The Chelsea Girls(35)
Lavinia listened to Hazel’s recounting of the morning’s events without interrupting, glancing over at Maxine every so often.
“I don’t think we’ll see him again,” said Hazel. “He was awfully embarrassed, but I bet there’s more where that came from.”
Lavinia closed the script and set it on the floor. “What bothers me most is not that I’m a target, but that by infiltrating the hotel, they’re destroying everything the Chelsea stands for. Where people with opposing opinions can mingle and mix without forcing one side or the other to leave. It’s the beauty of the place, has been so for decades. The same goes for Broadway.”
Maxine leaned back in the sofa. “Broadway—and New Yorkers—won’t put up with this insanity for long. It’ll blow over fast, I’m guessing.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Hazel. “The House Un-American Activities Committee successfully crushed the Hollywood Ten, which has only encouraged that awful Senator McCarthy in his fanatical hunt for communists in the government. Who knows who’s next after that? Artists, musicians? We’re right in the HUAC’s crosshairs. I can’t help but think that if we band together, we can show them that we won’t be bullied,” said Hazel.
“You mean, like the Hollywood Ten banded together?” Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. Winnifred finished her thought. “They ended up going to prison.”
The sisters had a good point.
“What about going to our unions?” said Hazel. “Aren’t they there to protect us?”
“Good luck with that,” answered Lavinia. “The Screen Actors Guild caved three years ago, and I have no doubt AFTRA will do the same.” She looked dolefully down at the script on the floor. “No doubt I’m next, with my history. If I get named, there goes my starring role on the small screen.”
“What starring role?” asked Hazel.
“I’m to play a family matriarch in a new television series on NBC. A juicy part, to say the least.”
Congratulations rang out around the room. “What will become of us if the classically trained Madame Lavinia stoops to television work?” teased Maxine.
“I’m getting old. Older. It would be nice to cut down on travel, do less regional theater. Although I’d miss your grandmother’s apple cake.” Lavinia turned to Hazel. “Maxine’s grandmother made all the treats that were sold during the intermission at Seattle Rep. I still dream of that cake.”
“Being German, and something of a battle-ax, my grandmother didn’t have many friends,” added Maxine. “But she was always welcome at the theater, and has a special place in her heart for Lavinia. She’ll be very sorry if you stop performing there.”
The apartment door opened and Virgil Thomson walked in. “What on earth is going on in here?”
Hazel gestured around the room. “We’re trying to figure out a way to fight back against the blacklist.”
“A ghastly premise for a get-together.” He patted her on the head. “On principle, I don’t tolerate discussions of politics or religion. I don’t tolerate complainers. It all bores me to tears.”
“We’re not complaining, we’re standing up for something.”
But he’d already wandered over to the bar cart, and didn’t hear a word she’d said.
* * *
The soothing repetition of rehearsals helped Hazel move forward.
The play was gradually taking shape under her hand. The process was no different from that of a sculptor, but instead of wet clay, she maneuvered actors around a stage. First, the table read: A scene was discussed and characters considered from all angles, usually a demonstration of pseudo-intellectual posturing, although every so often a small nugget of truth hit home. Then the actors took to their feet and stumbled around onstage, bumping into one another, struggling with words, a mangled mess of a thing that left everyone panicked. This week, though, the actors had been told to be “off book.” No more scripts.
The fear of not knowing the lines overcame nearly everyone, with actors calling out for help from the stage manager when they lost their way, apologizing profusely as the scene ground to a halt. But by the third or fourth run-through of a scene, the emotion under the words began to bubble to the surface. For a minute or two, speech and movement coalesced into a sublime tension. Whenever that happened, the cast would turn to Hazel afterward with the expectant smiles of good schoolchildren waiting to be patted on the head.
The only cloud in the creative process was Hazel’s worry that her listing in Red Channels, and the threat of others being listed, was dividing the cast. When a couple of the actors whispered in one corner during a break, every so often looking up and scanning the rest of the group, she couldn’t help wondering if they were merely gossiping, or guessing at who was a communist sympathizer. Another time, when Brandy and Hazel started walking toward the stage door at the same time during a break, Brandy said she’d forgotten something and suddenly turned back. Did she not want to be seen to the outside world as being too chummy with Hazel?
Hazel tried to shrug it off as her own silly insecurities.
Until Mr. Canby showed up early to a meeting of the show’s designers at the theater with a grim look on his face. He tossed the latest issue of Variety on the worktable, where Floyd’s sketches were scattered around a model of the set.