Chapter Forty Two

FORTY TWO
Mac Watson and I watched the show together,
then went to Gandhi Café on Bleecker Street, an
inexpensive Indian restaurant near the theater that he,
a vegetarian, favors.
When Danny directed this show he and the
playwright clashed endlessly during the transition
after I picked it up and moved it from a ninety-nine
seat showcase at Theater for the New City in the East
Village to its current home. In the end, though, the
two artists each developed a great deal of respect
for the other’s talent. It was the first time Mac and I
spoke since Danny’s murder.
Mac was interviewed
by the police but his alibi was rock solid. That
morning he awoke in Washington D.C. to address
a theater conference. He is moving up in the world.
Long-running musicals do that for a playwright’s
reputation.
We spent some time over his hors d’oeuvres
– spicy is an excellent excuse for me to decline food
-- discussing the lack of progress on the case. Mac
wished aloud that he and Danny had had one more
chance to work together. We each told a story worthy
of a memorial service. Whether the topic of Danny’s
demise was exhausted or Mac was chomping at the
Broadway bit is hard to say. But Broadway was next on
the agenda.
These days the buzz in the biz is that it is impossible to make money as a producer Off Broadway. That may be true. Sometimes a show deserves to be done regardless.
There is, to my mind, a problem inherent in the term “Off Broadway”. Rightly or wrongly, the word ‘off’ carries with it a negative connotation. If you are off your game, it means that you are playing badly. Sour milk is sometimes said to be ‘off’. If you turn off a light, it is time to go to sleep, in the human mind anyway.
It seems to me Off Broadway should be renamed. I think Intimate Theater would be much better. It sounds sexy. So far there are no takers for my idea. And since there is so little financial incentive, it is doubtful that any change in nomenclature is forthcoming soon.
This evening it fell to me to explain the facts of life to Mac.
“Listen, my friend,” I said. “You’re making a nice weekly paycheck right now. The cast album is another revenue stream for you. It’s not a lot right now but cast albums sell. Over the years, this should mean a minimum of a quarter million dollars for you. That could all change if you put this show on Broadway. Selling a thousand tickets a night is a lot different than selling two hundred fifty. I counted 37 empty seats tonight. Let’s be generous and say twelve of those were no shows who got charged for the tickets anyway. That means 25 seats went unsold. That’s ten per cent of the house empty. It’s Wednesday night and it’s not terrible. But it’s not sold out either. This also raises the question of whether Ukulele, Baby can sell a thousand seats a night, night after night. Right now, the small theater is a charming and intimate setting for this wonderful musical that you wrote. It’s art that’s framed perfectly. Take it to Broadway and you could close in a month.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Then there’s the cast. We’ve got some very talented people who are age appropriate to the roles, thanks to Danny’s meticulous approach, and to our adhering to that model when casting replacements. These people you’re talking to are going to want to recast the show to fit with their idea of what it takes to make a hit. Will they be right? Who knows?”
“Won’t you be the lead producer, Gus? Won’t you stay with the show?”
“I don’t think this show is right for Broadway. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mac. Look, I’ve more than made back my investment. If you want out of the contract, we’ll get Jacob to work it out. I’m not going to rake you over the coals. But let me tell you right now, you’re making a mistake. You’ve got a winner with legs that can carry you for years. Soon this show will catch on with high schools. That will be more money for you. Regional theaters are already starting to do it. Someday there will be a movie sale. Under our agreement, you get sixty per cent of that money. Take it to Broadway and they’re going to try and negotiate a lot of that away from you. It’s up to you. But . . .”
“I’m not doing it. You’re right. If ever there was an example of a bird in the hand, this is it. Ukulele, Baby stays put. It was born downtown and it stays downtown. What the hell was I thinking?”
“Now you’re talking.”
Another potential crisis averted. What are producers for, after all?
After we said good night to each other, I decided to stroll uptown while figuring out an answer to my own dining requirements for the evening.