And look here, Angela, I’ve saved my favorite for last.
From Kit Yardley, in the New York Sun, November 30, 1940:
It is well worth seeing City of Girls, if only to enjoy Edna Parker Watson’s costumes—which are delectable, from stem to stern.
SEVENTEEN
We had a hit on our hands.
Within the space of a week, we’d gone from begging people to come see our little play to turning them away at the gates. By Christmas, both Peg and Billy had made back all the money they’d invested, and now the shekels were really pouring in—or so Billy said.
You might have thought that with the success of our show, tensions would have tamped down between Peg and Olive and Billy, but it was not the case. Even with all the accolades and the sold-out house every night, Olive still managed to be anxious about money (her brief experiment with celebration apparently having ended the day after opening night).
Olive’s concern—as she diligently reminded us every day—was that success is always fleeting. It is all well and good, she said, to have City of Girls bankrolling us now, but what will the Lily Playhouse do when the play closes? We had lost our neighborhood audience. The working-class folks whom we’d humbly entertained for so many years had been driven away by our new high ticket prices and our cosmopolitan comedy—and how could we be sure they would return once we went back to business as usual? Because certainly we would be getting back to business as usual sooner or later. It wasn’t as though Billy would stay in New York forever, nor had he promised to write us any more hit shows. And once Edna was lured to a better theater company for a new production—which was bound to happen eventually—we would lose City of Girls. We couldn’t very well expect somebody of Edna’s prestige to stay in our slipshod little playhouse forever. And we couldn’t afford to attract other actors of her caliber once she left. Really, all this abundance had been built on the talents of one woman alone, and that’s an awfully shaky way to run a business.
And on and on it went from Olive—day after day. So much gloom. So much doom. She was a tireless Cassandra, constantly reminding us that ruin was right around the corner, even as we were all intoxicated with victory.
“Be careful, Olive,” said Billy. “Make sure you don’t enjoy a minute of this good fortune—and don’t let anyone else enjoy it, either.”
But even I could see that Olive was correct about one thing: our ongoing success with the show was all due to Edna, who never stopped being extraordinary. I watched that play every night, and I can report that she somehow managed to reinvent the role of Mrs. Alabaster each time. Some actors will get a character right and then freeze the performance, just repeating the same rote expressions and reactions. But Edna’s Mrs. Alabaster never stopped feeling new. She was not delivering her lines, she was inventing them—or so it seemed. And because she was always playing with her delivery and changing the tone, the other players had to stay attentive and vibrant, too.
And New York City certainly rewarded Edna for her gifts.
Edna had been an actress forever, but with the wild success of City of Girls, she now became a star.
The term “star,” Angela, is a vital but tricky designation that can only be bestowed upon a performer by the populace itself. Critics cannot make someone a star. Box-office receipts cannot make someone a star. Mere excellence cannot make someone a star. What makes someone a star is when the people decide to love you en masse. When people are willing to line up at the stage door for hours after a show just to catch a glimpse—that makes you a star. When Judy Garland releases a recording of “I’m Considering Falling in Love” but everyone who saw City of Girls says that your version was better—that makes you a star. When Walter Winchell starts writing gossip about you in his column every week, that makes you a star.
Then there was the table that came to be held for her at Sardi’s every night after the show.
Then there was the announcement that Helena Rubinstein was naming an eye shadow after her (“Edna’s Alabaster”).
Then there was the thousand-word piece in Woman’s Day about where Edna Parker Watson buys her hats.
Then there were the fans, deluging Edna with letters, asking questions like