those magazine subscriptions you sold me?”
I knew by then that I had to study to learn how to become an actor, so I returned to the Henry Street Settlement Theater and asked Esther Lane for advice.
“Where do I go to become an actor? I got the GI Bill.”
Mrs. Lane said, “Go to Syracuse. They’ve got a wonderful teacher—Sawyer Falk.”
So, in the fall of 1947 I entered Syracuse University. The glut of students on the GI Bill created housing problems. For many months I lived in barracks on the state fairgrounds and had to be bused to and from the campus many miles away.
Auditions were held for a university production of
Blossom Time,
and I went up for the role of Papa Kranz. I was confident, sitting outside the rehearsal room, waiting to read, knowing I would get the part.
The audition was presided over by Professor Frederick Schweppe, a giant of a man whose manner was theatrical in every way. He had touredfor the Shuberts and been a protégé of Mary Garden, the famed opera star. After I’d read a few lines, he broke into a crackling laugh and ran from the room, saying, “I found him!” to everyone on the floor. During the next several weeks, I took courses by day and rehearsed at night, commuting between the fair grounds and the campus.
“Schwep,” as he was affectionately called, teamed Barry Mendelsohn (later known as Julian Barry, who wrote
Lenny
) and myself as the low comics. In rehearsals Schwep would give us stage business that he knew from his early days with the Shuberts. There was a particular shtick he said would guarantee applause if we did it right. Barry and I were to exit the scene imitating a choo-choo train. The whole thing started with my sneezing, saying, “A-Choo!” It built from there, with Barry moving behind me and putting his hands on my hips, after which the two of us, in lock-step, made like a locomotive picking up steam, going “Choo-choo-choo …” Just as Schwep had said, it got great applause.
It was the first time I realized that applause could be manufactured. As Papa Kranz I wore grotesque makeup that included a putty nose, a cutaway coat, and an application of zinc oxide to my hair, which gave it a silvery glow. I penciled my eyebrows to twice the normal size, and in a Viennese accent emphasized each word as if it were a punch line. I exaggerated my walk and hadn’t the slightest feeling of self-consciousness about what I was doing.
We opened, and the downtown Syracuse newspapers said I had stolen the show. Professor Schweppe said I would someday be a star if I continued on the right track. Making me a star was his goal during my three years as an undergraduate at Syracuse. Being “made over” by a teacher was probably the highest form of stroking I’d ever received.
On occasion the professor would take Bernie Piven, Bette Wolf, Carmine Albino, and myself to Kiwanis luncheons, where he’d introduce us as performing students. We’d do ten-minute scenes from
Blossom Time
and then Schweppe himself would do a great rendition of “Old Man River,” which put the audience away. We students each ended up with ten bucks, which made us feel like pros.
He cast me as Gieber Goldfarb, the cab driver, in
Girl Crazy,
at the Civic Theater on Salinia Street. To this day, it remains my most exciting moment on stage. My need was simply to make people laugh, to be another Eddie Cantor. Though my work was praised, I was told by one faculty member that my characterization made fun of Jews. I was hurt, andprotested that Willie Howard and Fanny Brice used Yiddish accents. I just wanted the audience to love me.
In those musicals I learned firsthand what happened to my emotions when I heard an audience laugh. It was like being alive for the first time. My need to hear laughter became addictive. I wasn’t holding back, and the audience loved it. I never looked at the other actors on stage. They didn’t exist. I played everything straight out, and the audience ate it up. I worked
I knew by then that I had to study to learn how to become an actor, so I returned to the Henry Street Settlement Theater and asked Esther Lane for advice.
“Where do I go to become an actor? I got the GI Bill.”
Mrs. Lane said, “Go to Syracuse. They’ve got a wonderful teacher—Sawyer Falk.”
So, in the fall of 1947 I entered Syracuse University. The glut of students on the GI Bill created housing problems. For many months I lived in barracks on the state fairgrounds and had to be bused to and from the campus many miles away.
Auditions were held for a university production of
Blossom Time,
and I went up for the role of Papa Kranz. I was confident, sitting outside the rehearsal room, waiting to read, knowing I would get the part.
The audition was presided over by Professor Frederick Schweppe, a giant of a man whose manner was theatrical in every way. He had touredfor the Shuberts and been a protégé of Mary Garden, the famed opera star. After I’d read a few lines, he broke into a crackling laugh and ran from the room, saying, “I found him!” to everyone on the floor. During the next several weeks, I took courses by day and rehearsed at night, commuting between the fair grounds and the campus.
“Schwep,” as he was affectionately called, teamed Barry Mendelsohn (later known as Julian Barry, who wrote
Lenny
) and myself as the low comics. In rehearsals Schwep would give us stage business that he knew from his early days with the Shuberts. There was a particular shtick he said would guarantee applause if we did it right. Barry and I were to exit the scene imitating a choo-choo train. The whole thing started with my sneezing, saying, “A-Choo!” It built from there, with Barry moving behind me and putting his hands on my hips, after which the two of us, in lock-step, made like a locomotive picking up steam, going “Choo-choo-choo …” Just as Schwep had said, it got great applause.
It was the first time I realized that applause could be manufactured. As Papa Kranz I wore grotesque makeup that included a putty nose, a cutaway coat, and an application of zinc oxide to my hair, which gave it a silvery glow. I penciled my eyebrows to twice the normal size, and in a Viennese accent emphasized each word as if it were a punch line. I exaggerated my walk and hadn’t the slightest feeling of self-consciousness about what I was doing.
We opened, and the downtown Syracuse newspapers said I had stolen the show. Professor Schweppe said I would someday be a star if I continued on the right track. Making me a star was his goal during my three years as an undergraduate at Syracuse. Being “made over” by a teacher was probably the highest form of stroking I’d ever received.
On occasion the professor would take Bernie Piven, Bette Wolf, Carmine Albino, and myself to Kiwanis luncheons, where he’d introduce us as performing students. We’d do ten-minute scenes from
Blossom Time
and then Schweppe himself would do a great rendition of “Old Man River,” which put the audience away. We students each ended up with ten bucks, which made us feel like pros.
He cast me as Gieber Goldfarb, the cab driver, in
Girl Crazy,
at the Civic Theater on Salinia Street. To this day, it remains my most exciting moment on stage. My need was simply to make people laugh, to be another Eddie Cantor. Though my work was praised, I was told by one faculty member that my characterization made fun of Jews. I was hurt, andprotested that Willie Howard and Fanny Brice used Yiddish accents. I just wanted the audience to love me.
In those musicals I learned firsthand what happened to my emotions when I heard an audience laugh. It was like being alive for the first time. My need to hear laughter became addictive. I wasn’t holding back, and the audience loved it. I never looked at the other actors on stage. They didn’t exist. I played everything straight out, and the audience ate it up. I worked
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