Skip to main content

"Patti LuPone: A Memoir"

Part of the fun of a Big Name memoir is seeing the crazy celebrities who surround the crazy-celebrity-storyteller.


Like Katie Couric, Patti LuPone wants to "go there": She doesn't really hold back. She says, after Juilliard, she went into development hell with "The Baker's Wife," a "bad" musical. She says Zero Mostel was on the producers' wish list, but Mostel said no. "Mostel must have known, or sensed, something."


The producers then went with Topol -- who "certainly wasn't in the same league as Zero Mostel."


Next, LuPone makes her way to "Evita," and she speculates that New York didn't embrace the show right away because -- well -- Eva herself was a fascist. But people came around. Also, LuPone recalls a backstage visit from Lana Turner. "When I was in Argentina," said Turner, "the police took my passport from me. I couldn't understand why. Eventually, I was shown into a private room for an audience with Evita, and Evita said, You are the reason I wear my hair this way. And she gave me my passport. And I left."


LuPone's tackiness comes through in her Tony Awards stories. She recalls losing a Tony to Joanna Gleason, and she complains that Gleason "looked like the tin man." I'm not sure what Gleason's appearance has to do with the Tony Award, and given that LuPone is so much more famous, this feels like a case of "punching down."


Additionally, LuPone complains that she lost the Tony for "Sweeney Todd," a show that seemed to have LOCKED DOWN new awards for its female lead. LuPone doesn't even mention LaChanze by name -- and certainly doesn't mention that LaChanze is her own kind of legend, or that LaChanze gave a terrific performance in "The Color Purple," despite having somewhat recently lost her husband in the collapse of the Twin Towers.


I'm touched by the "Gypsy" chapters. Arthur Laurents was losing his long-time partner, Tom, and Tom said, basically on his death bed, "You need to go on and direct a new version of your great musical." LuPone speculates that Tom "assigned" the "Gypsy" project to Arthur, because he knew that Arthur would be bored as a widower. "Gypsy" would be a useful distraction.


I'm sort of reeling from my Covid booster shot, so I'll stop here. I like LuPone's book.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...