Mainly on Directing by Arthur Laurents (read more books .TXT) 📕

Rose seems in control even with Louise gone and replaced by Gypsy Rose Lee, a powerful, glamorous woman. A bit distant, she's not threatening; she seems pleasant, amused by Rose's antics. It isn't too difficult for Rose to admit to her she did do everything for herself. But Rose's admission unintentionally changes the tone of the scene, for it has a profound effect on her daughter. When she asks “Why, Mother?,” it's Louise asking.

“Just wanted to be noticed,” Rose says, trying to make light of it.

When Louise, on the edge of tears, says, “Like I wanted you to notice me?,” meaning “Like I wanted you to love me,” we are at the climax of the evening. The point of Gypsy is made. What greater need for recognition is there than the need of the child for love from the parent?

For the first time in her life, Rose faces what she has done to her daughter. Her horror that she completely failed her child destroys her. For the first time in the play, Rose is vulnerable: she cries. With Patti, it's a frighteningly believable breakdown that makes Rose a pitiable figure. Gypsy, who has made peace with what Rose put her through, says, “It's okay, Mother.” Then, seeing what the woman she feared for most of her life is reduced to, walks over to her to comfort her and says, “It's okay, Rose.” Daughter has become mother.

Not for very long, though. Rose wasn't made to be an underdog of any kind. She chokes back her sobs, wipes away the tears, and is back in control, making jokes and conning Louise in style. Oh, she makes a small concession when she senses Louise might not be buying; but poor Rose!—what she doesn't sense or won't see is that it isn't Louise who is or isn't buying. Louise is gone permanently. Children leave their parents. It's Gypsy Rose Lee who walks away from Rose, laughing at Rose unchanged, still being Rose. Gypsy will take her mother to the party, she'll take care of her materially; but she's free of her—which is why she can laugh at Rose still trying to con her. Laura Benanti's amused laugh as Gypsy, not Louise, walks away was one of the memorable moments of the performance.

It wasn't easy for Laura to do this. Her emotions are very close to the surface and she is extremely compassionate. Patti's breakdown affected her so much, she was in tears herself. She knew it was wrong—it was hard for her to kill the feeling—but she is an actress. She battled herself; an encouraging push and she gave a performance of Louise-into-Gypsy no one ever had before. It came to a head in the scene in Gypsy's dressing room where the two women have a knock-down-drag-out. It is now a shattering high point of the show because of two superb actresses at their best. Some particulars change from night to night, but the scene is always a killer. It's not easy for Laura to tell off someone she cares about. She does it, though, and at the peak, her body is trembling so much, she has to hold on to the dressing table to hold on to herself. Some nights, the toll it takes has her in tears; to stop them and get herself back into the toughness of Gypsy Rose Lee, she will slam her hand down on the table. But she is always Gypsy, it's always done honestly, and she is always grateful that she's playing the scene with Patti LuPone, who thrives on challenge so long as it's honest. Going all out in that scene is why Laura can play the last scene and play it with enormous subtlety.

All of this and more developed in the rehearsal studio that for three weeks was ours. The big windows overlooked a Forty-second Street that was out of sight and mind; the security guards at the desk downstairs didn't ask for passes; dozens of backpacks had unassigned permanent places behind the line of production tables, and I was on creative speed. Three weeks! The whole City Center production, from rehearsal to opening night, was done in three weeks. On that memorable closing night, I had a fresh look at the show—if you can call coming back after not seeing three performances a fresh look. The intensity of anticipation in the crowd in front of the theatre, in the lobby, in the aisles before the performance was startling. Merely lowering the house lights brought pandemonium, and the performance didn't disappoint. I sat there, swept along with the audience, marveling at what was on the stage. But even then, the cold eye I can never close when watching my own work was seeing what I hadn't until then: missed moments, some of them big, that needed work, to put it politely. Unfinished work is never finished; happily, though, evidenced by this performance, the work that had been done had taken the show farther than I dreamed. Now it was over; the show was closing. I stowed the moments in my attic and gave myself to enjoying the night.

But it didn't close. We went back into rehearsal; the unfinished work was finished; new moments, big and small, were changed and invented. Now we were ready for the new work to be seen.

The producers had taken a financial risk in bringing Gypsy back to Broadway less than five years after the Mendes version. I invited them first to the run-through in the rehearsal studio before we moved into the theatre. The note in my journal for that day reads:

“Run-through. Producers, designers and John. [John was John Barlow, Gypsy's press representative who is obsessed with musicals but backs it up by knowing more about musicals than almost anyone professionally connected to them or anyone who writes about them professionally.] All thrilled. Steve also there. Well, Steve.”

Translation: with the exception of Steve, everyone at the run-through was flabbergasted, dazzled, amazed—not only that the performance was richer and