Skip to main content

Mary Rodgers on Broadway

 I went back to the Mary Rodgers memoir, just because so many critics ranked it high in "best-of-year" lists, and here are the stories that really startle me:


*When Mary's toddler died, Mary's icy mother said, "I guess you'll need to gather the remaining children and drive across the state to our house, in Connecticut...." (You can't make that up.)

*When Mary's own child, Adam Guettel, was in the running for a Best Musical Tony Award, he turned to his mother to express his love. And Mary said, correctly, "You're about to lose. The winner will be SPAMALOT."

*When Mary offered a candid assessment of ANYONE CAN WHISTLE, the writer, Arthur Laurents, said, "I hate you, and everyone in the cast hates you. Don't come with us to Philadelphia."

*Mary's sister had Juilliard-level talent, but Dick and Dorothy Rodgers did not think that anyone should pursue an unpleasant life as a classical musician. So they simply failed to tell their kid that various high-profile recruiters had expressed an interest. Mary had to spill the beans (and it seems this moment of honesty didn't score any points for Mary, because she and her sister could then manage to laugh together only "once every fifteen or twenty years").

*Mary regrets making use of Sara Jessica Parker in the Broadway revival of ONCE UPON A MATTRESS. "My heroine needs to have a huge personality. She needs to be likable. She needs to be funny. And she needs to sing well. Sara Jessica Parker? Well, she was likable...."

I think you don't have to love Mary Rodgers to enjoy this book. I think it's generous to spill so many secrets. We all have messy lives. We think a talented Nepo Baby might be spared from a mess, but that's just wrong. It's therapeutic to uncover the truth.

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...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

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...