On a Gracious Note, the Phantom Bids Farewell

I’ll argue with anyone who says Los Angeles isn’t much of a theater town. Logistically, I suppose, it is difficult to get to the theater, but there is terrific support for it in this remarkably energetic city that is enriched not just by “The Phantom of the Opera” but by many of its smaller theaters as well.

My experience with this city began with those last moments of our final run-through after four weeks of gritty New York rehearsal. Someone made the announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, our next rehearsal will be in Los Angeles!” I’d forgotten that so many of our company, including our leading lady, Dale Kristien, were Los Angeles natives.

The adrenalin was pumping, the excitement was palpable--they were going home. The din and cheers that followed were heartfelt and quite deafening. Now I know what the cheering was about.

My personal experience of California began 20 years ago when I arrived in San Francisco to promote a film. It had also been arranged that I use the time to meet Gene Kelly who was casting and directing the film version of “Hello, Dolly!” with Barbra Streisand and Walter Matthau. He had seen me in a film called “The Jokers” and thought I might do for the part of Cornelius Hackl, the idealistic clerk from turn-of-the-century Yonkers.

Arriving at the hotel I got a message saying, “Gene Kelly called, will call later.” (I’ve still got that piece of paper. How could I ever just throw it away?)

A representative called to say Mr. Kelly would meet me at the hotel at 10 the next morning. I was up at six, had a bath, washed my hair, shaved, got dressed. It was 10 past seven. I tried shaving again. The bad news was evident in all the tiny daubs of toilet paper on my chin and neck. The good news: I removed at least three layers of freckles from my face.

At 10 the bell rang. Kelly stood there.

“Uhhhhh . . . Haaaaaah . . .” I croaked. That was his first sight and sound of me, a skinny kid, with long gangly legs.

“Ahhh . . . Would you like to come in?” I stammered. He walked in and sat down never taking his eyes off me.

“Do sit,” I stuttered, after the fact.

“Let’s cut the small talk,” he said. “Can you dance?”

“Well, actually . . .”

“Can you give me a few steps?”

“ Now ? . . . Immediately?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just do something.”

“But I haven’t had breakfast yet. And I’ve got jet lag. It’s affected my legs.”

“Try this,” he said, cleaning off the coffee table and doing some tap steps on it.

“Oh, that !” I said, panicked, getting up and bumbling around.

“Siddown,” he said. “What we’re looking for here in ‘Dolly’ is an attractive kind of idiot. Now, my wife . . . Well, my wife thinks you’re attractive. And I think you’re an idiot. So between us, you may be right for this musical.”

I got the role and came to Los Angeles with my family to live in a house in Bel-Air with a garden and a pool; it was a fantasy life for six glorious months. The chance to work with the very best people in Hollywood was unforgettable. I don’t know whether it was my legs or my voice, but it took me 20 years to get back.

The question I’m repeatedly asked is the difference between New York, London and Los Angeles. Was the opening here as exciting? I can honestly answer that opening nights--whether at the Ahmanson or the Pasadena Playhouse--are every bit as exciting to the people involved as opening nights on Broadway. There are nuances, of course, moments in each case that trigger wonderful memories. But when I think of the Los Angeles opening, I will always remember that Gene Kelly was there as my special guest. He said he was proud of me--words I’ll remember and cherish.

This time, the view from my window doesn’t quite match the sumptuous garden I had years ago in Bel-Air. This time, I rented a little apartment adjacent to the Music Center in downtown L.A., and my windows overlook a parking lot--a view I wouldn’t trade for anything. You wouldn’t believe what goes on there. It’s a microcosm of human experience.

I watched a woman park her car one morning and walk toward the Music Center. Someone else watched her too. Within minutes he went up to her car and, armed with a coat hanger, went to work. Citizen Crawford on the alert! I grabbed the phone and dialed 999.

That’s very effective--but only if you’re calling Scotland Yard. After a scramble for Information, I dialed 911 and got a very patient female dispatcher. “There’s a man breaking into a car,” I reported breathlessly. “Where are you, sir?” she asked.

“Facing the Music Center,” I said.

“North or south?”

“My dear madam,” I replied haughtily, “I have no idea--I’m English .”

“You must know if you’re north or south,” she said, not unreasonably.

“I’m facing the Music Center, facing it! “ I repeated, as though she’d gone deaf.

“And I’m here,” she said, “but I still don’t know where you are.” Two police cars sped past the parking lot. “Where Superman worked is on my left,” I finally said, making her understand that I meant Los Angeles City Hall. Back at the car, the perpetrator slipped the car radio into a plastic bag and wandered down the block.

Ten minutes later, of course, a police car cruised in. I’m only sorry I wasn’t entirely effective in my pursuit of justice.

I was quite a bit more effective in another situation. During performances of “Phantom,” when I’m above the proscenium arch, I have a long wait during which I get a chance to scrutinize the audience. Once, I saw this man with a camera, clicking away, which is against the rules. The usher could hear the click, but couldn’t spot the guy. I gave the stage manager a complete description.

When the usher found him, the man wouldn’t surrender the camera. There was nothing to do but wait for intermission when the house manager could requisition it. I then saw the guy take out the film and hand it to the woman next to him who handed it to the woman next to her. When the manager pulled the man out, he asked the woman to come along too. In her handbag, they found eight rolls of film.

Some of the old landmarks, too, have changed, I’ve noticed. Grauman’s Chinese isn’t Grauman’s any more. The Hollywood premiere for “Hello, Dolly!” was held there. I’d never visited it as a tourist, so early last Christmas morning, I went with some friends to Mann’s Chinese to explore and compare all the footprints.

I stood in Fred Astaire’s and had my picture taken. For a while there were just the three of us, then suddenly there were 30 Japanese tourists. And the guy who draws on T-shirts came over and asked, “ ‘Scuze me, aren’t you Michael Crawford?” It was the first time I ever felt famous, right there in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard.

As for memorable moments? Well, the New Year’s Party at the home of producer Cubby Broccoli and his wife will rank with the best. My 23-year-old daughter, Emma, and I arrived late, after the performance. The party was in full swing and Mrs. Broccoli had me seated next to--I couldn’t believe it--Frank Sinatra. We weren’t going to stay long; I can’t take late nights because of my voice, and when Sinatra told me his driver had taken the night off, I offered him a lift home.

We left about half past midnight; he sat in front with me. Emma, her mouth down to her knees in amazement, sat in back between Barbara Sinatra and Barbara’s mother. We reached their home; the gates opened to reveal a splendid avenue of trees, alive with sparkling lights, bordering the driveway’s sweep. They kindly asked us in.

I sat and talked with Sinatra, man-to-man, over drinks--a wonderful talk about singing and voice control (with the master!) and our love and respect for Gene Kelly. We were there till 3 in the morning.

When we left, he saw us to our car.”Back up here,” he said, pointing. I backed up, and Emma turned to me aghast. “Daddy!,” she said, “I think you’ve run over Frank Sinatra!” I think I ran over his foot--or maybe his shoe. He continued to wave, perhaps pleased to see us go. I kept imagining the headlines: “Frank Sinatra Run Over By New Year’s Guest! Phantom Flees!”

Among the other memories I leave behind is that of Sammy Davis Jr. in the opening night audience, applauding more vigorously than anyone. He saw the show in New York twice, in London twice, in L.A. twice. That’s real devotion. There is also Margaret Irwin, who guards the backstage entrance to the Ahmanson, and knows how much I love plants. She’s planting a tree for me, in the ivy outside the stage door.

I’m sorry to leave Los Angeles and the remarkable “Phantom” company. I shall miss them all, especially our gracious leading lady, Dale Kristien, who made every night on stage an absolute delight. And I send my love and good wishes to the new “Phantom,” Robert Guillaume. As for me, I have a new role to play now, a part I have wanted to do for quite a while--that of total tourist, driving with my younger daughter, Lucy, 22, across these magnificent United States. I’m off to Florida to make an appearance for “Give Kids the World,” an Orlando-based organization that provides shelter and a holiday at Disney World for children with terminal illnesses. It’s also a great excuse for me to visit Disney World.

Then I go home to rest. Home is London--on the river near Tower Bridge. On doctors’ orders, I must rest my voice--I must shut up for six to seven weeks. I am tired and have used my technique to its limit. To have gone on in the role for as long as I have was slightly foolhardy, but it’s hard to stop when you’re having fun.

The filming of “The Phantom”; in which I will repeat the role; should start in September. But I hope to be back in Los Angeles some time this summer.

In the 11 months that I’ve been here, I never did lunch.

I’ll be coming to lunch.