IF YOU'VE GOT THE RIGHT TENOR - Robert Rounseville

IF YOU’VE GOT THE RIGHT TENOR,
YOU ONLY NEED ONE

ROBERT ROUNSEVILLE

Within a ten-minute span on a winter morning in 1972, I received two telephone calls in my office in Manhattan, across Sixth Avenue from Radio City Music Hall. When my secretary buzzed me about the first call, she calmly informed me that there was a call for me from the White House. I took the call and, I’m sorry to admit, it was not The Man calling for my advice on some particularly thorny national security problem. Rather, it turned out to be from a friend with whom I used to work at another consulting firm, bringing me up to date on his current government assignment. My secretary, who had only recently been assigned to me, was getting used to fielding some pretty odd telephone calls, and the White House call didn’t faze her. But the second call was another matter.

Right after I finished the conversation with my friend in Washington, there was another call. Instead of buzzing me, she dashed into my office almost breathless.

“There’s a Robert Rounseville calling you. Is it really the Robert Rounseville?”

I assured her that it was the Robert Rounseville and motioned for her to sit as I picked up the phone. I explained the situation to Mr. Rounseville, that I had a fan of his in my office, and asked if he’d be kind enough to say hello to her. He did, they spoke for a few moments and, from that point on, I had a secretary who’d walk through fire for me. The White House had gotten no rise from her. Robert Rounseville had taken her breath away

Captain Bob (he invariably wore a Greek fisherman’s cap) was a well-traveled and world-renowned tenor, appearing in operas, concerts, Broadway, movies and television long before The Three Tenors of current fame. My earliest exposure to him was in the movie THE TALES OF HOFFMANN in the early 1950’s, still one of my favorite movies of all time. Between then and a fatal heart attack in 1974 at only 60 years of age, Bob displayed an amazing range of talent. He starred in the world premiere of Igor Stravinsky's opera THE RAKE'S PROGRESS, as Mr. Snow in the film of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s CAROUSEL and in the title role on Broadway in the original production of Leonard Bernstein's CANDIDE, opposite another favorite of mine, Barbara Cook. He also appeared on television in several English-language versions of well-known operas and made studio recordings of other operas and operettas - and we’re not yet out of the 1950’s. Into the 1960’s he appeared in many revivals of operettas and musicals at the New York City Center, such as BRIGADOON and SHOW BOAT. In 1965, he was back on Broadway as the Padre in the original stage version of MAN OF LA MANCHA, a role he remained in for six years.

Initially, Bob and I had a nodding acquaintance arising from our both frequenting a few of the same watering holes in Manhattan’s theater district. We’d occasionally bump into each other, say hello, and even have small polite conversations. The first time we spent any time together was in the latter part of 1969 during a late evening ride on a commuter train traveling from New York’s Grand Central Station to our common destination, the town of Katonah in Westchester County. We were standing next to each other in the bar car and spent the hour-long ride drinking and talking. We found that we had several friends in common and, as Bob was in a garrulous mood and was an excellent storyteller with many an interesting story to tell, he did most of the talking and I did most of the listening. The only thing I remember saying that night was about when I had recently gone to see MAN OF LA MANCHA for the second time. I can’t remember who had the lead role of Cervantes/Quixote at the time (I had seen Richard Kiley in the original cast) but, that night, a replacement went on, an Israeli actor named Gideon Singer. I told Bob that it felt the same as if I were sitting through FIDDLER ON THE ROOF starring Desi Arnaz.

When the train finally pulled into Katonah NY, we both got off. I lived in Ridgefield, CT, just across the state line, about 20 miles away and had my car at the station. He lived in Katonah so I offered to give him a ride home. I was more than repaid for the favor when he agreed to my bold request for him to sing while we drove to his house. At the time, my wife Maria and I had one son who was almost two-years old and were expecting another in two months time, so I asked him to sing one of the songs he sang in Carousel, ‘WHEN THE CHILDREN ARE ASLEEP.’ He joyfully granted my request (he really did love to sing), I had a private concert from this world-renowned tenor and he had an even more committed fan. (I have to admit that I joined in, tentatively at first, making it a duet without the harmony.)

We became pretty close friends after that and he’d often call me at my office (to my secretary’s delight), I’d call him at his studio in Carnegie Hall or we’d meet for lunch or a drink. I even had him meet me at my office once, again to my secretary’s delight, as she sat chatting with us after the initial shock wore off.

I also went to visit him at his Carnegie Hall studio once, not too long before he died. Bob had often talked about a one-man show he was trying to put together, with the help of Bob Lipsyte, one-time sports columnist for the New York Times, now a well-respected author of fiction and non-fiction. He gave me a copy of a draft that Lipsyte had put together (it may be still somewhere in my files), asked me to read it and wondered if I could help him find financial backing. I contacted several people I knew who might be interested in such a project but, before I was able to drum up any real interest, Robert Rounseville died. That beautiful voice was stilled and that vibrant personality was laid to rest.

Captain Bob had died suddenly, August 6, 1974, stricken by a massive heart attack and collapsing doing one of his favorite things, teaching a singing class, in one of his favorite places, his Carnegie Hall studio.

As I said at the outset, my secretary was fairly new to me and, before Robert Rounseville called my office, probably hadn’t yet decided whether or not I was worth the effort. The call from ‘Captain Bob’ changed all of that. And for me personally, knowing ‘Captain Bob’, even for only the latter years of his all-too-short life, was a joy.

.....And the opportunity to sing a duet with him during a late night drive was a gift from the gods.

JACK DEENEY

A CRITIC, AN ACTOR AND A CIVILIAN - Alan North

A CRITIC, AN ACTOR AND A CIVILIAN
WALK INTO A BAR.......

ALAN NORTH

“Clive Barnes (1927-2008) ….A longtime drama and dance critic - at the New York Post for 30 years and The New York Times for 13 more before that – died yesterday at the age of 81. Playbill.com referred to him as the most powerful theater critic in the city. Bloomberg.com stretched that to the entire country.” New York Post, Nov. 20, 2008

Years past, when the theater was grander, the print media more relevant and Broadway the metaphor for barely reachable dreams, opening nights were the things of which those dreams were sometimes made. After the curtain came down on the final scene, the first-nighters, mostly friends of the producers, fellow-actors and other kindred souls, loudly voiced their huzzahs and clapped their hands until bloody while demanding just one more curtain call, all the time telling everyone within hearing how marvelous the evening had been. But those on the other side of the curtain, the working actors who long ago realized that they were in a profession where all jobs were temporary and that fame was a fickle mistress, knew that the opening night crowd out front was not the final arbiter. There was another audience whose voice would determine just how temporary their current employment might be - the Drama Critics from New York’s daily newspapers.

The drama critics, from Brooks Atkinson to Bosley Crowther to Walter Kerr to Clive Barnes, and all those in between, held the power of life and death and wielded it mercilessly but fairly. Their reviews were usually available within and hour or two after the opening night’s final curtain and all that the producers, players and other perspiring parties could do was wait. They mostly chose to wait at one of the theatrical district’s watering holes, particularly Sardi’s Bar and Restaurant, located next door to The New York Times, home of the most influential (read ‘powerful’) critic, who, for a significant period of time was Clive Barnes. When his review finally descended, shortly after midnight, from the Time’s premises above to the crowded oasis below, careers were enhanced or retarded, investments multiplied or erased, egos inflated or destroyed and, most importantly for the creative person, professional self worth was quantified and qualified, for better or for worse.

All of this occurred to me as I read Clive Barnes’ death notice and recalled one time when I was witness to one of his reviews, albeit not a formal one and not delivered after midnight to a waiting crowd at Sardi’s. While it was delivered in Sardi’s and it was a review from Clive Barnes, what was special was that it was delivered in the middle of the day, verbally and in person by Clive Barnes to an actor not expecting it.

The story is simple and I tell it only as a tribute to a dear old friend who died in January 2000. Alan North was a character actor (he hated to be called that) who had a long and busy career on stage and in the movies and television. He was one of those working actors whose name might not be particularly well known, but you know you’ve seen him before. Movies like Plaza Suite, Highlander, The Fourth Protocol, Lean On Me, Glory, See No Evil-Hear No Evil, Serpico, The Formula are examples of an impressive string of high profile films in which Alan would portray important featured characters and do it extremely well. He also did a lot of work on stage and television, with his most noticeable TV role in the early-'80s police spoof Police Squad, as Leslie Nielsen’s boss, Captain Ed Hocken. This show developed a cult-like following, especially on college campuses, and was the forerunner of The Naked Gun movies.

He was so well regarded that during the last decade plus of his career, as macular degeneration rendered him legally blind, he was still in demand. His wife June, an actress herself, would work with him on his scripts and accompany him on location, including Finland where they shot the opening scene of The Fourth Protocol and where she kept threatening to run off with Pierce Brosnan. On his death, the New York Times thought enough of him to run a very large obituary in the lead position of the obituary section. But, I do not think that he would have been completely pleased with obituary's heading, "Alan North, 79, Character Actor..."

At any rate, shortly after noon on a warm and sunny late Spring Wednesday, 20 or so years ago, Alan and I were standing on the outer edge of the Matinee day crowd packed in at Sardi’s Little Bar, trying to figure out where to enjoy a quiet lunch. We had just decided to flee the crowd and walk through Shubert Alley over to Patsy & Carl’s Theater Bar on 45th Street when a short, middle-aged man with a wispy sweep of hair reaching across one side of a high forehead and a wry, almost lopsided smile on his face, approached. He stopped in front of us and, as I looked on, addressed Alan as ‘Mr. North’ and politely asked to be excused for his intrusion, with more than a hint of Britain in his voice. It took me a moment to realize it was Clive Barnes, but Alan knew immediately, and as Mr. Barnes proceeded to explain his ‘intrusion’, my surprise turned to astonishment, as did Alan’s.

As a private, theater-going citizen, not in his official role as Drama Critic, he had recently seen Alan in a revival of a play that had always been a particular favorite of his, John Osborne’s The Entertainer. Alan starred as Archie Rice, the entertainer of the title, a music-hall performer in an age when the music halls had all but disappeared. Now shabby in middle age, Archie produces and performs in variety shows that could best be described as tawdry and desperate, as he hangs on and perseveres, a kind of heroic failure, a sympathetic figure. Both the play (1957) and the movie (1960) had Lawrence Olivier as Archie Rice and received many nominations and won many awards.

Clive Barnes was more than enthusiastic in his praise of Alan’s portrayal of Archie Rice, and indicated that he was pleased to have this opportunity to tell him in person. Then came the bolt from the blue. He went on to tell Alan that he rated his performance of the role superior to Olivier’s. Clive Barnes honestly thought that Alan North had been a better actor than Lawrence Olivier, at least in this one particular role. I could only imagine what was going through my friend’s mind as this bombshell dropped. Here was a working actor who had enough talent and perseverance to sustain a career throughout his adult life, enabling him to support his family while doing what he loved to do. He was now being compared by a legendary theater critic to the legendary actor, and more than favorably. It was enough to put an exclamation point to a career, to justify any actor’s entire existence.

Clive Barnes said his goodbyes, repeating his apologies for intruding, and continued on his way. Alan and I just stood speechless, looking at each other. I assume I had a look of shock on my face, but his was beginning to move from an expression of disbelief to unspeakable jubilation. He laughed out loud, attracting some puzzled stares from the bar crowd, then grabbed my arm and led me outside onto 44th Street.

We never did have lunch that day. He just wanted to be able to savor the experience. The two of us just walked around the theater district aimlessly for about an hour, Alan seeming to float at least 12 inches off the ground, myself just quietly riding shotgun.

In the years following, there were only occasional mentions of the incident between us and I was never sure how many people he might have told about it. After he died in January 2000, his wife June asked me if I would make a few remarks at a memorial gathering she had arranged upstairs at Sardi’s in the Belasco Room. I felt privileged to and concluded my remembrances that evening with this story. From the reactions afterwards, I could only conclude that Alan had considered that meeting with Clive Barnes so special and personal that he’d shared it with no one but June. And she was pleased that night that, finally, all of his friends would now know in what high esteem Alan North was held by Clive Barnes.

Now that these two professionals are both gone, it’s possible that they’re in close enough proximity to continue that conversation from years ago without having to concern themselves with being overheard by this amateur, this civilian.

JACK DEENEY
November 23, 2008