“That was really lovely work today, Anna,” she said. Her eyes were sparkling. “No, I mean really wonderful.”
I was thrilled, but something about the surprise in her voice made me feel like a monkey who had composed a sonata. Still, it was enough to make me reframe her in my mind as a strict but fair mentor of sorts.
We became almost friendly. We once walked to a Starbucks near Lincoln Center in the drizzling rain and didn’t talk about work at all. I told her about my friends, who were all still in high school back home, and how I missed them but never knew what to say when we talked. She talked a little bit about her ex-husband (who was Philip fucking Roth, by the way) and her daughter, and like a typical seventeen-year-old I retained none of it. We were getting along well in spite of my fear and she seemed to have a growing respect for my slightly superior musicianship. I could read music and follow the time signature changes, which was especially important now that we were expected to listen for our cues instead of watching the conductor. The irony was that we were in the company of five full-time members of the New York City Opera, but their skill level so exceeded ours that we could almost no longer understand it to be impressive. It was like being the smartest janitor at NASA.
Claire had a rich voice and she acted the hell out of her songs, but she wasn’t a confident musician—and not for nothing, Sondheim music is a damn battlefield. Our version of the show began with the curtain rising on a frozen tableau of the full cast. Claire’s character sat before a wooden tray that was covered in playing cards and a brass handbell. I was seated on the floor by her feet, looking up at her. During the overture, Claire was meant to ring her bell to set all the characters in motion and begin the show. The cue had been a crapshoot during rehearsals, but in our final preview performance she missed it by enough that our conductor stopped the music entirely and went back to the start.
At the note session before opening night, our choreographer tentatively inquired if I could reach Claire’s bell from where I was sitting in the opening tableau. I even more tentatively said yes. That settled that. We left the note session feeling a little awkward but relieved. I went up to the dressing room I shared with one of the NYCO members and started to get ready. Over the loudspeaker I heard the announcement, “Anna Kendrick to Claire Bloom’s dressing room, Anna Kendrick to Claire Bloom’s dressing room.” That phrase still haunts my dreams.
I went down the four flights of stairs to her dressing room. She was set up in a solo room just off the stage and I inched to her door. She had her back turned when I slithered in, but she looked up and saw me in her mirror. She did not turn around.
“I told them I’m ringing the bell. I’m ringing the bell or I’m leaving the show.”
If I hadn’t been terrified, I would have found this kind of fabulous.
“When it’s time, you are going to cue me. Just give me a nod, and then I will ring the bell.”
“Okay,” I squeaked.
I don’t remember how I extricated myself or if she had me stay awhile and practice cueing her. But the image of her in that dressing-room mirror and her mannered phrasing are permanently burned into my brain. When I told my parents the story, my dad was shocked. “They just sent you to her dressing room? You’re a minor; why the hell would they have you settle a dispute with an adult actress on your own?” It was a fair point, in retrospect.
I was happy to take all the criticism for even an ounce of praise, and if she ever reads this I hope my reverence for her is clear. But just in case it’s not: Claire, I worship you. If I saw you tomorrow and you hit me in the face, it would be the highlight of my year.
She was the greatest living Shakespearean actress and I was a seventeen-year-old in a bad wig. I’m not just mitigating this because she happens to still scare the crap out of me, but because people being tough with you doesn’t mean they’re villains. Paul Gemignani kicked my ass on High Society, A Little Night Music, and Into the Woods, and that dude loves me. Right, Paul?
Does this wig make me look out of my depth? Or is that just my face?
moving to la