preparing to watch the ball drop on Times Square.At 11:00 p.m.: an aggressive knock at the door. Who the heck is that?Bam. It’s Elaine, wearing a full-length mink coat over annel pajamas. Two bottles of Dom Pérignon are nestled against her chest.“Can you believe it’s New Year’s Eve and I didn’t get invited to a friggin’ party?”“No way!” I gasp, swinging the door open.Cautiously, she peers inside.“No, Elaine, Tony isn’t around tonight.” I chuckle. “He’s shooting a movie somewhere on the West Coast. It’s just me and Skitter holding down the fort.” I open the door wider. “Get your butt in here—the ball’s going to drop in forty-ve minutes.”rusting both bottles of champagne at me, she barks, “I don’t give a cat’s ass about balls dropping.”She ops her lanky body on the sofa, striking a know-it-all-yet-seductive pose.“You must give a cat’s ass about something, Elaine,” I say, peeling the foil o the rst bottle. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”“I’ve heard a rumor that Barnaby Slade goes both ways,” she muses.Pop goes the cork. Meeting her questioning gaze, I pour her a generous glass.“Happy New Year, Elaine.”

Grover Dale • 135“Nineteen sixty-two could be an interesting year,” she says, easing her bare legs out of the annel pajama bottoms and daintily covering her private parts.Provoking laughter is one of Elaine’s most valuable weapons. Her insinuations always bring down the house. Colleagues (the smart ones!) don’t bother competing. Just let the queen of sassy innuendo have her victories and enjoy the ride.For the next six months, as long as Tony isn’t around, Elaine and I party, play, and push each other’s buttons, completely unaware of the messes we’re accumulating. Pitching It Out of the ParkBut I’m also accumulating miracles.Ready or not, it’s time to look at my bank account. What makes the numbers so promising? After two years of selling Sour Lemon Chewing Gum in a national TV commercial, I was hired for twelve more spots, pitching everything from cola drinks to Chevy convertibles to Polaroid Swinger Cameras. anks to the SAG/AFTRA residual system, the skinny dancer from McKeesport is seeing exceptional gains in his bank account.While ve gures look good to anyone (especially in 1962!), the truth is, I’m a mere breath away from the six-gure mark.If this keeps up, how far o is seven gures?A million dollars is blissful thinking for any twenty-six-year-old.Elaine Stritch was quite a character—on and o stage.

136 • a Boy like ThaTLushing into LondonNoël Coward oers us his guesthouse in Jamaica.“A month in the sun,” he proclaims, “will prepare you for the success that’s waiting for both of you at the Savoy eatre.”Who could resist an invitation like that? Blue Harbour, here wecome!Each day begins with a drinking adventure: bull shots, margaritas, or green hornets. Relatively new at boozing, I gallop into it. Occasional bull shots don’t hurt anyone, do they?Two weeks into our stay, Coward’s gardener gives me a tour of the property. In a storage shed, he points out a collection of empty liquor and wine bottles, citing them as evidence that Blue Harbour attracts some pretty impressive drinkers.“You and Elaine,” he assures me, “are nowhere near the top of the list.”Before Sail Away opens at the Savoy, Elaine and I rent two duplexes in a Chelsea brownstone next to a pub that oers draught beers, ales, tasty British food, and Sunday afternoon sing-a-longs. Perfect weekend options, right?A Regrettable RepeatJune 21, 1962. Opening night at the Savoy.e after-party takes place on a yacht on the ames River. Surrounded by celebrities, reporters, and Coward fans, Elaine grabs her “Broadway-star” moment, boozing like it’s going out of style.

Grover Dale • 137Wisely, I retreat to the back of the vessel.Two hours later, Elaine staggers down the gangway swinging a nearly empty bottle of champagne. Leaning against a cab, she drains the last drop and tosses the bottle towards the river.“You’re drunk, Elaine,” I grumble, making a big deal of her “disposal” technique.“Stop preaching like my father,” she barks.“I’ll do that,” I shout back, “if you stop drinking like mine!”She spits in my face.“Get your ass in the cab,” I demand.As she attempts to walk away, I shove her towards the door and kick her butt. She falls into the taxi.Behind me, a voice shouts, “Grover Dale just kicked Elaine Stritch!”Holy smokes. It’s Noël Coward’s press agent.She leans out of her window. “What did Elaine do to deserve that?” she demands.“When she sobers up,” I respond, “ask her.”Suddenly, Elaine’s cab pulls away from the curb. I run after it.“Hey!” I shout. “Where the fuck are you going?!”She displays a sti middle nger through the back window.Memories of other back windows replay in my head. e kid who fell to his knees on Stewart Street swearing he’d never put himself in that position again just put himself into the same position. He’s in big trouble.I stare in silence as Elaine’s cab disappears around a corner.Coward’s press agent drives past, wishing me luck getting a ride home. I handle that moment badly, too.Sti middle ngers only feel good in the moment. ey never get you a ride home.

138 • a Boy like ThaTThe Royal TreatmentMeanwhile accolades for the show abound. Not the least of which is being tapped to do a Royal Command Performance at the Savoy.Paintings, Pubs, & Other PerksAs life unfolds on Anderson Street, late-night gatherings include local artists like Jason Monet, the grandson of Claude Monet. Like me, he is enchanted by Elaine. He often stays in the lower duplex, paying his share of rent with drawings. I still have one.

Grover Dale • 139Lunches at the pub? For two shillings (28 cents), plates of braised liver and chicken hearts are among the best deals in the neighborhood. Others include shelling out eighty dollars at the Portobello Road Flea Market for a horsehair mattress. Horsehair, I soon learn, provides the most restful sleep anyone could wish for.For reasons that defy any reasonable form of rationality, Elaine and I apply for a marriage license. What the heck are we thinking?A Ripping SendoffWeeks later.My bags are packed.Elaine and I sit face-to-face at the kitchen table. No bull shots, margaritas, or green hornets in sight. Elaine is dgeting with the marriage license.e doorbell rings. A voice outside announces, “Your taxi to the airport has arrived.”As I stand, Elaine rips the license in half and drops both pieces to the oor. In silence, we stare at each other.As the driver rings the doorbell again, I collect my bags, kiss the top of Elaine’s head, and exit. Not a word is spoken.Twelve hours later, I’m in my New York pad sifting through papers on my desk. Aha. I nd what I’m looking for: the scrap of paper with Mildred Newman’s number on it. Within seconds, she answers my call.

140 • a Boy like ThaTUnsinkable & Unthinkable!Two days later, the phone is pressed against my ear. But it’s not Mildred Newman I’m listening to; it’s my agent, Eric Shepard.“I’ll repeat it again, Grover.” He chuckles. “Listen carefully: You are Peter Gennaro’s rst choice to play Debbie Reynolds’ brother ‘Jam’ in e Unsinkable Molly Brown. No audition or screen test necessary. You’ve been approved by the director, Chuck Walters, as well as the star, Debbie Reynolds. Projected schedule is ve months in Los Angeles, two weeks on location in Colorado. e terms are $750 a week, featured billing, and a studio apartment with a balcony at the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood. I need to know right now if you accept these conditions because the producer is on the other line and needs a response before moving on to Peter Gennaro’s second choice for Jam!”Twenty minutes later, the grind of a key in my front door signals the arrival of Tony and Skitter. ey’re returning from a walk in Central Park. I stammer through sharing the news.As I lay out Molly Brown’s ve-month schedule, Tony quickly reveals he’ll be circling the wagons, too, in London.“You have your gigs,” he responds, “I have mine. at seems to be the way we’re always going to do it.”Laughing, I make the mistake of summing up our relationship in a sentence: “You and I are never really going to live together, are we?”“Probably not,” Tony arms, tossing a rawhide bone towards Skitter. “Guys like us have careers to protect.”Shake, Rattle, & Rolling at MGMRehearsing with Peter Gennaro is a picnic. No one but Chita Rivera shakes butt better than him. His speech pattern is unique. Everyone in the room loves his “squishy” S’s.

Grover Dale • 141For the rst time ever, I’m dancing in front of real pine trees, corn elds, wooden fences, sweaty horses, and clattering wagons. Even the mud I shove Debbie’s face into is real.What’s unreal are MGM’s paychecks. e numbers they produce in my savings account would make Grandma Ammon proud.Eric Shepard encourages me to invest in the stock market. On a September afternoon, I commit half my savings to a portfolio of mutual funds. Yep. Like another gambler in my family, I’m rolling the dice.In a real setting with a real actress: Shaking things up with Debbie Reynolds in e Unsinkable Molly Brown.

142 • a Boy like ThaTA Juicy OpportunityIt presents itself in the backlot of MGM. After hours of shooting the “I Ain’t Down Yet” number in a corneld, the assistant director pulls me aside to ask if I can handle the task of hitting Debbie Reynolds in the chest with a rotten tomato from a distance of twenty feet?“Before you accept,” he cautions, “be aware it has to happen in one take because there’s only twenty-four feet of lm left in the camera. You understand that kind of pressure, right, Grover?”Despite a voice in my head reminding me I wasn’t terric at aiming softballs across home plate in McKeesport, I say, “Yes, I understand, and yes, I can do it.”“Great,” he replies, turning towards the crew. “Listen up, every-body—Jam says he can do it. We’re a go. Let’s nail this sucker,okay?”As the crew sets up the shot, I realize the position I just put myself in. If I fail, MGM will ridicule me. If I win, MGM will adore me. Lillian Jasper’s voice arrives out of nowhere.“If you ain’t taking chances,” she whispers, “you ain’t dancing hard enough!”I’m glad I said yes.“Heads up, Jam,” yells the AD, carrying a tray of tomatoes towards me. “C’mon,” he says, “pick your poison.”I juggle the tomatoes, implying I know something about the right weight, feel, and balance it takes to win the game.Yep. I nd the perfect rotten tomato.Debbie taps me on the shoulder, warning me of the consequences of hitting her in the face. “You don’t want to do that, do you, Jam?”“Once in a while,” I assure her, “your brother knows what he’s doing.”“at once-in-a-while moment is now, right?” she responds, heading for her starting position on the roof twenty feet away.

Grover Dale • 143“Yes, it’s right now, Debbie.”Poised for the countdown, I spot both my “brothers” quietly protesting to the AD that the wrong brother was picked for the tomato toss.Extra grit rises up inside me.Debbie is on her mark. e clapboard is poised. Lights are activated. Sweat is rolling down my forehead.“Action!” cries Walters. e clapboard is slammed.Chickens are chased across the foreground. I race around the corner of the cabin, aim, shout Molly’s name, and throw the damn tomato.Splat. It explodes perfectly on Debbie’s chest. She collapses and slides o the roof.“Cut! It’s in the can!” shouts Walters.e whole crew celebrates the victory. I just got what every kid who grows up in a shack on a dirt road longs for: on-set recognition at a major lm studio. Sock it to me!Where I Was When…Friday, November 22, 1963.It’s 10:00 a.m. Debbie Reynolds, Gus Trikonis, and I are about to perform “He’s My Friend” for the cast and crew.Peter Gennaro cues the playback. We leap onto the oor. Within seconds, the music is stopped. Molly Brown’s producers, one of them carrying a portable radio, apologizes for the interruption. Major news is breaking in Washington.

144 • a Boy like ThaTe entire cast is wondering what kind of news justies stopping a rehearsal at MGM?In a corner, Debbie’s seven-year-old daughter, Carrie Fisher, ignores the silence, continuing her own version of “He’s My Friend.”“Walter Cronkite,” claims one of the producers, “will say it better than we can.”e volume is turned up. e urgency in Mr. Cronkite’s voice gets everyone’s attention:“President Kennedy was shot as he drove from Dallas Airport to downtown Dallas; Governor Connally of Texas, in the car with him, was also shot. It is reported that three bullets rang out. A Secret Service man was heard to shout from the car, ‘He’s dead.’ Whether he referred to President Kennedy or not is not yet known. e president, cradled in the arms of his wife, Mrs. Kennedy, was carried to an ambulance and the car rushed to Parkland Hospital outside Dallas.”Shock and silence dominate the room. Little Carrie’s song is the only audible sound.“He’s my friend, to the bitter end,” she warbles sweetly, “doesn’t matter what the other people say.” She’s unaected by the tension surrounding her.No one moves. A president has been shot. A national tragedy is underway. Making movies doesn’t matter anymore. Nor does Peter Gennaro’s choreography, the Chateau Marmont, or personal investments in the stock market.What is America going to do?e producers release everyone from the day’s schedule. As belongings are collected, someone on the production team suggests staying close to family and loved ones. If I can’t be with Tony, I better go back to the hotel.Nearby, Debbie Reynolds silently listens to her daughter singing: “…and the bitter end is just a million years away.”

Grover Dale • 145If only that were so. I hug Debbie and Carrie on my way out.e drive to the Chateau Marmont feels endless. On Sunset Boulevard, seeing people entering a church, I pull over to the curb and roll down the window. Feeling lost and alone, I need to be near someone who’s praying.Wait a minute. Two people on the sidewalk look familiar. Is that Chita Rivera? It is. She and her brother Armando are climbing the stairs to a church. I jump out of the car and rush over to them. Words aren’t necessary. Within seconds, we’re clinging to each other and crying our brains out.“Who Said You Could Wear Red Socks?”at’s exactly what Debbie Reynolds asks the moment I walk onto set a week later. She demands an explanation. As the star of Molly Brown, she has every right to send a dancer back to the wardrobe department if a costume choice bothers her.I decide to tell the truth.“e wardrobe department didn’t provide any socks,” I admit. “ey expect me to dance without them. Bare feet inside shoes get sticky. I’ll dance better wearing socks. I brought these from home, Debbie. ey’re mine. Is that okay with you?”She continues staring at my feet. “And they just happen to be bright red, right?”“Yes,” I say, looking down. “If you’d like, I’ll switch them out for normal black ones, but Jam wouldn’t wear anything normal.”“He’d wear bright red—is that what you’re sayin’?” Debbie punches me in the shoulder. “I know you’re trying to act like a nasty brother and I appreciate that, but let me tell you something,” she warns. “You better dance your ass o or those red socks will be jammed down your skinny throat. You got that?”“Got it, Debbie,” I respond. “Jam is going to dance his ass o.”

146 • a Boy like ThaTFor ve hours straight, I deliver every head-pop, bark, kick, squeal, and leap that’s in me. I don’t hold back. If anyone thinks I should tone it down, they’ll tell me. No one says a word. I keep going for it.Six months later, e Unsinkable Molly Brown secures six Academy Award nominations. Debbie’s performance is among them. If the category of choreography had been restored, Peter Gennaro would have been recognized as well.ere’s no toning down this red-sock-wearing kid as Debbie Reynolds and I perform Peter Gennaro’s award-worthy choreography to “He’s My Friend.”Accenting the PositiveBack at West 56th Street, I nd a note on my bed. It’s from Tony, informing me the deal with Orson Welles nally came through. He’s on his way to France.

Grover Dale • 147e phone rings. Unfortunately, it’s not Tony. It’s my agent. Eric informs me that the only show coming up with a role for a dancer is Half a Sixpence. “Are you interested?”After seconds of silence, Eric asks why I’m stalling. I admit that what I really want is to spend time with Tony.“If you want to validate the win you just landed at MGM,” he says, “you gotta get your name on another contract.”Eric’s right. Instead of paying attention to the love I want, it’s time to pay attention to the career I want.“Okay,” I say, “what do I need to do to book Sixpence?”“Convince Gene Saks, the director,” he replies, “that you can handle a Cockney accent.”Hmm. Okay. My Midwestern twang has gotten in the way more than once. “I hear you, Eric.”I make a decision.“Please tell the director,” I respond, “that I’m getting professional coaching. In a couple of weeks, I will absolutely deliver the accent he expects me to have.”A month later, Sixpence rehearsals are underway. I’m squeaking by with my Cockney accent. Rehearsing with my new Sixpence buddies.Left to right: NormanAllen, WillMacKenzie, Tommy Steele, and the guy with the twang.Grandma Ammon, wherever she is, is probably the only person in the world who would say I’m in for another beautiful ride!

148 • a Boy like ThaT“Steeling” the ShowSixpence has a cheeky, devilish, and fun-loving star named Tommy Steele. As soon as a certain “twinkle” appears in his eyes, I know shenanigans are about to begin. Nothing is too sacred to have fun with: dialogue, staging, lyrics, wardrobe, gender, height, weight, you name it.When shenanigans surface, there are three choices: dodge ’em, ditch ’em, or dance along with ’em. For me, Tommy’s antics called for the latter option.Soar, baby. Boost the Sixpence experience.I love going the distance with Tommy. I’m sure that explains why I hear audible gasps every time I kick my way through the “Money to Burn” number.

Grover Dale • 149Satisfaction is alive and well on the stage at the Broadhurst. Ditto on West 55th Street, where Skitter and I are nally living in Tony Perkins’ house.A Storm of WorkMinutes after an audition at CBS, my agent calls with good news. I’ve secured the role of a dope dealer on the long-running daytime soap opera, e Secret Storm.My acting teacher, Mary Tarcai, wastes no time announcing that one of her students (a dancer, no less!) beat out an established actor by the name of Dustin Homan for the role. My win is rewarded more than once with appearances on e Merv Grin Show.In the ’60s, soap operas air live, one day at a time. During hour one, actors receive scripts and read through them. Scenes are blocked by lunchtime and the live broadcast is underway by 4:00 p.m. Somehow, everyone knows their lines. No teleprompters needed.Until an on-air catastrophe occurs.As the dope dealer, I’m being interrogated by a police captain who’s been a regular on the show for ten years. In the middle of aggressive questioning, he goes blank. His eyes glaze over. He stammers and freezes. Sweat breaks out on his forehead.e sound in the studio is turned o. From the booth, the director hisses: “Here’s your line, you dumb-fuck.” She feeds him the line. e sound is rebooted. He says the line. Within seconds, the episode is over. And so is his ten-year job. He’s informed he will no longer be needed on the show. e shouting match that erupts isn’t pretty.is experience rises to the top of my survival list. If you go blank on camera, keep talking, make something up. You never want to hear a director say “Here’s your line, you dumb-fuck.”

150 • a Boy like ThaTBlack & White Opinions1966.Sixpence is still packin’ em in at the Broadhurst. Tony is still shooting a movie in France. Will these gigs block me from doing what I need to do for myself? Not a chance.I invest twenty-ve hundred dollars in a 16mm camera, editing tools, and acquiring the skills to use them. My bedroom in To-ny’s recently acquired Chelsea brownstone on 21st Street has a new purpose. Within weeks, my fourth-oor mini-studio delivers a ve-minute documentary called Douglas, James and Joe.Focused on three neighborhood pre-teens—two white, one black—I lm them painting each other’s faces in opposing colors and strutting fear-lessly in front of the camera. Without a word of dialogue, they express conicting opinions about skin color.Tony suggests submitting the results to lm festivals. ankfully, I take his advice. Within six weeks, I have an award-winning lm on my hands. But what the heck am I supposed to do with it?Tony’s new digs on 21st Street provide the perfect work area for creative expression.

Grover Dale • 151Together Time?A month later.On June 25, I leave Sixpence, pack my bags, and pile into a rental car with Skitter. e anticipation of spending the summer with Tony has me tingling to get to Cape Cod. e Welleet cottage is only a ve-hour drive.After four days of stocking the shelves with essentials, I’ve got one last chore to complete before Tony’s arrival. With Skitter by my side, I harvest clams at the bayside beach for a welcome-home clam-fest. A blissful hour later, I’m navigating the driveway with a loaded-up bucket when I hear a phone ringing. Hoping it’s Tony, I race to the cottage and grab the call just in time.It’s not Tony. It’s Eric, my agent.“Grover,” he asks, “Do you have a passport?”“Of course.”“Get your hands on it as soon as possible,” he orders.“I’m on Cape Cod, Eric.” I laugh. “e passport’s in New York.”“Too bad,” he responds, “because a passport is the only thing that’s going to get you to London where you’ve been invited to costar with Gene Kelly in a French musical.I gasp. “What are you talking about?”“I’m talking about a job with Jacques Demy who’s directing e Young Girls of Rochefort. If you show up on set tomorrow,” Eric goes on, “you’ll not only costar with Gene Kelly, you’ll perform alongside Catherine Deneuve, Françoise Dorléac, Jacques Perrin, and George Chakiris.”I’m abbergasted. “How did this happen?”“It’s one of those rare situations,” Eric explains, “when a lead actor drops out at the last minute and the director needs an immediate replacement.”“How did Demy pick me?”

152 • a Boy like ThaT“Roger Eden screened Molly Brown for him at MGM. Before the screening was over, Demy said he wanted the dancer in the red socks. No audition, interview, or screen test necessary. Just make sure he arrives in London tomorrow morning!”I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Sight unseen, I landed a dreamjob!“We nalized the deal ten minutes ago,” Eric adds. “Five months on location, costar billing, a thousand dollars a week. Plus a three-picture option with Seven Arts. All we gotta do,” he repeats, “is get you on Air India ight 101 departing Kennedy at six-thirty tonight. You’re in rst class and the script will be waiting on your seat. Can you manage that, Grover?”“Right now, it’s, it’s, it’s...”“Please say you’ll manage it, Grover. It means a lot to both of us.”“Okay, okay, Eric,” I grumble. “But…what if I can’t nd the damn passport?”“Without it,” Eric responds with a touch of hysteria in his voice, “you’ll miss out on the best role you’ve ever been oered.”e knot forming in my gut is overwhelming.“Either come up with the passport or waste a summer on Cape Cod. What’s it gonna be, Grover?”After ve seconds of silence, Eric says: “I can’t help wondering what Tony Perkins would do in your position?”“He’d nd the friggin’ passport,” I admit.“So what are you going to do, Grover?”Dream downtime with Tony in Cape Cod or a dream job with Kelly in France?

Grover Dale • 153“I just remembered where I put it,” I assure him.“Call me as soon as it’s in your hands.”Eric exits the call.Six hours later, I call him back. “I have everything I need…the passport and two packed bags. I just talked with Tony who assured me a couple of months in France works for both of us. His agent is negotiating a project that will be lmed less than a hundred miles from Rochefort. I’m on my way to Kennedy Airport.”Les Demoiselles de RochefortAs promised, when I board the airplane, the script is waiting on my seat. But I can’t study it, because it’s in French! I chuckle, certain that when I arrive in London, they’ll provide me my English script.Guess what? It doesn’t happen!Rochefort, I learn, will be rehearsed, staged, and shot entirely in French. So much for the best role I’ve ever been oered.On day one, I fumble my way through every scene without understanding a single word coming out of anybody’s mouth, including my own. e panic on Jacques Demy’s face says a lot. He realizes what he’s gotten him-self into.Day one in Rochefort with Jacque Demy (right) didn’t go as doucement as hoped.

154 • a Boy like ThaTI’m assigned a dialect coach. I’ve got another whole language to learn. Luckily, I do better with Norman Maen’s choreography.Every day, I’m motivated by a single thought: I better dance my ass o if I wanna keep this job.Ten days in.While shooting a sequence in the town square, George Chakiris whispers that Gene Kelly has his eyes on us.Holy moley. e one-and-only Gene Kelly has his eyes on us!“Where is he?”“Standing next to the camera,” responds George, “selling an idea to Jacques Demy.”In seconds, we learn that Kelly wants to stage a “dancing-down-the-alley” sequence with George and me.Somebody pinch me. Dancing down an alley with Gene Kelly?Strutting (and starring) with my idol, Gene Kelly (right). Does it get any better?Less than an hour later, George and I are strutting alongside the Hollywood legend who proved that stormy conditions never got in his way. Magic time.

Grover Dale • 155Our rehearsal is interrupted by an AD informing us that Jacques Demy loves the dance but needs to share a concern with Gene Kelly.“Tell Demy I’ll be there in a second,” Gene responds, polishing o the alley dance with a ashy nish.Go right ahead, Gene. Consult with the director!George and I listen carefully as Demy enlightens Kelly.“As the plot is written,” he explains, “there’s no way for you, George, and Grover to interact with each other. e story will suer and the ending we’ve already shot won’t work.”“So I guess you’re ditching the new dance?” laughs Gene.Demy enlightens him further. “ere might be a way to includeit.”“I’m all ears,” replies Gene.“If we replace George and Grover with two chorus boys, the dance won’t interfere with the storyline.”Everyone gets it. A simple switch protects the plot and still includes the number. e deal is done. Without a word, George and I step aside, yielding our positions to a pair of Norman Maen’s dancers.“I knew it was too good to be true,” George groans. “It’s over.”“It might be,” I respond, “but no one can take away from us the twenty minutes we danced with Gene Kelly.”“You’re a hopeless roman-tic, Grover,” chuckles George, yanking me out of the alley.Dancing with Gene Kelly for twenty minutes? Still a dream come true.

156 • a Boy like ThaT

Grover Dale • 157Shattering ExpectationsSensing George’s and my disappointment, Jacques Demy approaches us at dinner. “Michel Legrand,” he announces, “is writing a new song for the movie. It has both of your names on it!”A week later, George and I begin lming our duet in the town square café.I jump so high my head shatters the Plexiglas ceiling. Production shuts down for hours while the panels are replaced.During lunch, Gene Kelly directs Jacques’ attention to the lump on my head, joking how often dancers’ energy goes through the roof. While everyone laughs, Catherine and Françoise rush over and kiss the top of my bruised noggin.My roof-raising duet with George Chakiris.

158 • a Boy like ThaTHow often does camaraderie like this happen?As a newcomer to the lm industry, I don’t really know. What I do know is, a family vibe dominates this movie. With Jacques Demy and his wife, Agnes Varda, leading the way, everyone welcomes it.“Family time” with Cathererine Deneuve (top & bottom), and GeorgeChakiris and FrançoiseDorléac (center).

Grover Dale • 159Imagine this: Jacques wants a traveling camera to record sixty continuous seconds of a dance. After tracks are laid out, he realizes he doesn’t have enough crew members on hand to step in and pull plugs as the camera passes by.Plug-pullers! Where are you when needed?Teamwork with Catherine, Gene Kelly, and Françoise (top); and with George and our crew family (bottom).

160 • a Boy like ThaTEveryone pitches in: actors, dancers, dressers, hair stylists, producers, extras, you name it. We all become plug-pullers.If team eorts like this happened in Hollywood, American unions would shut down production in a minute. You have to pay for plug-pullers.Meanwhile, at the B&B…Catherine doesn’t hesitate sharing her beverages. Wow. If only Sunny Cox could witness me on the receiving end of Catherine’s pour. Astonishment and envy would be written all over his face.How do you like me now, Sunny Cox?Hello Dolly, Goodbye KellyEveryone knows Gene is set to direct Barbra Streisand in the up-coming Twentieth Century Fox production of Hello Dolly! As glass-es of champagne are poured at his departure dinner, he pulls me aside to ask if I’ve made a decision about playing the role of “Ambrose”?Seven stupid words spill out of my mouth: “My agent says I can’t do it.”“What?” gasps Kelly.

Grover Dale • 161“Your oer means a lot to me, Mr. Kelly,” I plead, “but Eric Shepard claims he can’t get me out of a contract to do Half a Sixpence for Paramount Pictures.”“Have Eric call me,” Kelly oers. “I know how to handle Paramount.”“Eric’s afraid to deal with Paramount.”“en get yourself another agent, Grover,” quips Kelly before returning to his chair at the head of the table. “You either want to play Ambrose or you don’t.” He turns away, engaging in another conversation.I want to play Ambrose, I mourn, but I can’t bail out on my agent. I sink into my chair, realizing the price I just paid for loyalty.Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Françoise. She and Catherine just secured four seats to a Jacques Brel concert in Limoges. It starts in an hour. Are George and I interested?“You betcha,” I shout, jumping to my feet. “Let’s get our butts outta here!”Sixty minutes later.Jacques Brel’s brilliance unfolds in front of Catherine, Françoise, George, and myself. I’ve never witnessed any performer like him. As each song ends, he leaps into the next one. Apparently, applause doesn’t matter; he’s more interested in expressing himself. Completely captivated, I’m unaware that Françoise and I are holding hands.en reality returns.“Brel’s performance is over,” Françoise whispers, extracting her hand from mine. “If we hurry,” she adds, “we’ll get back to Rochefort so we can pack up for the next part of our journey.”“Françoise,” I respond in a dream state, “why don’t we just stay here with Jacques Brel for the rest of our lives?”“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she replies, reaching for my hand again.

162 • a Boy like ThaTA Goodbye Unlike Any OtherBack at the B&B, George and Catherine have retreated to their rooms, leaving Françoise and me alone in the hallway. With a sparkle in her eye, she rhapsodizes about attending Jacques Brel’s next concert.“Where’s it gonna happen,” I ask. “And when?”“Tomorrow night!” She chuckles. “In Paris.”“You gotta be kidding!” I respond.“I know you’re booked on a morning ight to London,” she replies, “but aren’t you the guy who just said we should live the rest of our lives with Jacques Brel? Why don’t you drive to Paris withme?”Instantly, I’m a blithering mess. “My travel arrangements are already in place, Françoise. I can’t change them.”She extracts her hand from mine. “For a minute,” she coos, stepping into her room, “I thought we could enjoy another adventure together. Sweet dreams, Grover.” Her door is closed.Six hours later.e morning sun is rising over the ocean. I’m in the parking lot loading my bags into a taxi. Looking up, I spot Françoise watching me from her window.Eager to restore the aection between us, I fall to my knees, clasp my heart, and toss all the passion Sharing a special connection with Françoise Dorléac.

Grover Dale • 163I can muster in her direction. Laughing, she retreats behind the sheer curtains. I wait for her return. Where the heck is she?My driver turns on the ignition, signaling it’s time to leave. I jump in the cab. e fantasy between Françoise and me has stalled. She’s nowhere to be seen.As my driver steps on the gas, I relax. My eyes are drawn towards the ocean in front of us. e time I spent in Rochefort will never be forgotten. I drift into a state of sleep.Minutes later, I’m startled awake by a honking horn. A familiar-looking car zooms by. It’s Françoise! Flying by, she blows a kiss at me. My driver slows down to accommodate her aggressiveness. As Françoise disappears in front of us, he rants on about women driving vehicles that fast.Returning to a nap state is the easiest way to ignore his tirade. Iclose my eyes, feeling every bump in the road beneath us.Nonstop MovementBy lunchtime, I make it to London. My bags and I are delivered to e Black Horse Hotel overlooking the ames River. Running on the late side, I’m delivered to Stage D at Shepperton Studios. By two p.m., I exit the wardrobe department dressed as the Cockney dandy, Pearce. Standing alongside choreographer Gillian Lynne, I observe thirty of London’s best dancers rehearsing. Among them are six Rochefort dancers. Acknowledgments are exchanged freely. Nice. Familiar faces are comforting.Gillian Lynne is a worker. e world of ballet provided her all the grit needed to navigate the world of movies. Before the afternoon tea break, she’s already doused me with some magnicent moves for “Money to Burn.” Wow. Michael Kidd isn’t the only choreographer who delivers strenuous dances.

164 • a Boy like ThaTAt six p.m., a Shepperton staer oers two means of transpor-tation back to e Black Horse Hotel: a private car or a company-owned bicycle.Hmm. Seven kilometers is a little more than three miles. I can handle that.“Is the road at?” I ask.“Pretty much so,” he responds.“I’ll take the bike, please.”Following a steak-and-kidney pie at the downstairs pub, I’m led to a room overlooking the river. I settle in for what is supposed to be a four-month stint but turns into a longer haul.A “Pearcing” RealizationDay one of lming Sixpence.Pearce wants Arthur Kipps to start acting like a gentleman towards Annie, the girl he brought to the beach. As soon as the rst Sixpence Choreographer Gillian Lynne knew how to beautifully burn energy!

Grover Dale • 165line of dialogue rolls o my tongue, laughter lls the air. I know what everyone’s thinking: Why was an American cast in the role of a Cockney dandy?Immediately, my eyes connect with Tommy Steele’s. His delight is just as powerful as my distress. Both of us know that when all is said and done, my dialogue will be dubbed by a British actor.Groan. Whatever job I get, I’m never enough.Weekend trips to New York don’t work as well as I hoped. e rst weekend ight doesn’t get me anywhere near Tony or Skitter. Due to weather conditions, the Friday night ight out of London is diverted through Chicago. I end up sleeping two nights in a hotel at Heathrow Airport. So be it. Try again next week.My cockney accent left the cast and crew laughing.

166 • a Boy like ThaTPlaying with Wild CardsOn movie sets, scene and lighting changes eat up a lot of time. ree-hour waits are common. How does the cast of Sixpence handle it? Tommy Steele oers the perfect solution. A poker table, he claims, will keep his buddies engaged and stimulated.e producer gives it a shot. So do Steele’s buddies.Overnight, I’m sucked into the world of wild cards, straights, and royal ushes. Scene and lighting changes y by.A week later, with a pair of kings and a wild card in my hands, blood is surging through my veins.Wait till Tommy Steele sees the hand I’ve got!Unexpectedly, the assistant director approaches the table, informing me I’m wanted on set. I resent the interruption.Wait a minute. Here I am, co-starring in a Paramount Picture, making more money than I’ve ever made before, and I resent being called to the set? Why is a pair of kings and a wild card more important than getting in front of the camera?I focus on the cards in my hand and slam them facedown on the table. I stand up.Tommy Steele watches my every move. Clearly, he expects me to lash out at the AD. Instead of giving Tommy what he wants, I remain silent. I pledge to myself that I will never come back to this table again. Poker, in any shape or form, is not going to screw up the job I’m getting paid for. I thank the AD and run towards the set.e relief I feel is enormous. I made a good decision.

Grover Dale • 167The Write DecisionHow do I replace poker?Feed my belly at the food cart? Twiddle my thumbs? Open up another box of crayons? Wait a minute. I have a trailer. It’s been sitting empty on the lot since I arrived here three months ago. I can go inside, close the door, and write about the feelings in my gut.Do it, buddy. It’s time to express your ass o.Words spill out about the closeness I experienced with Françoise, Catherine, and George. e bonds we shared during ve months in Rochefort spill out of me.Don’t stop, buddy. As Grandma Ammon would say, keep pumping those pedals.On the set, I’m more energized than ever. When Gillian Lynne demands to know where my re is coming from, I admit I’m on a do-or-die mission.Kicking it up with Tommy Steele (holding the Banjo) in Half a Sixpence.

168 • a Boy like ThaTWhen the lm is released, I’m blown away by the critical reviews of my performance. It’s amazing what one can achieve when their passion is ignited.“Among some of the most elaborately choreographed dance routines in this bronze age of musicals, there is an excellent young actor and dancer. Grover Dale.”—e New York Times

Grover Dale • 169A Wild Card of My OwnSix weeks later, an outline for a musical titled I’ll Be 23 is Year is sitting in front of me. Quietly, I stu all ten pages in an envelope and mail it to a producer I know at CBS-TV. Within days, Chalmers Dale writes back, saying he wants to produce my show on a Sunday morning TV program called Look Up and Live.Okay, baby, it’s time to look up and live!Weekend ights to New York accelerate. I manage four in a row. I see Tony and Skitter. I sleep, for the rst time, in the Chelsea brownstone on 21st Street. I meet with Chalmers Dale. He suggests I produce a soundtrack. With a microphone in hand, I record interviews with college students in Washington Square Park before returning to London. Soon, I have a fully edited soundtrack celebrating the longings of young adults.When Sixpence lming nally concludes—months and a million dollars over budget—Tommy Steele and my poker buddies make sure I don’t leave England empty-handed. At the wrap party, they present me with a fresh pack of playing cards and, in case they’re needed, a stack of extra wild cards.“Wild cards always come in handy, right?” says Tommy.“No one knows it better than you and me,” I respond, stung them in my pocket.Back in New York, I hire seven triple-threat performers for my show: Patrick Adiarte, Gene Castle, Leland Palmer, Lauree Berger, James Dybas, Nancy Hayworth, and Jill Choder. Another surge of energy takes over.e cast of my own TV musical, I’ll Be 23 is Year

170 • a Boy like ThaTA Fiery Follow-upJune 26, 1967.Flopping into bed, I click on the TV. I’m met with images of Françoise ashing across the screen.“Françoise Dorléac,” a newscaster announces, “was on the brink of international stardom when she died in a motor accident yesterday. She lost control of her car and hit a signpost. e car ipped over and burst into ames. She was seen struggling to get out but was unable to open the door.“Police later identied her body only from the fragment of a checkbook, a diary, and her driver’s license. Her sister, Catherine, is quoted as saying: ‘is is too painful for me or my family to talk about. No one understands what the loss of Françoise means to us.’”Tears are burning my eyes. I can barely see the TV.I race to the phone and call Tony, who’s due to leave town tonight. Helen informs me he’s already on his ight to Los Angeles.“You sound upset,” she says. “Is there anything I can do?”“Yes,” I reply. “Tell me when Tony is reachable.”“He’ll check into the Chateau Marmont ve hours from now. You have that number, don’t you?”“Yes, I do, Helen. ank you.”Waiting ve hours to call Tony is an eternity. Blocking thoughts of Françoise is impossible. Memories of her throaty chuckle, the warmth of her hands, and the sweetness in her eyes can’t block images of the screaming, ghting, and kicking she must have done trying to escape the car.e call with Tony doesn’t happen. e receptionist at the Chateau Marmont is unable to locate him. She suggests trying another hotel.My jaw tightens as I sink into a state of silence. I can’t rely on anyone.

Grover Dale • 171Playing PoliticsAugust 6, 1967.I’ll Be 23 is Year is about to air—now entitled Inner Feelings Outer Forms.I call Jerome Robbins, inviting him to watch it. He does. e following day, after acknowledging the broadcast, he informs me he’s launching a workshop funded by the National Endowment for the Arts. In seconds, he’s rhapsodizing about introducing the power of Japanese Noh eatre to American audiences.“It’s time to celebrate what I gained in Tokyo ten years ago,” he insists. “Are you ready to hear about the American eatre Lab, Grover?”Yes, I am, Big Daddy. (I’ve got a hunch there’s a job for me in it!)Listening to the potential he sees in the assassination of John F. Kennedy is stunning. It boils down to a singular moment that happened in Dealey Plaza: Jacqueline Kennedy recovering a piece of her husband’s skull. Her reach. Her grasp. Her determination to keep her family safe and alive.Good grief. Jerome Robbins is developing another politically charged tragedy like West Side Story. is one isn’t surrounded by gang warfare on the streets of New York; it’s surrounded by politicians controlling the future of their country.“I’ve got quite a history to share with you,” Jerry continues.“Bring it, Jerry,” I respond. “I want the whole nine yards.”“In 1950, intolerance landed in my lap in a very public way,” he begins. He goes on, describing how he was ordered to appear before the House Committee on Un-American Activities and courageously admitted to past Communist Party membership.e gun was just getting loaded.

172 • a Boy like ThaT“Are you aware of any other colleagues with similar allegiances to the Communist Party?” the leader demanded of him. “And if so, are you willing to identify them by name?”After declining to answer either question, Robbins was released from the investigation. For the next three years, he stood rm, maintaining silence and adding four more musicals to his list ofcredits.Circumstances changed in 1953. Republican Senator Joseph McCarthy insisted on revisiting the inquiry. Head on, he confronted Robbins. “Unless you agree to name others,” McCarthy warned, “you will be blacklisted, and evidence of your homosexual behavior will be released to the public.”Seeing the whole picture, I anticipate the upsetting outcome.A devastated Robbins yielded to the senator’s demand. He identied eight colleagues, including actors Lloyd Gough and Elliot Sullivan, dance critic Edna Ocko, actress and activist Madeline Lee Gilford, lmmaker Lionel Berman, and playwright Jerome Chodorov and his brother Edward Chodorov.It boils down to a single message: Intolerance is familiar territory to Robbins. He made sure that every scene, song, and dance of West Side Story revealed the futility of it. is driving motive is still on Robbins’ front burners, and my thirty-ve-year-old brain is digesting it.“We all saw the Zapruder footage,” Jerry goes on. “All four hundred fty-seven frames of it. Jacqueline crawling across a convertible to retrieve a piece of her husband’s skull. We all saw live newscasts of Lee Harvey Oswald being assassinated by Jack Ruby; a three-year-old John Kennedy Jr. saluting his father’s casket in Washington DC; and Vietnamese children eeing from Americansoldiers.”“If anybody understands the power of these images,” I murmur, “you do.”

Grover Dale • 173“When the time is right,” Robbins adds, “I’m going to focus on the bullet shot out of Oswald’s gun. It’s a direct path to the brain of John F. Kennedy. It will provide the revelations and insights of the Kennedy Project.”“And you need actors to deliver it?” I say.“Yes,” he responds. “Behind masks.”I’m speechless.“I know it’s a lot to digest, Grover,” but together, we can handle it.”Aha! Here it comes.“You have two movies coming out,” Robbins acknowledges, “and I understand why they’re important. But after seeing your TV show, I sense your interest in stretching your potential as a director. Working as my associate for a year could benet you in many ways. Will you consider it?”“Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”Little did I know, I just made a career-altering decision.“How about ten a.m. tomorrow at 219 West 19th Street?” he responds. “I’ll give you a tour of the Lab.”A Job Like Noh Othere Lab is a ve-minute walk from where I live with Tony. It’s equipped with a black box performance space, a mirrored rehearsal studio, two dressing rooms, an oce, and a generous entry hall.During the walk-through, the idea of a “vision board” surfaces. “With images related to the assassination,” I speculate, “any actor walking in the door will know exactly what’s expected of them.”Forty-eight hours later, version #1 of the board is up. “Whaddaya think, Jerry?”“Add more images of Lee Harvey Oswald,” he whispers, “and I’ll approve it.”

174 • a Boy like ThaTBy mid-August, word-of-mouth intensies. Every performer in New York wants to work with Robbins. It’s no surprise when casting sessions at the Lab go through the roof.e day after Labor Day, fteen pros are oered contracts for the American eatre Lab. All of them accept. Daily, they arrive at 219 W. 19th Street and Robbins guides them through:Jacqueline Kennedy’s dedication to rescuing a piece of her husband’s skull.What a three-year-old boy feels saluting his father’s con as it’s paraded through the streets of Washington, DC.Why Vietnamese children are running away from American soldiers.After six emotion-driven weeks, Robbins decides the company is ready to deal with…Noh WondermentA wardrobe bag is brought into the studio. White plastic masks are taken out and distributed.Barry Primus jokes openly about covering up his emotions. “Why am I hiding what’s written all over my face?”“Nothing is hidden around here,” responds Robbins, grabbing a mask and positioning it on his own face. “Let me show you what I mean.”His demonstration is startling. From the oor, he initiates a slow crawl forward, reaching for something beyond his grasp. e mask, instead of hiding his determination, actually magnies it. e cast recognizes the power his body is creating. Performing behind masks is at the heart of Robbins’ project and no cast member understands it better than Leonard Frey. Robbins assigns him the role of Jacqueline Kennedy. Not because he looks, behaves, or moves like her, but because he has the right grasp on performing behind a mask.

Grover Dale • 175Life Outside the Lab?Adding Tony into the mix with Big Daddy is perfect. On weekends, we get together in Manhattan brownstones, Water Mill cottages, beaches, gay bars, restaurants, discos, you name it. All forms of experimentation satisfy us.Before chilly weather sets in, Tony and I bring camera equipment to Robbins’ Water Mill cottage where we record Jerry improvising on the sand with dogs, dancers, and children. What we record validates everything going on at the American eatre Lab.A Year to RememberVision boards, masks, and the American eatre Lab ll my days. Classes at an underground lm school, and spooning in bed with Tony and Skitter ll my nights.On weekends when Tony and I don’t get together with Robbins or Mildred, we cook and smoke weed. As the New York premiere of Young Girls approaches, Tony encourages me to submit my award-Tony Perkins (far left) ts right into experimentation-mode with me (far right) and Jerome Robbins (top right, bottom left).

176 • a Boy like ThaTwinning Douglas, James and Joe to the managers of the Cinema Rendezvous eatre.His suggestion works. Between screenings of e Young Girls of Rochefort, my rst attempt at lmmaking is shown. What a blast!Reviews are just around the corner:New York premiere April 4, 1968.“What are the major excellences of Demy’s new lm? First of all, there is Grover Dale. He is one of the most exciting new male dancers in the musical cinema; in his numbers, always with others, he manages to convey a fresh, athletic enthusiasm and grace that’s unique (one watches him, not the others), and it is hoped that an important place is found for him in the musical renaissance.”—FILM QUARTERLY“e cast is extremely solid and alive, and e Young Girls of Rochefort is certainly the best musical in some time. Some of the best dancing, again, is by Grover Dale. Even his hair joins in the general elegance with which he moves…”—e New York Times

Grover Dale • 177Future Forecast“Producers are avoiding movie musicals,” Eric warns me. “No studio can aord shoots that go on for eight months. Transitioning into directing may be the right course for you,” he suggests.“I hear you, Eric.”“Plus, you’re the only choreographer in town working with a genius—not bad for a skinny dancer from McKeesport!”Eric is right. I may be better o than I realize.Lab Learning “First, pull back the trigger,” instructs Robbins. “You’ll hear a grinding noise. As you aim the gun, focus on getting rid of the enemy in front of you. Attach a vocal sound to that need. Let it grow. As it swells inside you, you’ll know when it’s time to squeeze the trigger.”ese instructions take me back to the sleeping platform over the cellar steps where I rst heard the grinding click of Sunny Cox’s revolver in the middle of the night. Twenty-ve years later, the fear I felt back then pays o. e scream I attach to the path of Oswald’s bullet captures Robbins’ attention.But when’s he going to start staging the sucker?How long do fteen pros keep working with twenty-two pages of public testimony before a real writer joins the team?Noh Problem?Established writers, one by one, are invited to observe run-throughs at the Lab. Immediately afterwards, private meetings take place in Robbins’ oce. I stick around in case I’m needed. As writers like John Guare and Leonard Bernstein exit, I escort them

178 • a Boy like ThaTto the sidewalk, assuring them how much their input means to Mr. Robbins. Few, if any, divulge what they oered.For weeks, showings continue, but Big Daddy remains silent about the feedback he is (or isn’t) getting. Tensions at the Lab accelerate.Noh MoreApril 1968.e cast is informed that contracts will not be renewed. e Kennedy Project is shelved. Showings, rehearsals, and experiments are canceled.e exit from the Lab is not a happy one.Two days later, I return to dismantle the vision board. On the sidewalk, I struggle with my key.Damn. I should’ve known the lock would be changed.After slamming my key to the sidewalk, I stare at the darkness inside the lobby. What’s this empty feeling about?I’ve always wanted a place that’s mine. A house, a studio, a location that’s safe for me to inhabit. Twenty years ago, I claimed four rickety steps outside a shack on a dirt road as my safety zone.at didn’t work out.Nor did the living arrangements I pursued with Larry Kert and Elaine Stritch. Now here I am, locked out of a job I believed in, and all I can do is head back to a house that’s owned by Tony Perkins.I know what I need to do: buy a home with my name on it. What am I waiting for? I can aord it.Taking OwnershipDuring the runs of West Side Story, Greenwillow, and Sail Away, I invested twenty-ve dollars a week in mutual funds. A decade later, my portfolio nally amounts to six gures.

Grover Dale • 179Why wait for someone else to give me what I need? For Pete’s sake, give it to yourself, Grover!I take action. On a December weekend, I drive to Ellenville, New York. One of the properties shown to me includes a farmhouse, a stone garage, a pond, and three acres of land alongside a brook. e nearest neighbor is half a mile away.Asking price: $18,300.“Do you want to make an oer?” prods the agent.Oh, I see. at’s how homes are bought.I make a cash oer of $16,500. Within hours, it’s accepted. At last, the skinny dancer from McKeesport owns the roof over his head.A week later, I revisit the property to verify what I own. Standing in a foot of snow, I realize the grounds won’t be fully visible until spring when the snow melts.Okay, I’ll handle the wait. But what else did I get for my $16,500?Local facilities include a grocery store, an antiques barn, and a gas station. My therapist, Mildred Newman, and her husband, Bernie Berkowitz, have a country retreat twenty miles north of Westbrookville.At long last, a home of my own in upstate New York.

180 • a Boy like ThaTe hillsides along Pine Kill Road are loaded with agstone, the ideal material for stone walls. Slabs of all sizes are free for the taking.Go for a walk, carry home a stone, add it to a wall. Beautify your property.My rst “welcome-to-the-neighborhood” comes from Richard Beatty, a local architect. A visit to his home reveals that he has ideas about renovating my property. ey include adding a breezeway, two porches, stained glass windows, skylights, a replace, and a agstone pool.By the time Tony returns from ve months of shooting Catch-22 in Arizona, I’ve got a renovation underway.RockedStained glass and slabs of barn-siding are secured for bargain prices at Mrs. Turley’s Antiques Barn. Adding agstone to walls surrounding the property costs nothing.Long walks on Pine Kill Road are comforting. Crossing the brook is a little tricky. Bridges are few and far between. e most reliable access to the other side is over a fallen tree trunk half a mile from my house.Close access to my therapist, Mildred Newman (center), and her husband Bernie Berkowitz (right)— such a bonus!

Grover Dale • 181Navigating across it is challenging, but, hey, dancers are agile, right?On a wet rainy day, I slip on the wet log and fall backwards, hitting my head on the rocks below. Within an hour, I’m admitted to the emergency ward of a hospital in Port Jervis. e injury justies checking for a brain concussion. I’m medicated and prepared for the procedure.In a groggy state, I call Mildred Newman. By mistake, I dial Jerome Robbins’ number. Surprised when he answers, I stumble through an apology. Hearing the uncertainty in my voice, he asks to speak to a nurse. I hand her the phone. Listening to her describe my condition, I drift o into sleep.Two hours later, Robbins is at my bedside. He jumped in his car and drove eighty miles to the hospital. Holding my hand, he talks to the attending physician to make sure the right procedures are in place. Relieved, my head relaxes back onto the pillow.Big Daddy’s presence is comforting. I’m experiencing the fatherly care I always longed for.

182 • a Boy like ThaTA Massacre to Music?I’m listening closely to a producer named Lyn Austin. She just asked if I’m interested in transforming George Tabori’s antiwar play, Pinkville, based on the atrocities of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, into a musical at the Berkshire eatre Festival.Curious why she called me, I ask her.She graciously admits that my credentials appeal to her. “If anybody can stage a massacre in a country barn with a budget of less than ten thousand dollars, it’s likely to be someone who’s working with a genius like Jerome Robbins,” she says, chuckling.I seize the moment. “If I staged Pinkville like a cowboy-and-pony show, a barn might be the perfect environment.”“Music to my ears,” she replies. “Describe it to me.”“Imagine ten bare-chested American soldiers wearing Levi’s, boots, and helmets, performing hoot-and-holler songs about their determination to conquer Vietnam. Imagine one young soldier conding that he won’t be able to tell folks back home about the children he executed there.”“Oooh, that’s scary,” gasps Lyn Austin. “Tell me more.”“Imagine his buddies slamming him against a wall, insisting how receptive the folks back home will be when they see all the medals he has pinned to his jacket. ‘By executing children, you served the interests of your country, young man!’”“Oh my god, that will terrify audiences!” gasps Lyn Austin. “George is a gifted Hungarian writer,” she adds, “with no experience in developing musicals. You can show him how far Pinkville can go.”Lyn Austin just gave me the go-ahead I was hoping for.On May 1, 1970, the Berkshire eatre Festival barn, lled with a dozen bales of hay and a few chickens, is taken over by ten athletic male performers, a country-and-western band, and a director determined to put it all together in less than three weeks.

Grover Dale • 183On opening night, enthusiastic reactions ll Lyn Austin’s barn. Less than twenty-four hours later, the entire run of Pinkville is sold out. With dollar signs ashing in her eyes, Lyn Austin informs me she’s taking the show, as-is, directly into the rst available o-Broadway theatre.Whoa. How did this happen?In Stockbridge, trac means not just cars but business as well. Among the local suerers is the Berkshire eater Festival. Most of the shows in this, the fth season of the festival, got good notices…but almost all have played to half-empty houses. e only play to turn away business was “Pinkville,” an antiwar play written by George Tabori and directed by Grover Dale in the festival’s barn.—e New York Times“We’re going to knock their socks o in New York!” yells Lyn Austin to her press agent on the phone. “We’ve got a hit on our hands!”Two days later, reality hits us in the face. Lyn Austin’s contract with Tabori doesn’t give her the right to produce Pinkville beyond e Berkshire Festival. And Tabori, oended by the approach I took with his play, withdraws it. An o-Broadway production with my name on it is not going to happen.Pinkville, minus the songs, dances, and staging, is oered to Wynn Handman at the American Place eatre on West 45th Street. Handman, I learn, assures Tabori he’ll nd a director with the dramatic approach that the play deserves.Devastated, I reach out to Mildred Newman. “Will I ever convince anyone that I’m the right director for their project?”“e most important person to convince,” she responds, “is yourself. You gave Tabori’s play a path to succeed as a musical. I was there. I was in the audience that stood up and cheered. Right

184 • a Boy like ThaTnow, you’re listening to the only two people who didn’t recognize it: George Tabori and yourself. Embrace the talent you’ve got, and get past the resentment that’s consuming you!”Attempting to defend myself, rage against George Tabori spills out of me. I also take aim at Lyn Austin for overlooking her responsibility to secure rights and my agent, Eric Shepard, for overlooking his responsibility to protect me. Only then, nally, is there room for the real culprit to surface: Me—yes, me—and my lack of communication with George Tabori.By the time the session is over, I’m digesting that I did nothing to solve the lack of communication between me and George. In the rush to get Pinkville on its feet, I overlooked my responsibility to explain what I was doing and why.If I ever get another shot at directing, I vow, I’ll communicate with my collaborators.Billy: My First Shot at Staging a Broadway Musical“If staging a Herman Melville classic appeals to you,” says Eric Shepard, “you’ll want to hear about my conversation with Arthur Seidelman. He’s shopping for a choreographer, but so far, no one has met his requirements. I brought up your name and showed him a clip of 23. He wants to meet with you on Friday. Are you interested?”“Absolutely,” I respond, calculating that gives me a three-day window to do some research. “Friday is good, Eric.”Bam. I rush to the Drama Book Store and invest three dollars in a paperback edition of Billy Budd. From there, I head directly to the South Street Seaport and board a vintage sailing ship.Maneuvering around tourists, I nd the perfect reading spot. At the rear of the main deck, I cozy up with Herman Melville’s masterpiece. Within thirty pages, my brain is ooded with ideas.

Grover Dale • 185Seventy-two hours later.At the meeting with Seidelman, I’m describing the sound of boots hitting wooden decks and the muscular dexterity required to climb rope ladders and repair canvas sails. When Seidelman asks where these ideas came from, I reveal where I spent the last three days.“A vintage ship at the South Street Seaport was the closest I could get to exploring conditions that Billy Budd and John Claggart survived two hundred years ago.”“How would those conditions inuence your choreography?” probes Seidelman.Sensing the spike in his interest, I describe the value of grasping ship railings, climbing masts, and overcoming stormy conditions. I oer options for staging sword ghts, hangings, walking the gang plank, and navigating drunken brawls between shipmates.“I’m sold,” barks Seidelman. “You’re the right choreographer for my project.”Within hours, my contract is negotiated. A month later, eighteen weather-beaten sailors are climbing ropes, wielding swords, and stomping hard-soled boots on the stage of the Billy Rose eatre on 41st Street.e cast of Billy, led by Rob Salvio (center, top), stomps and leaps across the stage of the Billy Rose eatre

186 • a Boy like ThaTA Short VoyageOpening night. March 22, 1969.After a solid performance and celebratory moments backstage, the cast is summoned by the company manager who informs them their director, Arthur Seidelman, has important news to share with everyone. Naturally, I join them.After praising everyone’s contribution, Arthur’s voice intensies as he focuses on the purpose of his speech. “Our producer,” he announces, “just informed me that regardless of how critics react to what they saw on this stage tonight, he doesn’t have enough funds to keep the show running. Tonight’s audience saw the rst and last performance of Billy.”Audible gasps erupt.“e crew will start dismantling the set within the hour,” he continues. “All dressing rooms must be cleared of personal property before midnight.”He pauses. e silence is deafening.“If anyone would like to join me for a goodbye drink at Joe Allen’s,” he adds, “you’re welcome to do so.”On his way to the stage door, Arthur distributes personal goodbyes. “Please give Tony Perkins a message for me,” he murmurs, pulling me close. “Tell him he’s lucky to be sharing his life with an artist like you.”“at means a lot to me, Arthur. ank you.”

Grover Dale • 187A Word I’ve Never HeardIt’s 11:00 p.m.At a Times Square newsstand, three bundles of e New York Times are tossed to the sidewalk. I drop two quarters into a metal dish and grab a copy. In seconds, I’m scanning the Arts & Leisure Section. ere it is, on page 24: Clive Barnes’ review.His opinion about Billy’s book and score is conditional, at best. My eyes drift down to another paragraph.Oh my God. A single word describes my choreography. I blink twice, making sure I’m reading it correctly:“Grover Dale’s dances are brilliant.”No one has ever publicly attached that word to my work before. And Clive Barnes is the #1 critic of e New York Times.Stunned, I reverse my plan for the night. Instead of going to Joe Allen’s, I return to the Billy Rose and sit alone in the back of the orchestra. I gaze at the stage, watching the set being dismantled. Ropes, sails, railings, and wooden decks are broken down, torn apart, and jammed into plastic garbage containers. By midnight, they are wheeled towards garbage trucks parked on 41st Street.

188 • a Boy like ThaTMinutes later, the stage is empty. Stripped down to its brick walls with a single light-stand positioned center stage, it’s waiting, just like I am, for another musical to show up.It’s going to happen. I know it. Somewhere, the right musical will tap my shoulder.I hear a quiet voice behind me. “Grover. Let’s go home.”It’s Tony. He’s standing at the rear of the orchestra.After stung e New York Times into my coat pocket, I stand and walk towards him. Without a word, his hand reaches for mine. I welcome it. As we head for the door, I pause for another look at the stage.“G’night, Billy,” I murmur. “Nice knowing you.”e walk up Seventh Avenue is a special one. It’s the rst time Tony and I walk openly in public holding hands. Pausing at the corner of 46th, I decide the farewell drink with Arthur Seidelman feels like the right move. We head towards Joe Allen’s.

1960S