The nightmare began on day two of rehearsals. Day two was the day that the infamous Hollywood leading lady Jordana Winston arrived onstage, or on set, as she mistakenly kept calling it.
It has become common practice of late to feature Hollywood stars on the Broadway stage, and if you ask me, which no one does, it’s a travesty. The Tinsel Town effect, as it’s called, may boost sales, but it certainly doesn’t boost morale, at least not among real Broadway thespians. Prominent stage actors worry that they will disappear from Broadway’s future if screen actors continue to scoop up leading roles and Tony Award noms. Some are cast just for their names and aren’t even right for the parts. This was especially true in the case of my latest diva, Jordana Winston.
Ms. Winston arrived straight off a megamillion-dollar box office smash, and boy, did she know it. Between her ego and her entourage, it was thought she would need two dressing rooms. This was after her request to airlift a movie trailer onto the ninety-year-old roof of the Brooks Atkinson Theatre was denied. I’m sure the renowned New York Times critic Brooks Atkinson, for whom the theater is named, would have had a choice word or two to say about Ms. Jordana Winston. I only wish he could be resurrected for opening night!
Ms. Winston had her own stylist, her own makeup artist, her own trainer/nutritionist, and her own mancubine masquerading as personal manager. (It was quite clear to all what part of her person he managed.) Luckily, all but the last were forbidden by Actors’ Equity and sent packing. The diva was furious. She had no idea of the union rules. In fact, I’ve heard that she has yet even to sign her contract.
She was impossible throughout all her fittings. She kept insisting that she was a smaller size than she was. Her previous stylist must have been letting out her entire wardrobe at the seams, though it’s infinitely easier to take in a larger size. She must’ve been more concerned with the size of Ms. Winston’s ego than the size of her ass. I had no patience for such nonsense, and when Ms. Winston realized it she threatened to have me fired. She didn’t scare me.
Even though that stylist flew back west in a huff—on a broomstick, no doubt—she still had one opportunity to make my job more difficult. Last week the cast was invited to do a photo shoot for an upcoming New York magazine spread on the best new plays of the season. Of course That Southern Play was included. The instructions were to dress up, and Ms. Winston’s West Coast stylist loaned her a Max Hammer that WWD had dubbed the it dress of the season. I have to admit it was a good choice. It was very flattering and had not yet reached saturation point in the press. I sent it back to the stylist within a day of the shoot, and unlike most of my dealings with Jordana Winston and her people, this transaction was seamless. Until yesterday, that is, when I was told a reshoot would be necessary because Ms. Winston had gotten her leading man fired. Mine was not the only livelihood she’d been threatening.
Poor Austin Williams. He was an unknown, cast as Ms. Winston’s charming, rebellious husband. Yesterday he was let go for no apparent reason. At least that’s what the press said. All they knew was that he was to be replaced by his understudy for the run of the show. But the real story was obvious from the first dress rehearsal: the unknown Austin Williams was a star. You felt it the moment he stepped onstage; he owned it the minute he spoke his first line, and as each line left his lips you became more and more glued to him. Glued in such a way that you would find it hard to avert your eyes in case you were to miss one movement, one breath, one perfect utterance in that perfect southern drawl. The problem was, he wasn’t meant to be the star. Ms. Winston was. And when put next to this beautiful specimen of theatrical perfection, she was reduced to scenery. Faded right into the background. That is, until she spoke and her painfully inaccurate accent, waxing and waning like a crescent moon, shocked you into paying attention to her again, only making you more grateful to have Mr. Williams there to both save and steal the show. Clearly Ms. Winston was no dummy, and though everyone kept telling her how wonderful she was, she knew that next to Mr. Williams she would not survive.
The reason I knew this? The screaming from her dressing room was so loud that the dressers and I literally locked ourselves in the costume room. It lasted for days. The producers were on edge, the director unhinged, and the other actors took to hanging out in the costume room as well, since it was the farthest from the carnage. I even had Austin’s understudy, a sweet kid from Juilliard, gluing sequins. And then yesterday the main producer came asking for him. He looked like he’d just returned from war.
He said, “Kid, you’re on.”
The kid jumped up, knocking over a box of sequins. “On…for rehearsal?” he asked, confused.