Another opening. Yes, she should keep perspective. But "Bombshell" wasn't just "another show." Not to her. "Bombshell" had been a crucible, it had melted and reformed her – and not she alone, Eileen knew. Of course, in all cases, the base-metal remained the same – and the metal that composed Eileen Rand remained strong stuff, indeed.
Ivy, of course, had also been through the fire with "Bombshell;" seeing the result, Eileen hoped her own transformation would reflect as well on her as Ivy's translation reflected on the nascent star she had come to love. From insecure, massively talented, aging chorine-ingenue to full-blown leading lady, an actress-singer of enormous gifts beginning to fully command them. And Ivy the girl was now Ivy the woman – beautiful, strong, radiant.
Tom and Julia, too – separately and together, had been thrown into the crucible. And "Bombshell" had cost Julia more dearly than it had anyone else.
But these thoughts could – must – wait. The orchestra had begun tuning up. Nick, beside her in the tuxedo she had supplied, closed his hand over hers; she returned the clasp with a sense of gratitude so sharp it was pain. A sense of home. Here, tonight, "Bombshell" opening, Nick at her side. Home.
"Fade in on a girl," sang Ivy. Fade in on a life, fade in on a past. Her first trip to the theatre, wide-eyed, six, in a pink ruffled dress. Eileen Rand, pink ruffles – the juxtaposition's absurdity was a smile in her mind. Her wedding, tailored white (oh, much better than pink ruffles!). The first Tony, the second. Jerry holding them onstage at the awards ceremony. Jerry's hand had always taken hold of the trophy, Jerry had always made the speech. She, Eileen, had been allowed to add a few words.
Jerry's face, dripping martini, again and again. The images in her head had no relation to what was taking place onstage. Except. Except. Ivy-Marilyn was not Julia's (nor Derek's) victim-of-men, nor Tom's flashily triumphant star – neither of these, alone, but both, and more – Ivy's Marilyn sang every woman's journey – or fight – to define herself, to make a mark on the world not writ in water.
She forced her mind back to "Bombshell." Watch. Listen. It meant so much, "Bombshell." It meant her career – separate from Jerry, its success would be vindication. Its failure – failure was not to be contemplated. Not an option. "Bombshell" would succeed, magnificently. Julia's book was very fine, the songs even better. Ivy and Leigh. Leigh Conroy was Leigh Conroy – always. And Ivy was proving, minute by minute, not only a daughter worthy of her mother, but a star who might, perhaps, shine with even greater magnitude.
Good choice of Tom's, re-imagining "Never Give All the Heart" from the second act to the first, from star-Marilyn, looking back at a forlorn history, to young Marilyn, posing nude for her supper, reminiscing with rueful humour at the beginning of her story, hoping for happier chapters to come. The song gained layers, nuances, in Tom's and Ivy's hands, losing only a little of its pathos along the way.
"Bombshell" flowed, inexorably confident, along its arc. More than the sum of its parts – each wonderful – it was good, it was theatre, it was the stuff of her life at its best. Ah, God, yes.
"Cut, Print, Moving On," and curtain down on Act One. Edgy with energy, Eileen stood at her seat, scanning. Tom and Julia, heads together, soft rapid talk. Tom and Julia – "Bombshell's" generators and its touchstones. Derek. Karen and the "Hit List" cast in tow. What had possessed her to give a block of the prime-est theatrical real estate of the season to this rag-tag collection?
That wasn't fair, really, Derek never looked dressed up, even in tails, and the youngsters had all donned their quirky best. What, in fact, had possessed her? Well, face it, Eileen Rand, you like making a gesture. Scratch that – you LOVE making a gesture. Flung cocktails, shredded contracts, house seats tossed like coins to "Bombshell's" poor relation, meriting her notice only because of the two decampments: Derek's fecklessness and Karen's fascination with "Hit List's" young composer. And because of Richard's piece in the Times. That awful essay. Comparisons are odorous, especially when specious. Richard's need to be au courant with anything he considered "cutting edge" had led to wholesale fabrication of parallels between Karen's character in "Hit List" - what was the name? did she have one? - and Marilyn Monroe. Which he then spun into what he hoped might pass for social commentary. Pseudo-clever, shallow, dishonest. As if art existed to lecture. Under her rage had been relief – her instinct not to rush with him had been right. Bless Nick.
Had she also invited "Hit List" to show Derek and Karen what they'd abandoned, and what it had become without them? Perhaps just the teensiest bit? Natural, surely, if a little petty.
Eileen would always remember "Bombshell's opening night, much of it in ridiculous detail, but never whom she spoke to, nor what she said, during intermission.
It had been a battle to get Tom to go back to opening Act Two with the Actor's Studio. "Dig Deep," Second Hand White Baby Grand." Slipping the charming but pointless "Public Relations" in ahead diminished a seminal part of Marilyn's story – a sub-arc that stretched over the later chapters of her life. It had helped that the number had proved nearly impossible to block effectively. It had helped more that Julia had agreed, vehemently, with Eileen. So out, in the end, it had gone.
Marilyn's story unfolded petal by petal. Or had they built her, layer on layer, in Act One, to peel away the layers, one by one, in Act Two? Both. Dialogue melted into song into dance into dialogue.
"Let's Be Bad." The number was an emotional tightrope. It was also exceptionally demanding vocally. And Ivy burned through it like a fierce flame.
The end was inevitable – the spiral toward it mesmerizing. Very daring, almost subversive, making our iconic hero of a dead President such a smarmy second-rate human. Well played, charismatic yet repellant. Ivy's body, displayed in challenge, swiftly covered in humiliation.
Blue spot, Marilyn in a white halter gown. Tom's capricious refusal to re-visit the costumes for Marilyn had been short-lived; it hadn't been difficult to convince him that Ivy's build and coloring needed different cuts, different colors than had worked on Karen. And white – the presence of all color – was as appropriate for Marilyn as it was flattering to Ivy, the color and cut both evoking the iconic "Seven Year Itch" dress.
"Don't Forget Me," Karen-Marilyn had pleaded, fearful and hopeful, uncertain of her legacy. "Don't Forget Me," Ivy-Marilyn commanded, soaring, triumphant, sure of her mark on our souls. Opening night in Boston, the audience had applauded as Karen's lovely voice swooped up and held on "take care." Not tonight, for Ivy's spinning, madly exhilarated vibrato. She finished, "let me be that star!" Silence. One beat. Two. And the thunder crashed, the audience on its feet, roaring. Derek one of the first up, crying "Brava!" Karen standing beside him, looking unsteady, almost sick, but clapping dutifully. The rest of "Hit List," charming children, weren't they, after all, practically jumping up and down with excitement as they cheered. Her show. They were all cheering. Her show.