Is There a Doctor in the House?

Calling the right shots on Broadway

When The Wiz was previewing in Detroit five years ago, it looked as if the Yellow Brick Road might lead back to Kansas, not Broadway. Applause was limper than the Scarecrow's limbs. Then Geoffrey Holder, who had designed the costumes, was asked to doctor the production. Holder brought the part of the Wiz into sharp focus, wowed the audience with a black tornado stirred up with 100 yds. of silk streamers, and exhorted the frazzled cast members to believe in themselves. It all worked: The Wiz won the 1975 Tony Award for best musical.

Play doctors--those writers, directors, composers and choreographers who are called in for last-minute changes--have been at work as long as there have been lights on the Great White Way. So far this season, six shows have closed after opening night on Broadway, with five more flopping in their first or second week, a record number since World War II. The mortality rate on Broadway makes casino gambling look like a sound investment. The average million that goes into a major musical and the $500,000 or so that is put up for a dramatic production are lost if the show fails. Because of the huge sums of money involved in Broadway productions, there is often a doctor in the house--waiting in the wings to minister to a collapsing show.

Some productions require an entire M*A*S*H unit. I Remember Mama, now in previews at Broadway's Majestic Theater, would seem to have everything going for it.

The show stars Liv Ullmann, the music is Richard Rodgers' 40th Broadway score, and Producer Alexander Cohen raised $1.5 million to put it on. Based on the 1944 Broadway hit by John van Druten, Mama recounts the struggles of the Hansons, who are poor Norwegian immigrants in San Francisco. The play is intentionally sentimental, a celebration of family life. When the new production opened in Philadelphia in March, critics panned it. Too episodic, with a weak story line, they complained.

"People were walking out in droves," recalls Thomas Meehan, who wrote the script. The company began to follow. Director-Lyricist Martin Charnin, part of the team that made Annie a success, was replaced by Cy Feuer, producer of such hits as Guys and Dolls and Can-Can. "There was a confrontation between Liv and me as to how the musical would work," explains Charnin. Cohen and Feuer decided that more excitement was needed. Enter two dancers. They did not fit and were fired. A new choreographer arrived with six more dancers. Rodgers, well known for his speed in composing, was sent back to the piano for six new songs. A new lyricist, Raymond Jessel, was hired to write the words.

Although the show began previews in New York on April 26, opening night was postponed from May 3 to May 24 to, at last notice, May 31. Meehan has been changing the script daily, and the actors must constantly learn new lines, lyrics and blocking. "I'd write a scene in the morning, they'd rehearse it in the afternoon and do it at night," says Meehan, who has been working about 18 hours a day. The cast has yet to perform the same version twice. "Some nights we get it, other nights we don't," says Maureen Silliman, who plays Katrine.

There have been several casting changes. The role of Mr. Hyde was played by three different actors in one week. Even the calico cat, who won a much publicized open casting call to be the Hansons' pet, was sacked.

The Hansons' cat is specifically a torn, and cat lovers soon pointed out that all calicoes are female. Now a big, orange torn has the part. Observes Meehan: "It's a tough business."

Still, the prognosis backstage is that I Remember Mama has at least a good commercial chance. "It won't be the artistic success of the season," says Silliman. "But if it reaches its potential, it could be a lovely show, another Sound of Music."

The frenzy at the Majestic has plenty of precedents. The 1971 remake of No, No, Nanette, for instance, seemed doomed. Rehearsals were a continual change in dance steps, dialogue and costumes. The legendary Busby Berkeley was superseded by Burt Shevelove. But when Nanette finally reached Broadway, it ran for 861 performances, and then toured the country. Funny Girl (1964) postponed its opening five times and went through 40 rewrites of the last scene. Finally, Jerome Robbins was brought in as production supervisor and added several songs, including You Are Woman, I Am Man.

Not all doctoring is complicated or dramatic. Robbins gave a lift to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum by pushing for a jolly new opening number, Comedy Tonight. In some cases, the job is simple reorganization. After the current Broadway revival of Whoopee!, based on the 1928 musical, was slammed in St. Louis, Playwright Jonathan Reynolds (Yankees 3 Boston 0 Top of the Seventh) received an S O S. "In the opening scene, for instance, the main character, Henry Williams, was lost in the crowd, so I gave him more lines," says Reynolds. "I mainly reorganized the play so that the audience would know whom to follow." Whoopee! is doing steady business.

Despite the success stories, doctoring is often not enough. Composer Jule Styne believes that great hits--My Fair Lady, Oklahoma!, Fiddler on the Roof, A Chorus Line--were great from the start and only needed polishing. "Ninety percent of plays that call in a new writer and director fail," says Styne. "Sometimes the best you can do is to convince them to close," adds Joseph Stein, who wrote Fiddler on the Roof and has doctored such plays as Irene and Raisin. "If you're lucky, the show will be mediocre."

Play doctors are a special breed. They must adapt their craft to another's style.

They must be able to work fast and pull all-nighters in hotel rooms. A good one knows how to eliminate a character, take out a scene, adjust a set. Says Stein: "You need a sixth sense, a feeling for where the show dips." The doctor's bill partly depends upon his success in salvaging the show. There is usually a flat fee, ranging from about $10,000 to $30,000 for five or six weeks' work, and often a percentage of the show's revenues.

Despite the desperation surrounding a play in trouble, doctors have strict rules of courtesy. "The first thing you find out is if the author knows that someone is being brought in," says Larry Gelbart (Sly Fox), whose efforts on Ballroom were not enough to keep it from closing. "You owe that to a colleague." Jerome Robbins notes ruefully, "I've needed help too."

Few doctors will talk about how they work their magic. Abe Burrows, who won a Pulitzer Prize for How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, is writing a book about his own 18 productions, but has less to say about What Makes Sammy Run ? and other hits he doctored. "It's like a plastic surgeon who sees a beautiful girl walking down the street," says Burrows. "He doesn't point to her and say, 'You should have seen her before I worked on her.'" If a show is a smash, the original team generally gets the credit, not the doctor. So why does a successful playwright or director answer those frantic calls late at night? "You've got to make a house call," says Gelbart, who, like many play doctors, often slips medical touches into his conversation. He adds, "Any Christ complex you have rises immediately to the top." Power may in fact be the best satisfaction. Says Joe Stein: "I've learned something about what it is like to be a medical specialist. When you make a decision, everybody listens." He pauses and notes, "Of course, by that time, they'd listen to an usher."

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