Backstage

by Betty Buckley

Merlyn Davis lives in my heart. He first befriended me in the musical 1776. I was twenty-one years old, straight from Texas, cast as Martha Jefferson my first day in New York City. He was a property man and to hear him tell it he thought I was "really young, really naive, very new in New York and in need of friends."

Merlyn taught me the layer method of dressing in cold weather. We opened in New Haven in the middle of a blizzard. At my first performance the weight of my 1700s panniers created an unexpected momentum. I tripped through the door, lurched down the steps into the Philadelphia street. I stumbled on for my talk with Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, wondering if my one-scene part would be cut from the show. Our producer, Stuart Ostrow, assured me that despite my grace my part would stay. Onna White gave me floating lessons. Patty Zipprodt redesigned my dress, and thereafter, Merlyn opened and held the door.

1176 was the surprise hit of the season, and Merlyn and I hung out in the basement of the Forty-sixth Street Theatre. He gave validity to my dreams of being a Broadway star. He believed in my talent. One night after I had blown an audition for the London company of Promises, Promises, he encouraged me to go with my inner voice. It was prompting me to talk to the New York Promises stage manager, Charlie Blackwell, about his working on the role with me so that I might secure a callback. So I did and I got the part.

A few years later my favorite show on Broadway was Pippin. I ran into Merlyn on the street - Jill Clayburgh was cast in the role of Catherine and was leaving the show six months into the run.

"They're auditioning for her replacement-the callbacks are next week -you've got to get in," he said.

"My agent says they won't see me."

"I'll talk to the casting guy," Merlyn said.

A couple of days later I received a letter from Michael Shurtleff, "the casting guy."

"Dear Miss Buckley, Merlyn Davis says you're in town and available. We have repeatedly tried to find you for the role of Catherine in Pippin and were told by your agent that you were out of the business. Please contact us directly at ... to schedule your audition."

Elation! I auditioned-got the part for a really long stay on Broadway all through magic by Merlyn-and fired my agent.

Years passed. I did a film and a TV series in Hollywood, but always longed for Broadway. My TV show was eventually canceled, and after six months of auditions, a battery of tests to convince a reluctant Trevor Nunn that I could deliver his vision of Grizabella, Merlyn and I were working together again. 

The job assignment was simple: Stop the show! The key to my past show business success had been the art of surprise relative to nonexpectation. It was not the easiest thing to meet the standards set by Elaine Paige in London, who originated Grizabella, and Barbra Streisand's hit recording of "Memory."

There was tremendous pressure, private memorable meetings with Trevor and Andrew Webber, and over and over they told me, "Just sing the song!" And I did, trying hard to sing every note the way Andrew wrote it, fulfill every mental picture Trevor described and every piece of the perfect, delicate choreography Gillian Lynne had given me. But all through previews I had yet to stop the show.

It was critics' night, the night before opening night.

In my whole life, I have not felt either before or since such panic. My dresser, Marci Olivi, did everything she could to calm me as she got me in costume. I went on for the opening number and came off for the Grizabella costume change a hit more settled, a little more devil-may-care. Marci walked me to my next entrance position in the wings, stage right. As we were standing in the dark, the sound man, Dale, raced over and said to Marci, "Her mike's broken!" She flew into action-stripped me down, three layers of costume, changed the body mike, and had me hack together in seconds. Dresser extraordinaire! Dale went to his monitor hoard and returned with the news: "That mike's broken, too!" And in the dark the process was repeated. 

Merlyn had come close to me as I stood spread-eagled and about to faint with fear and said on the first change, "Spread'em, lady! Eighty-sixth Precinct!" I tried to laugh. On the second change he came very near, looked into my panic-stricken face, and softly said, "Look in my eyes! It'll be okay. Breathe, breathe, just keep breathing." I was back in costume after the second mike change and Merlyn took me to my entrance position. My legs would barely move. He led me. And just as the intro to "Memory" played for my cue, Dale dashed back over in the dark and said, "That mike's broken, too!"

I moved forward as Grizabella and entered the Jellicle junkyard. From the wings, Merlyn yelled, "You don't need a mike! Remember when you were eleven and filled the whole house-sing like you did when you were eleven!" And so I did. One critic said I had a strident voice. Merlyn and I had a laugh over that one - I, being the girl singer in Cats, a $5.5-million musical wherein all cats but me were miked.

There was another Merlyn gift in the week before the Tony Awards. He and the rest of his prop department presented me with a beautiful black Egyptian cat trophy on a base with an engraved gold plaque.

I saw Merlyn on the street a couple of times after my stay in Cats. There were no new casting reports. I couldn't wait to see him along with all the rest of the original team at our ninth-anniversary gala in October 1991. I saw his wife, the beautiful dancer Sally Neal, and stalwart son, Neal Davis, at the party. The grief in their faces told me before their shocking words that Merlyn had died, of lung cancer at the age of fifty-one on January 24, 1990.

Merlyn did props and scenery and worked twenty-four Broadway shows. I was privileged to be in three of those shows. He was one of my teachers. He gave me the antidotes for cold, fear, and a sometimes fickle business. His warmth, humor, and freely offered faith live on in my heart. Thanks for the memory, Merlyn Davis-Your Girl Singer.