One night during the week of October 20, 1958, a theater-goer was handed a Playbill just before she took her seat in the Winter Garden Theater in New York. She was not a casual fan—not only did she save Playbills but they were important enough, treasured enough to be collected in protective binders. So while she may have tucked it aside for later reference, she more likely opened it and began skimming immediately, subconsciously bracing herself, as astute audience members are prone to do at this juncture, for unwelcome news. Even before sitting down that night, even before obtaining the ticket weeks before, she may have wisely prepared herself for some disappointments: Chita Rivera, the exciting triple-threat dancer/actress/singer who had received the greatest buzz when the show opened more than a year earlier, had already left the show, in fact was preparing to re-create the role of Anita in London. Our Playbill-saver might have already known of this sea change in casting by spotting a new name on the marquee or window cards, or by following the theater chatter in the papers. Dismaying, certainly, but this might be the price one pays for waiting a year to see a big hit. Unless she had not waited at all--perhaps this was a repeat viewing for this particular theater-goer, a second helping for someone who had already seen Miss Rivera's legendary performance months earlier. In any event, if the lady was indeed a seasoned veteran who attended the shows frequently, the appearance of a replacement or an understudy was an unremarkable occurrence, one that sometimes produced surprisingly pleasant results. Chances are that Miss Rivera's admittedly inevitable departure was greeted with resigned good cheer.
Such good cheer, if she indeed possessed it, would serve her well during the next few minutes, as two of those fateful slips of paper fell into her lap: Neither Carol Lawrence nor Larry Kert was going to appear in the show for that performance. Oh dear. Well, stiff-upper lip and all that, that was the theater, that’s show biz. It may not have been an issue: Though we revere them today, Carol Lawrence and Larry Kert were not exactly household names, even a year into the run. The odd fact may be true that our friend did not blink an eye at this unusual coincident absence, since the stars’ names would have meant no more to her than those of their replacements, Marlys Watters and Frank Green. Or, once again, she may have seen the lead players in an earlier viewing months ago, and was now stoically prepared to give tonight's tragic lovers the same attention and respect she gave to the originals on an earlier occasion. Familiar with the facts of life, she may have been utterly untroubled by the replacements; her interest might have extended no further than a cursory review of the cast list, idly pondering the consequences of Mr. Green’s vacating his own role of Mouthpiece. Or she may have known that swing dancers sit backstage waiting for such an opportunity to fill in for one of several roles they are obliged to learn. She would not have found Marlys Watters’ name listed in the regular cast, only as Maria’s understudy; there was no way of knowing that in less than two months the apparently capable Miss Watters would create the role of Maria in the London Company.
However, it is just as likely that this was a first viewing for our theater-goer, accompanying her husband, say, on a business trip from out of town and squeezing in as much New York theater as she could, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, now a bit tarnished. Did she sit there in a moment of aggrieved disappointment? The tickets had cost a fortune—upwards of six dollars apiece. A Broadway production with three of the original leads out – well, a fourth also: Mickey Calin had left the show too, the role of Riff was now being played by his erstwhile understudy, Hank Brunjes. It was not our friend’s lucky evening. Did she start to turn toward her husband or companion, in hopes of commiseration? Chances are he cared even less, or, worse, would trump this weak card with ease ("I told you we should have gone to Music Man!"). She sighed, folding the Playbill shut, closing her eyes. Maybe he’d be kinder than that, nudging her gently, proffering the slips of paper for her inspection: "Replacements," he’d say softly, preparing her kindly for the let-down. “Yes, I know,” she’d reply, cheerful and sportsmanlike. "It’ll be fine." She would remember, then, that whatever else this show was, it was an ensemble effort, or so she'd heard. The dances were said to be extraordinary. "Both leads out the same night," he muttered, with some reproach in his voice. "It’ll be fine," she would insist again. (Her positive attitude would be rewarded to a degree: In less than two weeks she would be able to see Miss Lawrence and Mr. Kert perform the "Balcony Scene" on Ed Sullivan's television variety show: Fuzzy black-and-white and a treasure to behold to this day.) "Anyway, they’ll both be in the movie version, most likely." And Chita too, she would naturally suppose, fingers crossed. "I doubt that they’ll make a movie musical about street gangs," he would respond, barely concealing a snort at the ludicrous idea. Eventually the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
In the end, we can assume it was a memorable evening, memorable enough for our friend to save her Playbill, complete with inserts, and keep it until it finally ended up in the hands of a collector, some forty-six years later. Were her interest and enthusiasm ignited immediately, as the little-known Brunjes, like the little-known Calin before him, led the Jets in the Prologue? Did the exciting Dance at the Gym provide the spark? The incredible Quintet, the exquisite Ballet? Or was she indeed enamored of the love story, acted and sung tonight by a pair of nobodies in lieu of a pair of near-nobodies? To hear the rapturous "Maria," the engaging "I Feel Pretty," the solemn "One Hand, One Heart," the electric "Something’s Coming" and the breath-taking fire-escape "Tonight" in the live theater is to experience unmatched excitement, regardless of which professionally-trained, well-cast performer is making the delivery. One safely suspects she did not feel gypped that night after all. The show doesn't need so-called stars, she may have determined, like many have before and since. The dance is the star.
So she left the theater, the Playbill tucked in her purse or under her arm, the other arm interlaced with that of her pensive companion. I told you so. She would remember the show for a long time. She would appreciate, maybe without knowing exactly why, nor caring why, all the artistry and dedication she had just witnessed. And when the Hollywood product finally did emerge, she may have consulted the very same Playbill to review the names of all the other nobodies in the cast to whom she had given very little thought that night in 1958 at the Winter Garden: David Winters, Eliot Feld, Carole D’Andrea, Tucker Smith, Gina Trikonis, Harvey Hohnecker, Gus Trikonis, Larry Roquemore. What a special night that must have been: Indeed, a keeper.
[In the spring of 2004, the author bid on and won from an on-line auction a Playbill to add to his collection. Inside the Playbill was a pair of inserts. The Playbill itself was hole-punched for inclusion in a binder. Some interesting facts were duly noted, and the above emerged as a consequence. The identity of the original owner, along with gender and marital status, is in fact unknown.]
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