Names in Lights

It seems there was a beautiful young actress who had caught the eye, the fancy and the heart of George Jessel. Whenever he spoke of her, his eyes would grow misty and his voice would take on the rhapsodic resonance he usually reserved for testimonial dinners. "Her sneezes," Mr. Jessel would swear on a stack of Varietys, "make Debussy sound like a bum." He showered her with his attentions; his devotion to her became a Broadway legend. Then, on the very eve of what was to be their wedding day, she made one request that shattered the romance forever. "No, no, no!" -- Mr. Jessel's outraged response could be heard from Lindy's to Sardi's. "I am willing to share my income with you, I am willing to share my home, my dressing rooms, yea, my very life with you --but share my billing? Never!"

Billing is the theatre's most direct way of slaking the thirst to become known and be remembered. It also is the sole measure of status in the profession -- a cherished badge of black print and electric lights, coveted as medals are coveted by professional soldiers. And often the attainment involves campaigns almost as fervent and violent as military engagements.

In Boston or New Haven on the eve of the first tryout performance of any show headed for Broadway, so showbiz folklorists would have us believe, troops of assorted performers converge in front of the theatre. They are taking part in a curious ritual. Each is equipped with a pocket ruler. With this, the names on the billboards are carefully measured and recorded. They are the leading members of the cast, measuring their own and the other names on the billboards, to make certain the sign painters adhered to the contractual specifications concerning billing -- down to the minutest fractions.

Actors so near-sighted that they cannot detect an oncoming Mack truck nevertheless possess such practiced eyes that with one cursory glance they can confirm their dread fear -- that their billing is inadequate. The Can-Can cast once swamped the manager of the show with a deluge of quitting notices. The producers, Ernie Martin and Cy Feuer, finally mollified them all by attributing the putative errors to novice members of the powerful Sign Painters union. They further explained that the confusion had been compounded by the fact that a foreign performer was using a metric ruler instead of good old American inches. The producers, with a million dollars in profit at stake, held the line, then penetrated the defenses by promising to fatten roles all around. This was their break-through; an armistice was agreed upon and the performers unpacked.

When José Ferrer appeared in Martin Gabel's production of Charley's Aunt, he studied the unanimous praise accorded him by the drama critics, then asked Mr. Gabel for star billing. They debated the question passionately -- the producer insisting that Ferrer's name was not yet a household one, while the actor heatedly asserted that he was well-known enough to merit the display of his name atop the title. The battle ended abruptly with the arrival of a messenger bearing a package intended for José Ferrer. It was addressed to "Joe's Furrier."

Gracie Allen worked with a vaude-villian named Larry Reilly, who acknowledged her accomplishments to everyone, everywhere -- except in program listing. She warned him of her intent to retreat to other pastures unless he altered his solo billing. Miss Allen finally teamed with George Burns, after her partner had rejected her compromise -- that the billing be changed at least to "Larry Reilly & Company."

William Faversham also insisted upon being the dominant male, in The Silver Fox. He disputed Emily Stevens' contractual right to be co-starred with him. He finally consented to have the electric lights read "William Faversham -- Emily Stevens." Miss Stevens later explained: "The only reason Mr. Faversham gave his approval is because he thinks the dash between our names is a minus sign."

Dennis King was content to have such a minus sign separate his name from Gertrude Lawrence's when he sought the male role in the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical version of Anna and the King of Siam. Mr. King's hopes vanished as soon as he learned that the title had been changed to The King and I. "The King and I?" sighed Mr. King. "It means that Miss Lawrence won't have me, because my name is King. Gertrude Lawrence never would take second billing, even in a title of a show."

Robert Preston had no misgivings about permitting Celeste Holm's name to appear before his when they were signed to co-star in His and Hers. Preston assured the producers: "I don't care. If the title is His and Hers and I play His -- to me that's top billing!"

A co-star billing problem also confronted the manager of the Capitol Theatre when Milton Berle and Lillian Roth appeared there. Each had a contract which provided for top billing on the marquee. Miss Roth offered a solution: "The Capitol's marquee has two sides. One faces uptown, the other downtown. Milton can have the top billing on one side, and I'll have it on the other." Berle agreed, but on condition that his top billing be on the north side of the marquee, because it faced Lindy's.

Billing is a definite recognition of achievement. On the entertainment menu, it distinguishes the appetizers and desserts from the main-course dishes. Those whose billing is smallest open the show, or sometimes close it. On D-Day plus three, the late Willie Shore took a USO-Camp Shows troupe to the Normandy beach to entertain wounded soldiers. And despite the strafing enemy planes overhead, the vaudevillians spent 30 minutes waving the billings on the mimeographed programs at each other, and arguing over which one, under its terms, therefore would have to open the show.

Joe Frisco, the stuttering dancer-comic, once refused to work for less than the $4500 a week he had earned at the Palace Theatre. He held out for 10 years, until there were no more vaudeville theatres. MGM sent an emissary in search of Frisco, who was found working in a Louisville nightclub. The movie representatives needed Frisco's permission for the use of his name in a Gene Kelly--Judy Garland film musical. It was a movie with a vaudeville background, and among the marquees to be reproduced was that of the Palace Theatre in 1917. The stars who had appeared there -- such stars as Blanche Ring and Blossom Seeley -- consented to the use of their names on the Palace marquee. But not Frisco, not even for the high fee the movie studio offered him. He became a holdout again because his demand wasn't met -- the demand that he receive top billing on that 1917 marquee reproduced for a Hollywood film.

MGM's most difficult billing problem concerned the 10 stars signed for Executive Suite. At the first meeting of the cast, Louis Calhern said to the other nine: "This is the way I see it. All of you are big stars and so you will be billed, 'Starring Barbara Stanwyck, June Allyson, Shelley Winters, Nina Foch, Fredric March, Paul Douglas, Walter Pidgeon, William Holden, Dean Jagger.' And after all your names should come, 'However, Louis Calhern.'"

Billing above the play title contains the implicit assertion that the bearers of the names have attained the preeminence of box-office attractions.

Just before Damn Yankees ended its Broadway run, Ray Walston, who had feature billing second to Gwen Verdon's, decided that at the final curtain in New York he would enjoy a deserved vacation and then accept one of the Hollywood offers he'd received. He notified the management that this was his final judgement and that under no circumstances would he agree to a road show. Mr. Walston visited the offices of the producers -- Fred Brisson, Harold Prince and Bobby Griffith -- to make his farewells. Mr. Prince was waiting for him. "Come in, Ray," he said. Walston entered -- and saw some newly printed posters placed strategically around the room. They announced "Ray Walston in Damn Yankees" -- star billing. "Foul! Foul!" Walston protested, as he glanced at this irresistible lure, and signed the proffered contract.

Producers are as hard-headed as performers in the struggle toward top billing, for they too are impelled by vanity, ambition and the magic of electric lights. Brock Pemberton produced Harvey after a series of dismal flops, and then spent countless evenings admiring his name on the marquee. "We all like to see our names up there," he said. "I like it too -- even though I've seen it only a week or two at a time."

Henry Sherek, who later was to bring T. S. Eliot's plays to the London and Broadway stages, once entered into a partnership deal with Gilbert Miller, the American producer. They agreed to present Robert Morley's Edward, My Son in London, and then transport the play to New York. They discussed the matter of whose name should appear first. "Gilbert," said Mr. Sherek, "because this is London and I'm a native here, we'll put your name first -- 'Gilbert Miller & Henry Sherek Present.' That's what we call British hospitality."

"That's very hospitable of you," replied Mr. Miller, "and it also prevents a helluva fight."

When Edward, My Son eventually reached Broadway, Sherek suggested that Mr. Miller reciprocate by having the billing read "Henry Sherek & Gilbert Miller Present." Miller shook his head and winced at the proposal. "My dear Henry, as you know, I am a hospitable man," he replied. "But in the theatre, hospitality never applies to laugh lines or top billing."

On the eve of a premiere of the Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden, the press agent for the three-ring show invited John Ringling North to walk across the street with him. Mr. North, who recently had reacquired control of the circus, accompanied him across Eighth Avenue. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "This was my idea, Mr. North. What do you think of it?" He pointed to the marquee at Madison Square Garden. For the first time in the history of the circus the producer had been given top billing. Mr. North stared at the letters, "Produced by John Ringling North." He wheeled, and quickly told the press agent: "All I have to say to you is -- leave it there."

Moss Hart's plays are produced by his brother, Bernard, and his business manager, Joseph Hyman. When Light Up the Sky opened at the Locust Theatre in Philadelphia, an employee reported that the sign in the ticket broker's office next door listed Virginia Field, Glenn Anders and Audrey Christie -- without mentioning Sam Levene, who played the leading role. Bernard Hart displayed no reaction. He shrugged. "Aw, who cares?" Then he chanced to walk by the ticket (continued on page 89)Names in Lights(continued from page 38) broker's office and glimmed the sign in the window. It began "Joseph Hyman Presents," and contained no mention of the co-producer. Bernard Hart rushed into the office and warned the broker that unless the sign was withdrawn forthwith he would receive no tickets to sell for the rest of the Philadelphia run.

The ticket brokers of Broadway often display a bulletin board in their windows, listing the current shows and the stars thereof. Lou Schonceit of Mackey's Agency, next door to Sardi's restaurant, gives the star listings to his favorite performers, no matter how small their roles. When Edith Craig was an understudy in Separate Rooms and substituted for the ailing Glenda Farrell, the bulletin board at Mackey's had the listing "Separate Rooms -- E. Craig." No mention was made of Miss Farrell nor of her co-stars, Alan Dinehart and Lyle Talbot. Miss Craig was touched. She thanked Mr. Schonceit for the billing, then said: "But why didn't you go all the way and spell out my first name, instead of just an 'E'?" The broker replied by pointing to his listing of The Corn is Green -- which was followed by the name of the star, "E. Barrymore."

It was Billy Rose who volunteered to make the first practical test of a performer's right to billing. He told a lovely singer with whom he was negotiating: "I don't agree that your name on my marquee would attract customers. But I'm willing to be shown that I'm wrong. Let's walk down Broadway, and if anybody recognizes you, or if anyone of the first hundred persons we ask ever heard of you, I'll give you the billing. But if nobody recognizes you or ever heard of you -- I'll cut your salary." The lady shrieked all the way up to high C and promptly declined the challenge.

The supremacy of Billy Rose's own name on a theatre marquee was challenged only by Tallulah Bankhead. It was at the out-of-town tryout of Clifford Odets' Clash by Night, which Rose produced. He apparently overlooked the top billing clause in the star's contract, for the electric sign put his name ahead of hers. Tallu saw it on her way into the theatre. Her resentment was heightened by the fact that a disconnected electric wire had darkened the final "s" in "Presents." It was not, however, for grammatical reasons that she objected to the sign, "Billy Rose Present Tallulah Bank-Head." "Tell the little man," was her message, "that if I don't get the top billing called for by my contract -- top, I said -- then the marquee tonight had better read 'Billy Rose Present, Tallulah Bankhead Absent.' "Mr. Rose submitted ere curtain-rise and refund-demands, and paid tribute to the Alabama star: "I wonder how the South ever lost that war."

Miss Bankhead's sister came to see the show and reminded Tallulah about the time they drove through the Alabama countryside and saw the family's business sign, "Bankhead Coal Co." Her sister said: "And remember how shocked we were at seeing the family name debased by appearing on a commercial sign?"

"Yes, I remember," said Tallulah. "And little did I know how delighted I would some day be at seeing the name on a Cockney's sandwich sign in Piccadilly."

Maureen Stapleton pretends lack of concern about billing. The performances by Miss Stapleton and Eli Wallach in Tennessee Williams' The Rose Tattoo were so memorable that the producer decided to elevate them to stardom. Bert McCord, the drama reporter, telephoned Miss Stapleton and congratulated her for having harvested the critics' praises.

"Aw, so what?" she replied, with Actors Studio indifference.

McCord then told her the news that the producers were billing her name in lights. "So what?" Miss Stapleton repeated.

"Eli Wallach is getting star billing too," said the caller, who then concocted an added item of impromptu news. "In fact, Eli's name is billed over yours."

"WHAT?" roared Miss Stapleton.

Fred Finklehoffe, who first came to Broadway as co-author of Brother Rat, co-produced At War with the Army, Affairs of State and The Heiress. His first solo venture was the production of a vaudeville show, Show Time. And to book the acts for this venture, Finklehoffe retained Paul Small, an efficient, persuasive agent who had started in show business as Paul Whiteman's double. Small weighed 290 pounds. When Whiteman dieted and shed 150 pounds, Small became jobless, which is the customary preliminary to becoming a Broadway booking agent. Until his untimely death, Mr. Small's offices displayed a series of bill posters reflecting his own preoccupation with billing and Finklehoffe's unconcern. The first was for Show Time, whose billing began: "Fred Finklehoffe Presents ..." The second poster was for the successor show Big Time, and the billing read: "Fred Finklehoffe & Paul Small Present." The third poster, for the next show, Laugh Time, read "Paul Small & Fred Finklehoffe Present." The fourth and final poster read: "Paul Small Presents."

Irving Caesar's aversion to anonymity was nowhere more evident than in the billing for his musical My Dear Public. It read: "Produced by Irving Caesar, Lyrics by Irving Caesar, Some Sketches by Irving Caesar," followed by several other references to Irving Caesar. The critics' notices were disastrous. Caesar read them all and winced. "OK," he said, "so it wasn't so good. But why did all the critics have to pick on me?"

Because the nightclub business is hazardous and few ever survive for long, performers offer little resistance to the owners' schemes for a quick buck, even in the matter of billing.

Joe E. Lewis' first leap into the $500-a-week class, which was twice as much as he had been making, was at an Atlantic City bistro. The comic later discovered that the salary was not in recognition of his talent but only of his name. Jim Braddock, who had just won the heavyweight championship from Max Baer, had been signed to appear at that club for $2500 a week. The owners decided to invest $500 a week more by hiring the comic, who at that time used no middle initial. It enabled them to advertise, for the benefit of quick-reading gullible ones, that Jim Braddock and Joe Lewis were making a joint personal appearance. Even though the Brown Bomber's name was spelled "Louis," Lewis thereafter inserted an "E" between his first and last names, so that nightclub customers never again would mistake him for the fighter.

Jimmy Durante once signed to appear at a New York supper club which was to be named in his honor. He performed although his terms had not been fully met. The sign over the entrance read "Club Durant" instead of "Club Durante." "What wuz I gonna do?" Durante sighed. "The owners couldn't add the final 'e' because just then they ran out of dough."

Nick and Steve Condos, the dancers billed as "The Condos Brothers," once were booked into a nightclub where they were to have featured billing. Nick Condos was injured on the day of the opening and had to stay home. Martha Raye, to whom he was then married, telephoned the proprietor of the club and told him of the accident which would prevent her husband from working that night. His brother, she added would do the show alone. The proprietor was sympathetic and assured her it would be quite all right. Besides, he knew that each of the Condos Brothers often worked as a single. Then he realized that he didn't know if Miss Raye's husband was named Steve or Nick. His concern about this was brief. He billed the act as "The Condos Brother."

When Henri Bernstein, the French playwright, learned that Felicia Montealegre was the wife of Leonard Bernstein, the composer-conductor-pianist, he urged her to change her billing. "Make it 'Felicia Bernstein,' " he told the actress. She was unenthusiastic and said that it wouldn't look well in lights. "You are wrong, my dear," the playwright insisted. "The name 'Bernstein' is a great theatre name. I've had it in lights for 50 years." "For you, Henri, yes," said Leonard Bernstein. "But you're not an ingenue and Felicia is."

Sometimes, in the late spring, just before the Broadway season ends, capable performers will accept starring roles in plays they know have little chance for success. Robert Preston explained the mystery after Gentlemen of Distinction breathed its last. "I figured I had little to lose," he said. "If we got lucky and it ran, fine. But if it flopped and closed, another show wouldn't come into that theatre until the fall. My star billing would remain on the marquee all summer long -- and I could show it to my friends."

One recent summer, an actress whose show-stopping performance on opening night had been noted by the critics, was awarded feature billing. The producers then told her of their additional reward: they would install an air-conditioning unit in her dressing room. The technicians surveyed the theatre and reported that the wall would have to be broken through, to make room for the extra wiring and the unit. The show's billboard was on the other side of that wall, and the break-through would be at the point where her name appeared. "Skip it," she said. "Forget the air conditioner. I've sweated in many theatres and through many plays to attain this billing. There isn't an air conditioner in the world that could ever be as refreshing to me as seeing my name up there every time I walk past that billboard."