A Memory of St. Cecilia's: "Oklahoma"

Longtime readers of this blog may recall my occasional references to my alma mater, St. Cecilia of Englewood, N.J. St. Cecilia alumni coming to this site for the first time might not be familiar with the kind of preoccupations I write about continually here—books, history, politics, theater, sports—but chances are that, like myself, the memories of this now-closed school are something you carry with you everywhere you go

For my fellow alumni, I hope you'll find much of interest here—not just in this particular post, but also in others I've written, which you can find halfway down the page on the right-hand side.

Like other Saints grads, I could go on and on about my memories. For awhile, I was writing a memoir of my elementary and high school years (a project I’ve since put on the back burner). Earlier this year, when the New York Giants faced off against Green Bay, I wrote a post about something they had in common with Saints: Vince Lombardi.

At some point, I may well write about some of my other memories of growing up. But for now, I'll start with one: our high school musical, Oklahoma.

In the spring of 1974, my elementary school saw the high school production of South Pacific. I had no idea that a year later, I'd participate in another Rodgers and Hammerstein musical; that my partner in the chorus would be the female singer who held audiences spellbound as South Pacific's Bloody Mary, Suzanne Terenzoni; that I’d lose my chance at a major role, only to luck into another when I least expected it; or that, though Oklahoma was a success, our school would never stage another musical.

By now, I must be the only person in America who's never seen Disney's High School Musical or its various permutations. To tell the truth, it's not just that I'm uninterested in what I gather is a squeaky-clean, let’s-put-on-a-show production for the Internet-and-cable age, with DNA going back to those Judy Garland-Mickey Rooney MGM musicals.

The fact is, I lived through a real-life high school musical. The reality is far more compulsively fascinating than Hollywood or Broadway could ever devise.

My Audition: Stretching an Audience’s Credulity

For the last several years, before Oklahoma, I'd read all kinds of plays. I'd even been lucky enough to be taken by a friend's parents to see the cat-and-mouse comic thriller Sleuth on Broadway. But I'd never been part of a production myself.

As soon as I heard about Oklahoma, I wanted to be a part of it—badly. One Saturday morning in the fall of my freshman year, I faced the faculty members on the casting committee, along with the show’s director, Alice Carey. As I entered Room 307 in Marian Hall, steel-guitar chords from the Eagles’ “Best of My Love” rang from a radio a student was playing—a far cry from Rodgers & Hammerstein’s rousing hosanna to Americana.

The director of South Pacific had been a priest, Fr. Dave. For Oklahoma, Saints reached outside the ranks of the religious life—outside the faculty, in fact—for Ms. Carey, who, though unknown to students here, had a background in directing musicals at the high school level.

Ms. Carey resembled the actress Tyne Daly, only with glasses: short dark hair, a square body, and mercurial expressions of affection and annoyance that played across a mobile face.

With the casting committee greeting me by my family nickname, Ms. Carey joined in, too. “What part are you auditioning for, Tubs?”

“Ali Hakim.”

“O-kay,” she said with a chuckle. Ali Hakim was a wheedling, libidinous traveling salesman (are there any other kinds?). It was the best comic role in the play. Best of all, it did not require singing solo—something that, from an appearance in front of an infinitely forgiving crowd of parents at a home-school association meeting in elementary school, I was certain was not among my skills.

In other words, Ali Hakim was the type of role that actors have been known to kill for, even to sell their souls for. Somehow, I thought I would not be brought to these extremes.

Looked at charitably, my optimism brimmed with what Barack Obama calls "the audacity of hope." Others might call it taking temporary leave of my senses.

“Just let me know when you’re ready,” she said.

I then read a part of the script, looking up every once in awhile to gauge my effect. The group smiled encouragingly. “Very good,” Ms. Carey said. “Thanks. We’ll let you know.”

Music to my ears! Little did I know that this was the polite theatrical equivalent of, “Sure, let’s do lunch!”

For the life of me, I could not see that, with my studious image, the role might stretch an audience's credulity to a point not seen until Denise Richards played a nuclear physicist ludicrously named "Dr. Christmas Jones" in the James Bond action flick The World Is Not Enough. (I know, I know--the impression I made was precisely the reverse of that future reality-show star and tabloid fixture, Ms. Richards.)

Eventually, saner minds on the casting committee chose someone who could bring instant credibility to the role: Warren Voorhees, who was every bit as good as—and a good deal better than--I longed to be.

But in auditioning, I had bet on a pretty big role, and now all the others were filled. Crestfallen, I had to content myself by working in a backstage capacity: as prompter for the production.

On the first day of rehearsals, Ms. Carey addressed the leads, chorus members, and supporting crew like myself. This was a great musical, she said, and in the end we would have a load of fun. “But”—she paused, looking from one of us to the other—“you’re all going to have to work. And work. And work. When you’re done and you see the results, you’ll see it’ll be worth it. But in the meantime, don’t be prepared to give anything less than your best. Because I won’t take anything less. Got it?”

Some in the cast definitely did. The best not only had their lines down cold, but needed hardly any coaching—a tribute to the casting decisions. They were, quite simply, naturals.

Other actors were not as stellar, but they showed up on time, all the time, and took Ms. Carey’s direction well, improving quite a bit. In theatrical terms, they were professionals—the kind of people who might not be the next Marlon Brandos or Dustin Hoffmans, but who also come without neuroses or egos.

But others didn’t have the least idea what this was all about. They regarded the show as a total goof.

As promised, Ms. Carey would have none of this. If you screwed up, there wasn’t a chance your sin would go unnoticed. That voice, loud as a sonic boom, would search you out, like God finding Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and you would know shame.

An Unexpected Break

As it turned out, my anonymous, unseen role as prompter left me in the best possible situation when these glitches occurred. I found myself continually reminding actors of what they were supposed to say.

In particular, one junior either had trouble learning his lines or didn't feel obligated to do so. (He'd missed one or two—maybe even more--rehearsals.) Eventually, I became so practiced at shouting out his lines that I didn't even have to consult the script to know what the words were—I'd learned them by osmosis, practically.

One day, Ms. Carey had had enough, telling the actor not to bother coming back. Neither seemed crushed by the decision. But now she was left with a hole in the cast to fill. More than halfway through the production, her options were limited.

At this point, deep in thought, her eyes alit on me. A look came over her face at this point that I interpreted as, "Oh, heck, why not? How much worse can it be?"

"How would you like this part?" she asked me.

It wasn’t quite the line from the musical 42nd Street—“You’re going out there a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star!”—but I’d take it.

"You bet!" I couldn't get the words out fast enough.

I'd like to say that I took to my character, Ike Skidmore, like a young Robert DeNiro—turning him over, finding his motivation, making an audience sit up bolt straight and notice a cowhand given no more than a half-dozen, scene-setting lines.

But I didn't. I merely wanted to remember the lines, say them with expression, stay alert for cues, not trip over anything, and not look ridiculous with my then-bushy hair poking out from under my cowboy hat. (I certainly didn't have the kind of moment that alters a life, the way my classmate and friend Peter Gregory must have had in a career that's taken him out to California for a life on TV and the big screen.)

I felt little if any fear as we went deeper into rehearsals. Undoubtedly some of that confidence derived from not knowing any better. But larger issues with the production put my situation in a much different perspective.

Act II: The Crisis

Part of the problem, I think, was that many in the cast hadn’t appeared in South Pacific, so they had little if any clue about why they needed to come prepared. Now the calendar was moving relentlessly toward our dress rehearsal in front of the elementary school, but the show was not coming together. Lines were blowing blown, dance steps weren’t being executed, timing was off, words came out mumbled—you name it.

Ms. Carey tried everything from patience to tough love to instill self-discipline in her mostly raw recruits, but, after initial improvements, we couldn’t quite keep up the momentum.

When the crisis came, it still came as a surprise. I don’t think there was one particularly egregious foul-up, or even a perfect storm of them, all on one day. The snafu merely came at the end of a long line of them.

“You want to play that game? Fine,” Ms. Carey announced, picking up her things. “That’s it for me. Goodbye.” The side door of the auditorium banged behind her. A stunned hush fell over us for nearly half a minute, followed by a few confused murmurs.

“What happens now?” I managed, at last, to ask an upperclassman.

“She wanted to get our attention,” he explained. “She’ll be back tomorrow, don’t you worry.”

Neophyte that I was, it hadn’t occurred to me that at least some of Ms. Carey’s spontaneous explosion might have been gauged for dramatic purposes.

My friend was right: Ms. Carey did come back, greeting us when we showed up with a matter-of-fact nod. Her tone wasn’t praising, cajoling, pleading, exhorting, or pushing, as it had been previously. She’d decided to see this through, she said, but now we had to decide to do the same thing.

We had to be committed to this—to having the lines down cold, to paying attention, to acting and singing and dancing with everything we had. We could do this, but there wasn’t much time left. “Now, are you ready?” We nodded. She clapped her hands and lifted her voice. Her old familiar energy was coming back now. “Okay, let’s go.”

Act III: Triumph

I couldn’t believe how fast it came together then. We bore down and concentrated. After all these months, nobody wanted to look bad. Our pride was at stake.

The dress rehearsal in front of the elementary school was a breeze. We were feeding on the applause—we now knew we could do this.

But the elementary school was easy. We were about to face a tougher audience, of adults—our family and friends.

At last my turn came on that day, when I could no longer hide as a member of the chorus. As I stepped onto the stage with Roger Conway to speak the largest set of continuous lines I had in the play, not far into the second act, I spotted my brother Tommy in the audience sitting with Fr. Leonard Dembow, whose friendly manner in and out of religion class had made him a favorite of myself and my brothers. At this moment, Fr. Dembow's face had broken out in a half–teasing, half-quizzical expression that seemed to be saying: Oh no. You're not about to sing, are you?

No, I wasn’t. From the stage, I could see down into a large hall that doubled as the school gymnasium and basketball court, where I’d witnessed both my brothers play over the years. Now, all eyes were focused on me instead. Yet, for no reason I can understand, I felt buoyed in a surge of confidence.

Maybe I just realized that this production was so much bigger than me, and that my vocal inadequacies (even if, somehow, they ended up unmistakably exposed to the world) were not about to distract the audience from a troupe that had, magically, melded together into a without-a-hitch company in the 11th hour:

*My classmate Gary Gonzalez stole the show without even a single line, playing an imp who mischievously climbs up a ladder to peak through a window at newlyweds Curly and Laurey—only to be chased around the stage by an irate mom (played by Chris Caserio).

* Roger Conway brought his lanky friendliness to the role of cowboy Will Parker, belting out “Everything’s Up to Date in Kansas City” with brio;

* Maura O'Neill captured the warmth and heart in Will’s love, the flirt Ado Annie;

* Mike Gualtieri conveyed the loneliness and glowering menace of the musical's villain, Judd (Who would ever have guessed that boundlessly genial guy had it in him?)

* Cathy Daily as Laurey demonstrated that, if writing had not beckoned, acting or even singing might have served as a possible career option;

* Phil Kecker, as Laurey's romantic partner, the optimistic cowboy Curly, had the audience in the palm of his hand from the opening song, "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning." When the show ended, you could see how much it meant to him from his beaming face.

The following year, perhaps because of the expense of staging a production with multiple sets and a large cast, the school didn't have another musical. The best we could manage was a one-act thriller, The Monkey's Paw—a show short enough to fit into a one-hour assembly.

The star was again Phil Kecker. From the way he lingered at the edge of the stage after the show, basking in people's congratulations, you had the distinct sense that the applause meant far more to him than to any of the rest of us.

I lost track of Phil for a decade after high school. The next time I heard of him, I was stunned to find he had died. I wish this intelligent, talented guy had had the opportunity to hear more applause in his short life. Possessed of writing as well as acting ability, he could have been practically anything in the world of theater.

But his death was more than a decade and a half away in 1975 and hope ran high in him that night. In fact, it did for all of us as the curtain came down. The applause surrounded us like a wall of glorious sound as we hugged and slapped each other on the back. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I don’t think I will again.

What We Carried Away

In some ways, high school is nothing but a series of roles. The problem is that they're all superimposed in the form of stereotypes. I don't think, in that respect, that things have changed much from James Dean's Rebel Without a Cause or the world of my nephew in high school in Pittsburgh today.

At least at St. Cecilia's in the mid-1970s, acting gave some of us a way to step outside ourselves, to make others see us in a new light, no matter how fleeting the moment.

It provided our families a chance to look at us in a new way, too, far removed from those isn't-he/she-cute moments from elementary school pageants. We were now reenacting complicated adult emotions involving possessiveness toward land and love.

There was another way Oklahoma changed perceptions and relationships—at least, for me. My freshman class had all the same teachers and even remained largely confined within four classrooms circling the library in Marian Hall. I felt so hermetically sealed that I was dying to see upperclassmen.

Oklahoma gave me the chance to get to know many of them. Seniors, juniors, sophomores and freshmen mixed easily, all with a chance at major roles.

The show represented an activity different from any other at the school. Due to the lengthy rehearsal period, lasting from early winter into April, athletes with sports in those months did not participate.

But the musical attracted many non-athletes not otherwise attracted to student government or the various extracurricular writing activities: wallflowers, party animals, misfits, honor roll members, etc. It united the whole school and turbocharged our spirits at a time when the school needed it desperately.

At one point, Ms. Carey—who, evidently, had some connections in the larger world of show business—had speculated on the possibility that Gene Nelson, who played Will Parker in the 1956 film version of the musical, might come to see us play. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen.

Not many of us in the Saints cast of Oklahoma—myself very much included—were even aware of this longtime vet of the screen and stage (he’d appeared on Broadway only four years before, in Stephen Sondheim’s legendary original production of Follies). Today, for me anyway, knowing what I do now of all he accomplished in his career, it would have been an unforgettable experience to meet him.

But there was so much more I didn’t understand in those days. Before I stepped foot on that stage at Saints, I didn't have the slightest appreciation for the talent and maximum effort required of every member of the cast and crew—not just the lead singers, but also the carpenters who build the set, the costumers, the lighting crew, etc.

I didn’t realize till far along in the production what can come to those who keep hoping and come prepared. In short, I didn’t know about the magic of theater and how it makes you see things you weren’t aware existed before.

As a middle-aged traveler now, whenever I notice a backstage tour being given by a theater company, I jump at the chance to take it and marvel at the stage, the orchestra pit, the dressing rooms, and the costumes. If a director talks to the audience after the show, I want to hear every word he or she says. I'm one of those people who doesn't find magic diminished in the slightest, even if I know the secrets behind the tricks. I’ll always be grateful to Ms. Carey and my fellow company members in Oklahoma for that.