Jack in the Box by Jack O'Brien

Author:Jack O'Brien
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

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Love Never Dies opened at the Adelphi Theatre in London after a series of increasingly confident performances. The applause was warm, if not thunderous. The 148 shows were thoroughly embraced by the audience. The reviews were, all told, mixed, though not in the traditional George S. Kaufman definition of “good and lousy,” but after some quibbling, for the most part about the inconsistencies of the story itself, had considerable praise for Crowley’s efforts, for my direction, and for some of Andrew’s plusher vocal pieces, some calling it among his loveliest work in years.

I recall a luncheon at an Asian-themed restaurant, thrown by Andrew and André as a thank-you to the principal creative talents. The climate was warm and collegial, and considerable enthusiasm was expressed all around for changes still to be made, refinements that would tighten, clarify, and move the piece perhaps more confidently. The atmosphere was anything but grim.

Then, silence. We dispersed, we decamped, we suspended, all believing that business, if not exactly brisk, was going to sustain the piece long enough to secure some obvious improvements for a subsequent run. I don’t recall the actual experience of being fired. I know that Andrew and I never spoke again, so it must have been, once more, the beleaguered André Ptaszynski who informed us—and when I say “us,” I would include the Americans: the choreographer Jerry Mitchell, the associate director Ben Klein, me, and the Irish designer Bob Crowley (all but the lyricist, Glenn Slater)—that we were thought unworthy to continue on, in spite of our individually celebratory reviews. It was as silent as it was deadly and effective: Lopped off. Released. All the British collaborators remained intact as, without a word of explanation to any of us, a new director, a new choreographer, and a new designer were eventually to be retained.

There would be no resistance, clearly. Our respective unions didn’t hold jurisdiction across the pond in such a way as to offer us any recourse. And as sole producer as well as creator, Andrew could pretty much do as he pleased, which had been his modus operandi his entire career. Only in the case of the legendarily tenacious Patti LuPone, who was originally jettisoned from appearing on Broadway in Sunset Boulevard, a part she had created initially in the West End, had anyone defied Lloyd Webber and emerged victorious in court, or elsewhere, as a matter of fact: in her case, the settlement paid for her swimming pool in Connecticut.

Some mild fiddling did, I believe, get done to the ordering of the book, some editing, some slight restructuring, but I don’t recall anyone finally being credited with “additional material.” Andrew wouldn’t want to pay royalties beyond what he’d already done; I knew that only too well. I never found out if Ben Elton ever came around for a second look, but if he did, it hardly registered. When, eventually, the production was announced for an American tour and the rejiggered result began its trek across the country, I flew down incognito to Atlanta to see for myself what was left of our original work.

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