Authors: Glen Berger
The loom didn’t work that night, but at the end of the show, the
climactic Spidey-Goblin fight thrilled the crowd. Web-throwing spider-men appeared in the aisles; the confetti cannon fired. Reeve and Jenn delivered their final dialogue, and then Reeve swung away over the audience. The final triumphant bars of music played. Blackout. The lights came up. The dancers came out to take their bows . . .
And the audience leaped to their feet. The standing ovation was sustained through the entire curtain call. No “popcorn ovation” this. The reaction by the audience was more boisterous than anything 1.0 ever generated. There on the stage—those weren’t just the gracious smiles of professional performers. They were unfiltered expressions of pure joy, a profound exhale as the company sensed that maybe, just maybe, this thing was going to work out after all. I glanced over at Michael Cohl and Jere Harris. They were giving fist bumps to everyone they saw. They were looking so relieved it was as if they had just received their invitations to the Rapture.
As the audience filtered out, I picked up a program lying on the floor. The cover was different from the 1.0 cover. “Spider-Man” used to be in small letters and “Turn Off the Dark” in big letters. That had now been reversed. The message from the producers was clear:
Nothing overshadows Spider-Man
. I opened to the first page. “Original Direction: Julie Taymor. Creative Consultant: Phil McKinley. Book by Julie Taymor, Glen Berger, and Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa.”
A machine built by the gods to teach humility . . .
Roberto assured me in March his name wouldn’t appear in the program. At a certain point during this last month, this seemed both unfair and preposterous to both of us. But getting
equal
billing also seemed ludicrous. When he found out how the new credits would appear, he didn’t have the heart to tell me. So I
discovered it on my own that night. However, it only took me a minute to get over it. Or more like a week, actually.
I’m still not over it.
Roberto had been on the job two months. I had now been working on the show for six years, and . . . criminy—it was
to the day.
Yes,
exactly
six years before the first preview of this Phil McKinley–helmed production—on May 12, 2005—Julie Taymor had called me after reading my Goblin-piano scene and asked me to be the co-bookwriter of
Spider-Man,
and my heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
O
nce upon a time, in a parallel universe, the
New York Times
ran a photograph, and in it, Bono was congratulating Julie Taymor in front of two thousand friends and associates. And the kiss between the two of them said it all—for in it you saw nothing but love, undying respect, a dash of triumph, and unutterable relief. It was a photograph that—for almost six years—I had already conjured up in my head as one of the indelible images destined to be generated by our show’s opening night.
And the photograph in
this
universe’s
New York Times
looked almost exactly like the one I just described. The only difference was a barely perceptible black-sleeved arm next to Julie. The arm belonged to Phil McKinley. And so that kiss
didn’t
say it all. You could see the love, triumph, and relief. But you couldn’t see the gut-twisting swirl of other emotions, as well as the reams of unspoken words.
During the last weeks of May, while previews for 2.0 were running, Julie was thousands of miles away in her hideaway in Mexico, and she was certain that was where she would be on
opening night. When her assistant Jules first suggested to Julie that she come back to the Foxwoods on June 14 and take a bow, Julie scoffed. It just didn’t seem possible that everyone in this story could be on that one stage without violating some law of emotional physics. Too awkward—it strained the imagination so, no, it wasn’t going to happen. But Jules wasn’t going to give up so easily.
Meanwhile, word of mouth was beginning to spread that the show had turned itself around. Robert Trussell of the
Kansas City Star
had already come out with a positive review, enthusing how “the creators pursue serious artistic ambitions while dishing up spectacle designed to get the same sort of response if you woke up one morning and saw a mastodon grazing in your backyard.” He said the score “included some of the most effective songs I’ve ever encountered in a rock musical.” It was a
bona fide
good review.
Whether or not all the other critics would fall in line, at the very least, perceptions about the show appeared to be
malleable
again, and the producers were eager to shape those perceptions. They launched a new upbeat ad campaign that retained the old rain-soaked font for the title, but now paired it with a tagline (“Reimagined! New Story! New Music!”) in a hyper-slick, zippy font that seemed purposely designed to make Julie’s eyes bleed.
The death of Uncle Ben was augmented. It would get better. Then worse. Then better. There would be a lot of that in those last three weeks—tweaks and cuts, and then the restoring of what was once cut, but only after a tweak. Phil’s assistant, Eileen, confirmed this was her boss’s habit as previews began to wind down. “Phil just needs to leave the theatre—for his own good,” sighed Kat Purvis, who had seen this particular mania seize many a director as opening night approached because changes aren’t made after opening night. For a director, opening night is a kind of death.
• • •
The show’s advance—which was ten million back in January—was now down to six million. Some days saw smooth previews with strong ovations. Other performances were rockier. Spider-men still hung impotently in the air from time to time, confetti cannons misfired, and “Freak Like Me” still wasn’t pleasing anyone. Chase, more than anyone, was eager to find a new angle for the number, but “We’ll get to it, baby doll,” was Phil’s standard response. All directing had to be put on hold until Phil returned from Los Angeles.
In L.A., on May 25, on the season finale of
American Idol,
Reeve, Bono, and Edge debuted their new version of “Rise Above.” An aerialist in a Spider-Man suit flipped over the studio audience, dry ice filled the stage, and 29.3 million viewers heard a song from
Turn Off the Dark
. The single was released that night, peaking at a respectable seventy-four on Billboard’s Hot 100. Hundreds of comments on YouTube praising the song seemed like a mirage when they first appeared. I kept scrolling through the comments looking for some explanation other than the obvious one that people just liked the song.
The sun seemed a little brighter, the air a little fresher. I watched the tree outside my window drop all its leaves last November. Who knew I’d see the tree blossom and now quiver with green leaves again? My landlady wanted to know if she could finally put the sublet back on the market for July.
“That would be ‘Yes.’
”
The last day of May I went upstate for a quick visit home. The next time I’d be going home it would be for good. I got the kids to school. I bought mousetraps because we clearly had a problem. I mowed the lawn. I kissed the children good night. My daughter
woke up and started vomiting. Maybe it was those roasted beets before bed. She was going to be fine. I spent twenty minutes cleaning her rug. And it was glorious. It was all glorious.
And I called Julie Taymor. I knew she wouldn’t answer if she saw my number, which was fine, because I just wanted to leave her a voice mail. “You should come to opening night, Julie. Everything that makes the show great is
yours
. You should come. Accept the flowers.
Take the credit.
”
After seeing the “reboot,” Roger Friedman—who had been a longtime Taymor-booster at his Showbiz411.com—concurred in an article a couple of days later: “Julie Taymor’s going to get a surprise. There’s just as much of her work in the show as there was to start with . . .”
I had given up on “Freak Like Me,” but Roberto came up with a new concept that gave Phil, Chase, and the costume department something to latch on to, and they all dove into revising the scene. It was as Bono said: “When something is good, there is no argument.”
The very last thing in the script to be scrutinized before opening night was the very first thing I ever wrote for the show. Edge and Bono thought the death of the Green Goblin had no twist, no depth of feeling, no
redemption
. There were meetings, e-mails, but we were out of time. Phil broke the news to Bono and Edge that
this
was the show.
“The show, in my opinion, is bulletproof at this point,” Reeve Carney told Patrick Healy in an interview that week. “I mean, as bulletproof as anything can be.” Jenn Damiano told the
Times,
“When someone says something negative about our show now, I’m like, ‘You’re boring me—it’s not cool anymore to be negative about
Spider-Man.
’
”
Edge and Bono added an additional chorus section to the new
version of “Rise Above,” with words that weren’t in the stage version of the song. While the new lyrics were a typical U2esque appeal for peace, they were also written as an intensely personal appeal to their former collaborator:
In a time of treason
Is there time for trust
When there’s no them
Only us
Is there time for reason?
Has your heart had enough?
Is it time to let go
And rise above?
The lads were in California on the ninth of June (making up tour dates), when Bono rang Julie and talked with her for an hour—the longest and most civil chat since the chill days of February. He wanted to see her at the show on opening night. It was a sentiment even Michael Cohl was leaning toward. That is, until the next day, when the Stage Directors and Choreographers Society filed an arbitration claim on behalf of Julie Taymor to recover the $200,000 in royalty payments the producers allegedly owed her (a figure that included only director royalties, not her royalties as co-bookwriter). Of course, the
Times
and the
Post
dutifully covered the news.
Michael Cohl was furious. These were not the headlines he wanted for his show just three days before opening night. He wanted to know if I had any inside info on whether Julie intended to show up at the Foxwoods on the fourteenth. My latest intel from Jules was that Julie was sticking in Mexico.
“Good,”
Michael said. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
It
didn’t
stay that way. Because—among other reasons—on June 12, the 2011 Tony Awards were broadcast, and Julie watched some of the show. The awards were dominated by
The Book of Mormon,
a true smash hit, regularly breaking attendance records and snagging nine Tony Awards, including Best Musical. In humiliating contrast, the show’s emcee, Neil Patrick Harris, challenged himself to tell as many
Turn Off the Dark
jokes as he could in thirty seconds (“Spider-Man is the only musical where the actors in the cast are actually
in
casts”). It wasn’t this wearisome ribbing of
Spider-Man
that got Julie thinking twice about opening night. It was seeing the performance of Reeve and Jenn, singing a tender rendition of “If the World Should End” on a fire escape:
“If this world should all come crashing down I wouldn’t care at all . . .”
Julie felt pangs of nostalgia for the cast and for the show. And a righteous feeling of
ownership
awoke in her. The next morning she called Jules.
She was coming home
. Jules texted the news to Michael that Julie would be attending. Michael Cohl texted her back.
NO, SHE
WON’T
BE ATTENDING.
The arbitration claim had snuffed any lingering impulse in Michael to accept Julie’s presence at the opening. Jules texted back, imploring him to change his mind. Michael was unswayed. In his mind, Julie had been booing and hissing from the sidelines for three months while he sunk yet more millions into the show. Any desire to see an amicable reunion was overruled by his business brain—
why risk it
? He implied to Jules that any attempt by Julie to go to the show would be met with legal action.
But Julie had already landed in New York. And on the morning of the fourteenth, a hair and makeup person was at Julie’s apartment helping her get ready. A car service had been hired. There weren’t any tickets reserved for Julie at the theatre, but Jules had tickets on hold. Julie had figured she’d simply use her assistant’s tickets.
However, when Jules arrived at the theatre, she discovered that Michael had anticipated that move and had those tickets pulled.
It was two p.m. The creative team and assorted celebrities would be on the red carpet on Forty-third Street in just a few hours. And Julie Taymor, the sole director of
Turn Off the Dark
for over three thousand days, now had no way of getting in the door to watch it.
I showed up early. A
Turn Off the Dark
open-roofed tour bus was parked across the street from the red carpet. The sun was out, with a nuzzling breeze. Camera crews had arrived and masses of equipment were being set up. The opening night party after the show was going to be held at the bowling alley around the corner. (After months of losing reservation deposits at ritzier establishments thanks to postponed openings, the general managers finally said, “Screw this. We’re having the party at the Bowlmor.”)
Bags with various opening night gifts were lined up downstairs in the Geeks’ old dressing rooms. One of the gifts was a light switch plate, with a little rectangular hole for your light switch. Above the hole:
TURN OFF THE DARK,
and below it,
TURN ON THE DARK
. And at the bottom of the plate:
OPENING NIGHT DECEMBER 21,
with a bit of corrective tape on top of it, reading
JANUARY 11,
with a bit of corrective tape on top of
that
reading
FEBRUARY 7,
and then another piece of tape with
MARCH 15,
and one more piece of tape with
JUNE 14
.