Free Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical Follies (Applause Books) by Ted Chapin Page A

them. I would make copies either by placing multiple carbon sets in the typewriter (I worked up to being able to do ten at one time) or by using the new machine at the Prince office made by the Xerox company. This dry copying system was fairly new, and it was slow. It would, however, be the preferred route if large numbers of copies were needed.
    Saturday would be the official first day of rehearsal. A whole lot of people would be showing up. In addition to the entire cast, people who would be working on the show over the next few months would also be attending—designers, musical staff, press agents, and assistants from the office—as well as some friends. Part social event, part actual work, the first day of rehearsal has an almost ritual feel to it. Everyone would gather in the large rehearsal room, which would be arranged with several tables pushed together in the middle surrounded by as many chairs as we could find. Around the periphery would be additional chairs, even crates and boxes, to accommodate everyone. A high table on casters was positioned so that the model of the set could be viewed by everyone. The piano was pulled out of the corner so Sondheim could play the songs. Following general introductions, the script would be read through. Then the work would begin.
    On Friday, I helped the stage managers prepare. The week—not to mention the years—of preparation was coming to an end. Follies was about to begin in earnest. Several songs were still not written, the Follies sequence wasn’t fully formed, and there was no ballroom-dance couple. But on Saturday, at ten A.M., a motley assortment of people with a variety of different talents would converge for the first time in the service of the collaboration that would result in Follies.

2 “Hats Off, Here They Come, Those Beautiful Girls”
    IN THE REHEARSAL STUDIO,
THE FIRST WEEK, JANUARY 9—15
     
     
     
     
    S ince I had been asked to help open up, I made certain I was there on time. In fact, I was the first to arrive. The three stage managers followed shortly. There was work enough for all four of us: lights on, tables and chairs checked, scripts and music collated for all the actors, and so on. Although the day marked the official beginning of rehearsals, there was a decidedly social aspect to the morning’s activities. I had no idea exactly who was going to show up, only that it was to be quite a crowd.
    The next to arrive was Terry Marone, the official from the union for actors and stage managers, Actors’ Equity Association. She was a fixture on the first day of rehearsal for all Broadway shows. A former singer and dancer, she was responsible for making certain all the proper union paperwork was completed, including contracts, insurance, and pension and welfare forms. Any performers who weren’t members had to join, and she was to take them through the process; the three Las Vegas showgirls were likely candidates. And once all Equity members were assembled, she had to read the rules and regulations out loud. As Terry unloaded her papers and laid out her forms on a table in the hall, John Grigas hovered, helping her get organized. The forms were complicated, and as he separated the different forms into neat piles, he muttered, “Some of these actors are really very dense. I’m sorry to have to say it, but I’ve been in this business for a long time.” Terry, in her capacity as a union administrator, said, “I have also been in this business for a long time, but I can’t talk about it anymore.”
    I posted a couple of messages on the callboard. From George Furth, author of the book of Company: “The next thing is the best thing. Good luck with the next thing. Follies is beautiful. Warmly, with love, George Furth.” A letter from Louis Botto, an old-line theater journalist who was hoping to do a piece on Hal for Look magazine: “Dear Harold Prince: Thank you for letting me read Follies. It is to the American musical what Virginia Woolf was to