The Country Girl

Here's a coffee, Bernie.

Coffee, Mr Cook?

Let's discuss it. Don't pout as if

I'd just taken away your tricycle.

I'm not pouting. I just disagree.

But Frank Elgin?

Let the doorman read for the part!

Phil, we've been in rehearsal

for five days.

Our leading man was dreadful. Maybe

I was the wrong director for him.

We let him go yesterday.

We do not have a replacement.

We open in Boston on the 28th.

We are in trouble.

- I can do without the sarcasm.

- Let me audition him for you.

Phil, there's no harm

in giving the man a reading.

I agree with you, but when

I wanted to read Ray Watson,

that was a waste of time,

and he's a better actor than Elgin.

A lot of guys can act or sing better,

but nobody can do both as well.

- What about Billy Hertz?

- He's pompous.

This isn't Student Prince

or Blossom Time.

The guy has to act while he's singing

and sing while he's acting.

In Lonesome Town, Elgin played

a part like this. He was magnificent.

- Ask Henry. He played the piano.

- When?

- Eight years ago.

- He didn't fall off bar stools then.

- He hasn't had a drink in ages.

- To a drunk, ten minutes is ages.

- I just want you to listen to him!

- All right, go ahead!

Larry?

- As soon as Elgin comes in...

- He's here.

I didn't want to interrupt.

Send him in.

Now, Cookie, no cracks, please.

- What are you auditioning, owls?

- Hello, Frank. Bernie Dodd.

- How do you do?

- Our producer, Mr Cook.

- Hello. How are you?

- Paul Unger and Henry Johnson.

- Hey, Henry!

- It's been a long time.

I told him to write his own music.

You took my advice, huh?

- How's the family?

- Fine.

- Is your boy in high school?

- The Air Force.

- No!

- Yes, he is.

Let's get started.

I've got a luncheon date.

This is an offbeat show, a

dramatisation of The Land Around Us.

- You remember the book?

- Sure.

The boys have done

an exciting musical adaptation.

The music is part of the fabric,

woven in and out.

Keep the seats from getting dusty,

give them something different.

Yeah. Would you read

a couple of scenes for Mr Cook?

- There's one in the first act...

- Excuse me.

You were speaking of Lonesome Town.

Frank could do the Pitchman number.

That'd show Phil everything.

- All right.

- If I remember it. You sure you do?

I should. Eight performances a week

for a year and a half.

- Describe the number to Mr Cook.

- OK.

It wasn't much, really.

I played one of those pitchmen,

sort of a fanciful character.

Instead of selling a patent medicine,

I was selling a philosophy,

a sunshine salesman.

The scene was a New York

street corner, under a lamppost.

I had a... Is it OK

if I use this for a minute?

- Use anything you like.

- Thanks.

- When I made my entrance...

- OK, I get it. Get on with it.

I was carrying an imaginary valise,

one of those pitchman's outfits.

OK, Henry.

And then a crowd of sourpusses

began to gather round.

A left-handed Indian, this kid.

Friends, I have here in this valise

nostrums, cure-alls, panaceas,

unguents, oils and healing waters.

What did you say, son?

You say the valise is empty?

Son, this valise is loaded.

You're just looking at it,

and your windows are foggy.

What did you say?

You can't see nothing?

There's no trick in believing in

what you see.

The trick is believing in

what you can't see.

You've got to visualise

the indiscernible.

Every item in this valise belongs

to you as well as it does to me.

What's that you say, Officer?

Have I got a licence?

Just the greatest licence

in the world, poetic licence.

You been listening to my pitch?

We're going to the station house?

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