Some outsiders have heard that its dangerous to name
Shakespeare’s Macbeth or to quote
from it inside a theater—the play’s believed to be cursed—so we say “The
Scottish Play” and refrain from citing lines from it outside a performance. One of the greatest of Shakespeare’s tragedies,
productions of the play are said to have been followed by disasters since its
début in 1606. Other aspects of the play
have lent force to the superstitions attached to it, including King James I’s
fear of witchcraft and magic. The play
had been written for James who was said to have traced his lineage back to
Banquo, predicted in the play to “get kings, though thou be none” by the Weird
Sisters. (Some even believe that the
incantations Shakespeare wrote for the three witches are actual spells that
were used in England at the time and that uttering them in a performance
summons evil after the show.)
If someone quotes from Macbeth
or speaks its title in a theater, the hex can be averted by quoting from The Merchant of Venice, considered the Bard’s lucky play: "Fair
thoughts and happy hours attend on you." Or the unlucky actor can leave the dressing
room, run around three times, knock on the door, and ask to be allowed back in.
Cursing or spitting is frequently thrown
in just to be sure.
It’s also bad luck to whistle back stage in a theater—but
that one comes from a fact-based concern: theatrical rigging, the old
rope-and-batten kind, was derived from ships’ rigging and at sea, signals for
raising and lowering lines were given by whistling. The wrong whistle at the wrong time could
actually result in a stagehand dropping a sandbag or a flat on some poor actor’s
head! (The superstition specifically
says that if someone whistles in a dressing room, the actor nearest the door
will lose his job.) So, no whistling
back stage, all right?
Other theater superstitions include the belief that the
color green is bad luck, related apparently to the way gaslights enhanced green
costume fabric and reflected it onto the actor’s face, causing her to look
seriously ill. Real flowers, jewels,
money, mirrors, and coffins on the stage are seen as bringers of bad luck. More bad-luck omens: peacock feathers, opening
on a Friday, applying your makeup while someone’s looking over your shoulder, and
unpacking your makeup before the reviews are out. Good luck can be generated if an actor’s
shoes squeak on his entrance or if a cat takes up residence back stage. Spilling face powder is bad luck, but if a
chorus member dances in the spilled powder, it guarantees her career.
That chorus dancer, however, has her own, now long-running
good-luck charm: The Gypsy Robe. Since
1950, an elaborate tradition has grown up around what was once just a simple
piece of practical back-stage apparel, and though it is a Broadway tradition
born and nurtured, versions of it have been adopted by regional theaters and
even high schools and colleges. It all
started by accident, really, and I’m going to tell you the whole story.
First, let me explain what a “gypsy” in the theater is. It has little to do with the Roma or the
musical called Gypsy (which is about
the stripper Gypsy Rose Lee, for those who don’t know already). A Broadway gypsy is a chorus dancer, boy or
girl (chorus members are always “boys” and “girls,” no matter how old they
get), a member of the dance ensemble, someone who dances in the line. It is the part of the profession applauded in
the 1975 musical A Chorus Line (an old review of which I posted on ROT on 31 August). In Show
Business, one of New York’s theater trade papers, Leanne Boepple helped
define the Broadway gypsy:
Who are the gypsies? The martyrs. The troopers. The workhorses who don’t always get the
recognition, or the dressing rooms
with the stars on them. The diverse
range of performers who are celebrated in “A Chorus Line,” whose anthem (ask any gypsy) can be “What
I Did For Love.”
Until A Chorus Line
came along, Ruby Keeler played the most famous gypsy in 42nd Street (Wanda Richert played the part in the 1980 stage
adaptation), but she went out a youngster and came back a star. Of course, that’s Hollywood (and later
Broadway) fiction. If a dancer becomes a
featured performer, she’s no longer a gypsy.
(Think of Cassie in Chorus Line,
who moved up the ladder only to find herself needing to get back in the
line.) They are almost always anonymous
performers, seemingly interchangeable. Theatergoers
seldom know their names or anything else about them. They are nomads, going from gig to gig, show
to show, like their namesakes (which is their only connection to the
Roma).
It’s a pretty hard life, really. Most gypsies spend their whole performing
careers in the ensemble, and it’s usually a fairly short career—like an athlete’s. Age and injuries, both of which are
inevitable, make certain that’s how it’ll be.
Especially talented chorus dancers go on to longer careers as
choreographers—and a few extraordinary ones become featured dancers and even
stars and manage to go on, like Gwen Verdon or Chita Rivera did, until they’re
grandparents. Most chorus dancers don’t
get that lucky, so they remain gypsies, hoofing from show to show, theater to
theater, line to line. Phyllis French, a
Broadway chorine from the ’50s, explains, “Gypsies are the people who take
every opportunity to perform, not just because they have to pay the bills, but
for the love of it.” (Now, if that ain’t
a song cue . . . .)
It’s also a pretty small world, though you might think, with
all the musicals and all the productions and all the theaters around the
country, on cruise ships, in Las Vegas, and even abroad nowadays, that it’d be
a big field. The fact is that most
dancers stick with their own beat—Broadway and tours, Vegas and cruise ships,
and so on. So they meet the same dancers
pretty frequently and get to be at least familiar with one another
professionally, if not fast friends.
That happens, too, of course: people with similar lives who understand
one another tend to gravitate together—to commiserate, if nothing else. “You know people from auditions and shows,” affirms
chorus dancer Albertina Horstmann, who performed in the 1940s and ’50s. “And you are all in the same boat. You're going for a common goal . . . when you
go out for nine months doing a show, the cast becomes your family.” And that’s how this story begins.
In 1950, according
to the legend, chorine Florence Baum of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which had opened on 8 December 1949 at the Ziegfeld Theatre, went into the
men’s dressing room in a pale pink dressing gown with white feathers (probably
ostrich, not peacock—but who knows). The
men all tried it on—you can picture the scene, something from La Cage aux Folles or Victor/Victoria, maybe—and fellow dancer
Bill Bradley persuaded Baum to let him have it.
(One version of the story has it that Bradley wore the robe on opening
night of Gentlemen and paraded
around back stage conferring good luck on the production, which, as we know,
turned out to be a huge hit.) As a good-luck omen, he sent it to Arthur
Partington, his friend opening in Call Me Madam at the Imperial (12
October 1950). Bradley told his friend that “the legendary
gypsy robe” had been worn for good luck by all the Ziegfeld Follies girls back
in the 1920s. Call Me Madam received unanimous rave reviews, as history records,
so Partington pinned a feathered rose from Ethel Merman's costume to the robe and passed it on to a friend in the chorus of Guys and Dolls, opening at
the 46th Street Theatre (24 November 1950). Baum
obviously never got her dressing gown back, but the tradition of what became
the Gypsy Robe was born and the robe, with a memento from each production attached,
continued to be passed from one show to another.
The Gypsy Robe is
presented on opening night to the dancer who has the most Broadway chorus credits. The Actors’ Equity Association keeper-of-the-robe,
a former gypsy, insisted, “It has to go to a chorus person. No principals. We always say, ‘Sorry folks. You’ve got the Tonys, Circle Award, and all
these different things, but you don’t have this one. This is just chorus.’” (AEA, the
union which represents chorus dancers, has a separate contract for members of
the chorus, known as the “pink” contract for the paper on which it’s printed, so
the distinction is easy to make.) Purely
ensemble shows aren’t eligible and the length of the run is immaterial: the
sole criterion is how many Broadway shows the dancer has worked in. The honor rewards tenacity and persistence,
not quality; it’s about life, not art. (Longevity,
by the way, isn’t necessarily a criterion: one gypsy can accumulate lots of
credits in a brief time, say in a series of short-lived gigs—one dancer did
four shows in his first year in the business—while another may take years to rack
up productions because she stays with long-running shows to maintain the
security of a paycheck.) There’s also no
limit to the number of times a dancer can be awarded the robe: if a gypsy in
one show has the most credits and then moves on to another chorus line where he
has the most shows on his résumé again, he gets the robe. If there’s a tie, with more than one gypsy
having the same number of shows to their credit, the previous winner delivering
the robe decides who gets the robe for the new show. (What?
You thought they staged a dance-off?)
Every time the
robe is passed along to a new recipient, a souvenir of the receiving musical is
added. Soon the robes become a garish
mix of mismatched colors and strange shapes. As
the tradition grew, the embellishments became more and more elaborate,
including embroidery and actual artifacts from the shows. When a dressing gown is filled, it’s retired,
and a new robe begins the circuit. Some
of the applications can be quite bulky: a hand puppet can replace a sleeve and
a hood might be sewn on. Some Gypsy
Robes have been accessorized with an elaborate hat as part of the decoration. The contribution of Tarzan (10
May 2006) included bits of the set, costumes, and stage curtain. (Today Actors’
Equity, which has taken charge of the Gypsy Robe procedure and keeps its
history, makes the basic garment especially for the purpose. It’s a plain, off-white muslin kimono-style
dressing gown—no feathers. A new robe is
built at the start of every season.) It
takes about 20 shows for a robe to get filled up. By the time one robe from the 1960s was
retired, it held 52 items and by the 1990s, there were eight existing robes in
retirement because they’d all gotten so full of remembrances. Equity
now records 15 retired robes in existence, the oldest of which dates back to
1976.
Two retired robes
are displayed at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, three are at the
New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, and three
are on display in the Museum of the City of New York. One of the Smithsonian robes, from the
1983-1985 seasons, includes mementos from La Cage aux Folles, Zorba, Marilyn, Baby, The
Tap Dance Kid, The Human Comedy, Oliver, Sunday
in the Park with George, The Wiz, The Three Musketeers, Harrigan
and Hart, Leader of the Pack, Take
Me Along, Grind, Big River, and Singin’
in the Rain. The other is
from the 1995-1997 seasons and contains memorabilia from Victor/Victoria, State
Fair, The King and I, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the
Forum, Big, Rent, Chicago, Once
Upon a Mattress, Play On!, Annie, Dream, Titanic, and Steel
Pier. All remaining retired Gypsy Robes are kept by
Actors’ Equity where the procedure is supervised under the auspices of
the Advisory Committee on Chorus Affairs (ACCA). (Presently retired robes are
mostly at the New York City national Equity headquarters, but the union plans
to distribute them to regional offices in the coming years so that local AEA
members and visitors can see them. The
Miami and Chicago offices have one already and plans to display one in
L.A. are in the works.) The circulating
robe is also stashed at Equity between opening nights for safekeeping until the
next presentation.
The presentation of the Gypsy Robe—Equity trademarked the
name in 2009—was originally pretty route-step and casual. After Bill Bradley gave the first Gypsy Robe to his friend Arthur Partington as
essentially a gag, the robe was passed along haphazardly, often to a friend of
the last recipient or to the most popular dancer. Sometime in the 1960s, however, a more
formalized procedure was established and through the ’70s and ’80s, a ritual
developed. There’s now a specific
ceremony with official rules overseen by Equity and ACCA governing the way the
robe’s presented, worn, and exhibited on stage.
The rules for the eligibility and selection of the winner of the Gypsy
Robe are:
- The Gypsy Robe goes only to Broadway musicals with a chorus.
- The robe goes to a chorus member only, the dancer with the most number of Broadway chorus credits.
- It must be delivered by Half-Hour on Opening Night to the member selected.
- The new recipient must put on the Gypsy Robe and circle the stage three times while cast members reach out and touch the robe for good luck; the new recipient visits each dressing room while wearing the Gypsy Robe.
- The new recipient supervises the addition to the robe of an application from the new show. There are important rules for adding mementos: For wearability, durability, and longevity, add-ons must be lightweight, sturdy, and reasonably sized so each Gypsy Robe can represent a full season.
- The opening-night date and the recipient’s name are written on or near the memento and only cast members sign that section of robe.
- The recipient will attend the next Broadway musical opening and will present the Gypsy Robe to the next honored “Gypsy” in that show.
On the opening night of a new musical, somewhere between an hour and an hour-and-a-half before curtain time, while the doors from the street are still locked, before any theatergoer is even within earshot, and only the house staff is anywhere around, the stage manager announces, “On stage for the Gypsy Robe!” The chorus members of the new show, whispering in anticipation and excitement, leave their dressing rooms, some already partly costumed and made-up, and flow in from the wings to gather center stage in a circle. Principal performers, directors, and stage hands assemble nearby, but only chorus dancers may join the circle. This starts the Gypsy Robe ritual. The previous winner of the Gypsy Robe, accompanied by representatives of Equity and sometimes former Gypsy Robe recipients, brings in the garment. An Equity rep and the last winner stand in the middle of the circle and the previous recipient announces the next honoree, now known as “the Gypsy” for the evening. After the union rep delivers a short speech about the history of the robe and its significance to all gypsies, the new Gypsy puts on the robe amidst the applause, cheers, and, often, tears of castmates, parades around the circle three times counterclockwise as the cast touches the garment for good luck. Then, wearing the robe, the Gypsy makes the rounds to every dressing room, chorus dancers’ and principals’ alike, to bless the show with good fortune. By tradition, the wearer of the Gypsy Robe even goes into empty dressing rooms—because the blessing’s not just for the performers. It’s for the show and for the theater, too. Especially for the dancers, the ceremony is quite moving: “It really sums up your whole career to date,” explains a chorine who’s received the robe once in the ’90s and again in the ’aughts, “and the fact that you're actually being acknowledged for all that you've done is rare, and it really it means a lot.”
Not all the ceremonies go according to the prescribed
ritual. On 23 April this year, on the
stage of the Lunt Fontanne Theatre, when the Gypsy Robe honoree’s name was
called out, James Brown III of Ghost The
Musical couldn’t . . . ummm,
fulfill his duties. He couldn’t make the
triple circuit of the assembled gypsies as required by the ritual because, you
see, the dancer was on crutches with a
cast on his foot. Brown had suffered
an accident and was temporarily immobilized, so that evening’s Gypsy stood in
the middle of the magic circle wearing the robe while the ensemble rotated
around him so that everyone could carry on the tradition of touching the Gypsy
Robe. As for the second part of the
Gypsy’s duties, Brown managed to visit every dressing room to bless the show as
required, climbing the theater’s stairs and meeting the challenge.
In the days following the ritual, the Gypsy gets together with
the musical’s costume crew to create a patch on the robe for a talisman to
represent the show. Every cast member in
the show will sign it. The augmented
robe is then removed to a safe storage place at Equity’s Times Square offices
to await the next celebration of the ritual, opening night at the next eligible
musical production on Broadway.
At Half-Hour, when all the actors are required to be present
in the theater to prepare for the performance and when the house is
traditionally opened to patrons, the Gypsy, briefly the center of attention,
accorded special recognition by her or his peers and colleagues, morphs back
into a chorus dancer. The hoofer takes
her or his place in the ensemble, anonymous once again. As is the lot of the gypsy, this performer
will get no special curtain call or hear her or his name over the PA
system. The audience will leave the
show, a hit or not, never knowing that there was a Queen or King of the Gypsies
on the stage that night. But that’s what
it means to be a Broadway gypsy. Won't forget, can't regret / What I did for love.
There have been some milestones along the Gypsy Robe
trail. I
tried to find out who the Gypsy Robe honoree with the most credits of all
was—I’ve read about some in the upper teens—but I couldn’t find who holds the
record. I also couldn’t determine who the oldest Gypsy Robe winner was, but the
youngest recipient is Brynn Williams,
a young chorus member in the Broadway musical In My Life (20 October 2005), who was 12 when she received the robe
on stage at the Music Box Theatre. Her
other Broadway credit was Chitty Chitty
Bang Bang and she’s gone on to become a featured player in Broadway
productions of 13 and Bye Bye Birdie. (I don’t know if he’s the oldest recipient
ever, but dancer Harvey Evans, formerly billed as Harvey Hohnecker, claims to
be “the world's oldest working Broadway gypsy”—he’s 71 now—and has won the robe
twice: for Sunset Boulevard on 17
November 1994 and Oklahoma! on 21
March 2002.) As I’m writing this, the
latest honoree is Lisa Gajda, the second of the 2012-13
season, who received the Gypsy Robe from the previous recipient, Rod Harrelson of Bring It On (1 August) on 10 September, the
opening night of Chaplin at the Ethel
Barrymore Theatre.
Previously, Gajda received the robe for Taboo, Times They Are A
Changing, Cry Baby, Finian’s Rainbow, and Elf. As
a six-time recipient of the Gypsy Robe, according
to Equity’s records, Gajda is the chorus member who’s been
so honored the most, but she actually has a seventh honor. On one occasion, the dancer was selected to
receive the robe but requested that the honor go to the next eligible gypsy.
In the Summer 2018 issue (vol. 103, iss. 3), Equity News, the member magazine of the Actors' Equity Association, published the following announcement, entitled "Legacy Robe: Continuing an Old Tradition with a New Name":
ReplyDeleteFollowing a multi-step process that included a vote of Equity's National Council, and recommendations from Equity's Advisory Committee on Chorus Affairs (ACCA) and National Equal Employment Opportunity (EEO) Committee, Actors' Equity announced a new name for the tradition formerly known as the "Gypsy Robe."
Moving forward, the Robe and tradition will be referred to as the "Legacy Robe" – a name chosen by members in a survey. This tradition occurs on opening night of every Broadway musical with a chorus. The Robe is given to the Chorus member who has worked the most Broadway Chorus contracts on opening night by the previous recipient.
"The Legacy Robe reminds us why our tradition exists. It emphasizes the history of Chorus performers, their years of dedication and hard work and just how essential they are to every
Broadway musical," said [Actors' Equity] Executive Director Mary McColl. "The ceremony on opening night will go on like it has for years, and I look forward to celebrating another season's long serving Chorus performers with recognition of their professionalism as they receive the Legacy Robe."
The first presentation of the Legacy Robe took place on July 26, when the musical 'Head Over Heels' opened at the Hudson Theatre.
~Rick