The Legs Are the Last to Go Read Online Free PDF

leopard-skin gown that weighed sixty pounds almost killed me. One night I tripped and injured my ankle badly. I iced it in between scenes so the show could go on. That’s the reality of live theater. Itcan be painful and it isn’t always pretty. Yet it can be so rewarding.
    The reviews and audiences were wonderful. Toronto’s a beautiful city and its theatergoers are as sophisticated as any in the world. And if the American press didn’t pay much attention to the production, I was just becoming seasoned enough to understand that less than perfect can be good enough. You learn that as you age, I think—to appreciate fully what you’re given. It’s a kind of acceptance that can bring peace, even to an overly ambitious perfectionist like me.
    The one thing that I could not accept from my experience as the lead in Toronto’s Sunset Boulevard was the night Sir Andrew came from England to see our performance. The company was thrilled that we would be able to meet the great creator of so many shows and songs we knew so well. The plan was that we’d have some time with him after the show. So after the curtain fell, we were all racing around in our dressing rooms, pulling ourselves together for our moment. But then his voice came over our PA system, sounding brittle and rushed.
    â€œThank you all so very much for a lovely performance. I enjoyed it very much. My pilot has just informed me that the skies are clouding over and that I must leave immediately, but again, thank you for a fine show.” There was dead silence everywhere.
    We had all worked so hard on this show and we were really disappointed. The cast so wanted to meet him, be around him for a half hour. That’s how actors are. We try our best to interpret the work of important artists every single night,and it would have just been so wonderful to be able to greet him. I was also looking forward to burying any ill will between us. But he was gone, just gone. I was demolished and demoralized. You do feel responsible for the company when you’re the star of the show. And I just couldn’t believe he would do that.
    On the other hand, I’d been the leading lady in a similar situation years ago with the great Richard Rodgers. Actually, it was worse.
    It happened in Detroit. I was working extremely hard in 1962 for the out-of-town opening of the Broadway-bound No Strings . And the night before we opened, Mr. Rodgers came to see me in my dressing room. In a voice that was something between avuncular and condescending, he told me he had something he needed to discuss with me: the hostess of our opening-night party did not want me in her home. She felt that it would confuse her children to see a black woman who was sophisticated and elegant because they didn’t exist. She told Rodgers she was certain he’d hired tutors to teach me diction and manners, and that I was a fabricated black character who was designed to startle white audiences. Did Rodgers, who wrote “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” about prejudice for South Pacific, argue with this racist hostess or give her a dressing-down? Did he tell her to cancel her party? No, he did neither. Well, I’d seen him be cruel in the past. Once in his office, he referred to Larry Hart, one of his former collaborators, as a fag. Another time, I ran into him in front of our hotel, again while we were trying out No Strings in Detroit. It was a rainy day, and when he asked how I was doing, I toldhim I was having a terrible time getting a cab. He said, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and then went and left in his limo without offering me a ride to the theater. It amazes me when people who have the ability to create such beautiful music can behave so rudely.
    At any rate, when he told me that I would not be invited to the cast party, I wasn’t really surprised. After all, when you live a life in which racial prejudice is a daily experience, you carry