Strokes of Luck

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idn't know it at the time, but when I was 14, I had a nervous breakdown. My stepfather, who reared me, was a stockbroker, and my family had been hit pretty hard by the Depression. Our life changed, and it affected me a lot more than I thought it had. We moved from a nice big apartment to a small one, didn't have a car and driver anymore and lost the place in the country — all in the space of one week.

It was a very hot, torpid New York City summer. There was no air conditioning in those days. I was very quiet. Very monosyllabic. Very solitary. I would put a pillow at the window, lean on it, and that would be the evening's entertainment. Sometimes, looking down at the people or rubbernecking at the brownstones across the street, I would see a lot of violence because the heat was so relentless. I saw people hitting one another and even somebody committing suicide. I saw only the dark things.

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Ever since I went to the theater at age 8, I enjoyed a fantasy life, sitting at home inventing plays with tin soldiers from the five-and-dime. Or I would listen to the Saturday opera from the Met on the radio and move the figures around to the music. Years after that hot summer, I escaped even further into that fantasy world. The black period pitched me ever deeper, so that the figures in my imagination replaced the real world.

What emerged from that long summer was a new person. The people I conjured up in my imagination as fantasy friends were theatrical figures — directors, actors, writers — and less than a decade later, I knew all those people. I experienced real opening nights and real opening-night parties. I had dreamed a whole world of activity in the theater, and ultimately, I lived it.

People don't realize what a profound place luck has in your life. My first piece of luck was having that breakdown and making something of it. I suspect there's a crucible in everyone's life, some emotional or traumatic confrontation, and I think if you come to grips with it, you emerge stronger on the other side.

Luck was a factor again in 1949, when, after working for a year and a half in the office of legendary director-producer George Abbott, I was drafted into the Korean conflict. Everything was going so smoothly, and suddenly Uncle Sam threw a spanner into the works. But once again it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Before I went into the Army, I was so wired, so ambitious, that I think it made for a lot of stressful energy in the office. Then, for two years, my fate was out of my hands. I reorganized, and it caused me to calm down. Somewhat.

When I got back, the troop ship landed in Hoboken, N.J. I bought a New York Times and looked at the theater section. In Any Language, starring Uta Hagen and Walter Matthau and directed by George Abbott, was opening that night. I went straight to the theater, in uniform, carrying my duffel bag. There, sitting on the stage, were Abbott and Bobby Griffith, his assistant. George asked, "Are you back already? I'm starting a new musical, Wonderful Town, and you can be the assistant stage manager. Pick up your contract next week."

Out of Wonderful Town came The Pajama Game, which Griffith and I produced, and a whole run of successes: Damn Yankees, West Side Story, Fiorello! And then, in 1961, Bobby died suddenly, on the golf course, and I was confronted with what the hell to do alone.

Death was something like the Army — it was outside your control. I decided to go to Europe by myself, just to think and adjust to the change. Within two weeks, I met my wife Judy Chaplin, and a little more than a year later I was directing my first show. Directing was something I had always wanted to do but couldn't when my partner was alive.

People think it takes something away from their reputation or accomplishments if they're lucky. But it always seemed to me that once you acknowledge the importance of luck, you are in a position to recognize it again. And luck isn't always good. Sometimes bad luck is the best luck. --As told to Barbara Isenberg