In this age of 18-year-old icons it’s amazing that the star of the show of this highly celebrated Broadway season is 77 year-old Elaine Stritch. Stritch is neither a film nor TV star (she gave up the chance when she blew her audition for The Golden Girls with her penchant for four letter words.) She is, however, a bona fide theater legend, a “divinely difficult” (in the words of her pal Liz Smith) diva who has some 50 years in show business—and the emotional scars to prove it.
The star of Elaine Stritch at Liberty, which ends its sold-out run at the Neil Simon theatre on May 26 (plans are in the works for a national tour and a special engagement in London), has brought her most indelible character ever to the stage—herself. Stritch created Liberty with drama critic John Lahr—an unflinching, uplifting and unsentimental portrait that covers her life on and off stage with refreshing honesty and astonishing energy. The show takes the audience on a wild ride through the actress’s struggles with alcoholism and stage fright, battles with costars, ill-fated romances (she gets one of her biggest laughs when she reveals why she dumped Ben Gazzara for Rock Hudson: “We all know what a bum decision that turned out to be!”) and, of course, her stellar career. When Stritch belts out Stephen Sondheim’s “I’m Still Here” it’s clear she feels she’s earned the right to claim the anthem as her own. Backstage one night towards the end of the play’s run, “Stritchie” (as she’s known to her pals) held court in her dressing room and served up a no-nonsense diatribe—with a few surprises thrown in for good measure—on her life, loves and that ever-elusive Tony.
Hampton Sheet:
The response to Elaine Stritch at Liberty has been overwhelming. Did you really expect such good notices?
Elaine Stritch:
I hoped for good notices. I thought, ‘Oh God, let me get away with this’—in the sense that I wanted it to fly. I wanted the human race to catch it and run with it.
HS:
How did the idea for the show come about?
ES:
I’m a pretty good storyteller—most good actresses are. I can’t stand keeping anything to myself. If anybody tells me, ‘Will you keep this to yourself if I tell you something?’ I say, ‘Don’t tell me anything that you don’t want me to repeat because I’m not comfortable with it.’ Anyway, the actress in me tells a good yarn and people would say, ‘Why don’t you put this together.’ And so I did this play.
HS:
Whose idea was it for you to wear a white shirt and black tights on stage? Did you have a vision for the production in terms of the sparseness of the design?
ES:
I wanted it to be simple. As far as the shirt and tights, we considered a lot of things. I said, ‘Why are we horsing around here thinking about suits or slacks? I’d like to be as much at ease as I possibly can.’ My favorite, most relaxed time, is rehearsing. I love the process and I wanted to wear what I wear at rehearsals. Tights and a white shirt do me just fine.
HS:
You’ve also spent your career playing other women. What was it like to bring the character of Elaine Stritch to the stage?
ES:
Well I think I’ve brought Elaine Stritch to every single character I’ve ever played. I don’t believe you can escape yourself completely—don’t try to tell me that any actress in the world has completely escaped her persona. I come with the package.
HS:
The dishiness of the play—your stories about Brando, Rock Hudson, and Ben Gazzara—are fascinating. One senses there are a lot more where those came from. Care to share any that didn’t make the cut?
ES:
There are a million more, but that’s as much as I’ve got in me for 2002. Every time I said to the director at rehearsal, ‘Oh, I’ve got to tell this—this is terrific!’ he’d look at me and say, ‘Save it for the book.’ And I’m going to do my book—but I can’t start for another year because I can’t do anything when I’m doing this. I sing 19 songs a night. I have not been out to supper after the show—not once. But I don’t want to go to supper after the show—that’s past history. To do this kind of work I have to go home, eat my dinner, go to sleep for 10 hours if possible, get up, get my hair and makeup done, come here—I’m in my dressing room at 5:30 every night. I’m not complaining, I’m explaining. The people that come to see me every night cheer me on. It’s a far cry from a Tanqueray martini but the results of a martini don’t last. The result of what these people say to me will last me until I take my last breath and beyond—and there’s no hangover involved.
“The people that come to see me every night cheer me on. It’s a far cry from a Tanqueray martini but the results of a martini don’t last.”
