Razzle Dazzle CHAPTER ONE The Ice Age This is a very weird way to begin an investigation, David Clurman thought as he listened to the anonymous caller on the other end of the line. A special assistant to the powerful New York State attorney general, Louis J. Lefkowitz, Clurman knew nothing about the economics of the Broadway theater. His speciality was real estate and securities. At thirty-five, he''d already made a name for himself as a tough investigator of the city''s powerful real estate magnates, authoring the first law in New York state history regulating the sales of co-ops and condominiums. Important, to be sure; glamorous, hardly. But here he was, sitting in his office at 80 Centre Street in the spring of 1963, listening to a fast-talking, agitated, self-described "angel," which, as the caller explained to Clurman, was showbiz slang for backers of Broadway shows. "I''m not going to give you my name," the angel said.
"But you should look into what goes on with the money on Broadway." Clurman asked why the angel was concerned. "Well, I made an investment in a play, and the producer used the money to buy a lobster boat in Montauk." "A lobster boat?" Clurman said. This was indeed a strange way to begin an investigation. But Clurman, who could smell flimflam down to the paperclips, was interested. He spent nearly an hour on the phone with the tipster, getting a crash course in the murky world of Broadway financing. Investors, it seemed, were in the dark about everything--production costs, weekly running costs, where the money they invested went, whether the shows were fully capitalized or not, how much they lost when they closed.
Sometimes their money went into the productions they wanted to support; sometimes it wound up in shows they didn''t even know about. And sometimes it went to buy lobster boats in Montauk. Producers wanted to take an angel''s money, give him a hug on opening night, give him some money if the show worked, and if it didn''t, well, that''s Broadway--it''s a crap shoot. Move on to the next show, next season. It''s going to be a surefire hit. Stick with me, the producers seemed to say, because I have a script on my desk right now that''s a winner. "What about accountants?" Clurman asked. "Don''t you get a complete accounting of the production after it closes?" "Accountants?" the caller responded, laughing.
They just accept whatever documents the producers give them. Ledgers, balance sheets, profit and loss statements--they don''t exist on Broadway. Angels were like slot machine players. Bewitched by the twinkling lights, they put in quarter after quarter, hoping to hit the jackpot. And if they did--if they backed The Music Man, My Fair Lady, Oliver!--the quarters come so fast, who thought about where all those other quarters went? Broadway''s a casino, New York City''s very own Las Vegas. "Everything he told me was so antithetical to the whole idea of disclosure that it amazed me," Clurman said, remembering the phone call nearly fifty years later. Clurman thanked the caller and hung up. Something was going on here, he thought, something worth investigating.
You can''t have a business in New York City--a business as high profile and as important to the life of the city as Broadway--that doesn''t abide by basic rules of accounting. Financially, it sounded like the Wild, Wild West--with tap shoes. Clurman left his office on the way to lunch, passing the room for "the boys," as Attorney General Lefkowitz called the reporters who covered him. Lefkowitz, popular, charming, a politician who loved to be in the papers, liked the boys and had given them a room of their own near his office in the state office building. As Clurman walked by, he ran into Lawrence O''Kane, a reporter for the New York Times. Clurman liked O''Kane. He was smart, curious, fair. They''d talked about a number of cases Clurman had investigated, and he found O''Kane to be a good sounding board.
Clurman asked O''Kane if he knew anything about the theater. The Times, after all, was located on West Forty-Third Street, right in the heart of Broadway. It covered the theater aggressively and its critics and theater reporters--Brooks Atkinson, Sam Zolotow, Louis Funke--were, to Times readers, household names. Not really, O''Kane said. Why? Clurman recounted his conversation with the angel. He was talking to O''Kane as a friend, telling him about this odd call. There were no names mentioned, no talk of an investigation, just a general discussion about some funny business on Broadway. O''Kane was interested.
Clurman said he''d tell him if anything came of it. * * * The next morning, on his way to the subway, Clurman bought a copy of the New York Times. Standing on the platform, he glanced at the headlines above the fold--KENNEDY MEETING WITH MACMILLAN LIKELY JUNE 29-30; RISE IN TEEN-AGE JOBLESS PUSHES U.S. RATE TO 5.9%. Then he looked at the stories below the fold. One caught his eye.
FINANCING PRACTICES IN THEATER UNDER BROADWAY INQUIRY BY STATE. "A ''far-reaching'' investigation of theatrical practices--both on and Off-Broadway--is under way in the office of the State Attorney General," the article began. Lefkowitz, O''Kane wrote, "decided to make the investigation after a preliminary study had given indications of ''peculiar'' financing methods in the industry and a possible need for corrective legislation." Clurman was stunned. Holy God, he thought. What is going on? He''d never dreamed that a casual conversation with one of the boys would wind up as front-page news in the New York Times. His preliminary study consisted of a few notes he''d scribbled on a yellow legal pad during the phone call. When he arrived at 80 Centre Street, Lefkowitz summoned him to his office.
"How come you didn''t tell me about this?" Lefkowitz demanded. Clurman explained that he thought his conversation with O''Kane had been casual. It was not in any way, he said, an official announcement. Still, he added, it might be worth looking into the financial practices of Broadway. And, as this morning''s Times proved, it would get headlines. "Can I conduct an inquiry into this to see what''s going on?" he asked. Lefkowitz, enticed by headlines, gave him the go ahead. Underneath his quiet, scholarly demeanor, Clurman had the investigating zeal of Inspector Javert.
Let the hunt begin, he thought. * * * That morning, in Shubert Alley, the town square of Broadway, everybody was on edge. There had been investigations in the past about money flying around the theater. They always seemed to coincide with the election of the attorney general. But they never amounted to much. This one, however, made the front page of the New York Times, which meant that it was serious. Emanuel "Manny" Azenberg, then a young company manager, recalled, "Everybody that day was walking around with a little brown spot on the back of their pants." * * * Clurman didn''t know where to begin.
He was now in charge of a "far-reaching" investigation into the financial practices of Broadway about which, aside from being a casual theatergoer who had enjoyed My Fair Lady, he knew nothing. And then he got another call. If you were a lawyer in 1963, Morris Ernst was a name you knew. A founder of the American Civil Liberties Union, Ernst represented Random House in its fight to get James Joyce''s Ulysses published in the United States despite state-by-state laws against obscenity. A fixture of New York society, he had been close to Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, and several Supreme Court justices. He loved the theater, and numbered among his friends Edna Ferber, Groucho Marx, E. B. White, and Charles Addams.
Ernst told Clurman he knew some people who were interested in his investigation. He invited Clurman to his apartment at Two Fifth Avenue that night for an informal meeting. Nothing official, he stressed. He just wanted to introduce Clurman to some theater people who, he thought, might be able to help him. "They think your investigation needs to be amplified," Ernst said. When Clurman arrived at Two Fifth Avenue, just north of Washington Square Park, he was introduced to an impressive array of theater people. Leland Hayward, tall, patrician, elegant, the son of a United States senator, seemed to be the leader. His productions included South Pacific, Mister Roberts, and Gypsy.
Gilbert Miller, son of the legendary producer Henry Miller, was there, too. Gilbert specialized in high-class plays--Shaw''s Candida, Anouilh''s Ring Around the Moon, Eliot''s The Cocktail Party. Another impressive figure was Roger Stevens, one of the founders of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts. Dickie Moore, one-time child actor who starred in the Our Gang series, was there representing the Actors'' Equity Association, for which he was the public relations director. Representing the Dramatists Guild was Russel Crouse, coauthor of the book to The Sound of Music. "This was not a bunch of little guys who invest in the theater," Clurman recalled. "These were some very notable people." Hayward took the floor.
Clurman''s investigation into the financial practices on Broadway was essential, he said. Clurman remembered thinking how unusual it was "for the people I was talking to want to be investigated.".