Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [190]
– he’s all right.
10.00 into the theatre, past the small knot of girls who seem to have already taken up permanent residence there. An a.m. technical stagger-through, topping and tailing.
In the afternoon, a dress rehearsal. Our first and only, despite Hazel’s usual protestations. I seem to have the most changes, seventeen or eighteen. Gloria, my dresser, a Patricia Neal look-alike, looks worried, but I’m told she’s 100% reliable. One thing that irritates me about the afternoon run, which is so important to us, is that we have not been warned – or I have not been warned – that the press has been allowed in.
I felt even more cross by the little production chat we had at 6.00. No-one smiled. Anne frowned, Allen Tinkley [our producer] frowned, they all seemed to be deeply gloomy and I just wanted to get away from them all and do the show.
At 8.00, almost punctually, the curtain rose to prolonged applause and cheers.
The whole show went predictably well, with very few problems and the usual reaction of ecstatic recognition of sketches. The only trouble spot was the ‘Court Sketch’, which was running 15 minutes and failed to work at any stage and ‘The Death of Mary Queen of Scots’ which was too long.
Afterwards I felt hugely relieved. My voice had survived four run-throughs in two days, which it would never have done before Cicely Berry, and the reaction to the show was as good as it had ever been. I think we’re in for an enjoyable run.
Charisma gave us an after-show party at Orsons. That’s where the voices really become strained – not during the shows! Tomorrow the family arrives.
Thursday, April 15th, New York
A complete change in the weather today. The temperature has hurtled up into the 70s and is heading for the 80s and the cool crispness that has made New York so acceptable this past week has been replaced by a clammy balminess.
A limousine picks us up at the Navarro and takes TJ and me out to Kennedy Airport to meet the families. Small blond heads are glimpsed through the customs shed door at around 1.00 and soon we’re all packed in the limousine heading into NY over the Triborough Bridge.
A couple of hours settling in at 242. The house is not a perfect house for kids, and I’m suddenly aware of the enormous numbers of stairs. Terry and I get very hot and bothered moving the two enormous cots we’ve rented for Rachel and Sally. We keep knocking Noël Coward’s painting off the wall as we struggle to get them up two or three flights.
In late afternoon TJ and I have to go to a reception being given by the BBC. A couple of gin and tonics, and the good news that we have a rave review from Clive Barnes of the NY Times. The review, out tomorrow, was circulating the party, as was its author – small, owl-like doyen of NY theatre critics – Clive B himself. I was introduced to him by Nancy. He said how much he’d enjoyed it, I went over some of the things that had gone wrong – e.g. the till not working in ‘Blackmail’ – he said that sort of thing made the show even more fun, and excused himself, but he had to dash off and see a play in New Haven.
After tonight’s show another party – this time quite a cheery affair thrown by Arista in the New York Experience – an exhibition in the bowels of the Rockefeller Center.
At the party – Clive Davis, of course, with photographers in careful attendance. Talking with Clive is like going into one of those photo booths on stations. The lights start popping and, before you know it, 600 pictures of you and Clive happy have been taken. But Clive doesn’t embrace you for no reason – throughout the session he’s working on me to agree to extending our visit by taking the show on to LA until the end of May. It’ll sell so many records if we do go to the West Coast.
Meet John Cale, another complete Python fan. A breathless PR lady rushes up and asks me to come and have my photo taken with Leonard Bernstein. This means being pulled through the crowds of ordinary