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[0:00] Robert W. Schneider: You know, one of the most dangerous things in theater isn't a bad review, it's not a producer running out of money, it's not even a star forgetting their lines on opening night. No, one of the most dangerous things in theater is when a genius becomes successful enough that nobody tells them no. Anthony Newley was a genius. Not very talented, not underrated, a genius, capital G, genius. I am a genius, capital J. He was an actor, a singer, a songwriter, a director, a playwright, the co-creator of some of the most beloved songs of the 20th century. He wrote standards, he created hit musicals, he influenced David Bowie, he married Joan Collins. He was the kind of artist who walked into a room and immediately made everyone else seem slightly less interesting.

And by the early 1980s, Anthony Newley had spent 20 years proving that Anthony Newley was Anthony Newley. Then he found Charlie Chaplin, or perhaps Charlie Chaplin found him. Because the more you look at their lives, the more they seem like reflections of one another. Two poor boys who conquered the entertainment world, two performers who wrote, directed, starred, and controlled their own work, two men with enormous talent, enormous ambition, and let's be honest, enormous egos. So when Newley decided to create a musical about Chaplin, it wasn't just another project. It became a mission, an obsession, a crusade. And that's when things started to go wrong. Was Anthony Newley creating a masterpiece, or was Anthony Newley standing in the way of one?

Today on Broadway Bound, we're examining a passion project that consumed one of theater's greatest talents, and the cautionary tale of what happens when a genius spends so much time chasing perfection that perfection becomes impossible. And by the end of this story, you'll have to decide for yourself. Was Chaplin a lost masterpiece, or was it the show that finally proved that even geniuses need someone willing to tell them no? Chaplin, on this episode of Broadway Bound, the musicals that never came to Broadway.

[1:58] Robert W. Schneider: Hi, I'm Robert Schneider, and welcome to another episode of Broadway Bound, the musicals that never came to Broadway. The theme of this season is stars. The stars that we spoke about this season all had egos, but no egos that were truly responsible for the closing of their show, until today's episode. When a show went awry, some blamed the director, some blamed the writer, some blamed the other star. But what happens when you were the one doing all of those things, and your show still gets trampled? Who do you blame? I imagine that if any star we discussed this season was in this position, they would eventually go, wow, maybe I'm not as good as I thought. Well, not our genius du jour, Anthony Newley, whose ego was as big as his vibrato.

Anthony Newley was everything on Chaplin, the musical, and somehow none of the horrible reviews, legal troubles, and lack of creativity was ever the fault of the conceptualizer, writer, composer, lyricist, star, director, Anthony Newley.

[2:56] Robert W. Schneider: Anthony Newley, if you don't know him, was ubiquitous on television in the 60s and some of the 70s. He was an anomaly, a performer whose style was so unique, he was the inspiration for David Bowie. And while you might not know his name, you know the songs he wrote. Feeling Good, Goldfinger, Who Can I Turn To, What Kind of Fool Am I, Once in a Lifetime, I've Got a Golden Ticket, Pure Imagination, The Candyman, and the list goes on and on. Newley's ego was cultivated at an early age like a defense mechanism due to a tumultuous upbringing in East London during the 1930s. He never knew his father, and his single mother made Layla Rogers look like an absent mother. In the 1940s, he worked as a child actor gaining notoriety in David Lean's Oliver Twist as the Artful Dodger, but he really became a U.K. star in Idle on Parade, a film where he played an Elvis-like star getting into the army. Now, this dovetailed him into being a pop star in England with I've Waited So Long, Personality, Why, Do You Mind, and, of course, Pop Goes the Weasel.

[3:55] Robert W. Schneider: In 1961, Newley tried the West End along with Leslie Bricusse, and they wrote a bizarre little musical called Stop the World, I Want to Get Off, giving birth to such hits as Gonna Build a Mountain, Once in a Lifetime, and What Kind of Fool Am I, which becomes a Newley standard. Now, Newley did not just write the musical, which told the story of a little man named Little Chap from birth to death. He directed it and starred in it. David Merrick saw it and brought it to New York City, where it became a big old hit, launching Newley onto every radio and TV show possible. America was fascinated by this man with the weird voice, self-indulgent performance style, and hand gestures that would make Judy Garland go, tone it down a bit.

Four years later, back on Broadway, with the roar of the grease paint to the smell of the crowd, where Newley played cocky in Every Man at the Mercy of Life, this one introduced the world to a wonderful day like today. Look at that face. Who can I turn to? And feeling good. Same thing. He wrote it. He directed it. He starred in it. Soon, as always, Hollywood began to call, and something interesting began to happen. Saying no to Newley, who was a self-proclaimed genius, was not something many would or could do. It was his world. We were just guests. No one thought more highly of Newley than Newley. So much so, it was one of the major factors in his divorce to actress Joan Collins.

[5:09] Robert W. Schneider: Everything came to a halt for Newley in 1969, when he was allowed to write, direct, produce, and star in one of the worst films of the 1960s, called Can Hieronymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Hump and Find True Happiness?, which starred him, as well as Joan Collins, as the pivotal role of Polyester Poontang. Yes, that was the character's name, Polyester Poontang. Drag queens, I hope you're listening. The reviews for Can Hieronymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Hump and Find True Happiness? The reviews. Vincent Canby wrote in the New York Times that Newley, quote, so overextends and overexposes himself that the movie comes to look like an act of professional suicide. The Sunday Times Guide to Movies on Television, this was Angela and Elkin Allen—I'm wondering if they're married or if they're sisters—asked, Can Anthony Newley Ever Remember That He Is Just a Pleasant Light Comedian and Settle Down to Earn an Unpretentious Living?

British film critic Leslie Halliwell said, Obscure and pointless personal fantasy, financed at great expense by a major film company as a rather seedy monument to Anthony Newley's totally uninteresting sex life and to the talent which he obviously thinks he possesses. The few mildly amusing moments are not provided by him. So, a failed movie, a failed marriage, and the fact he was now a tax exile forced Newley into a new category—has been. The TV public was sick of the shtick, pop music was changing, and Newley fled to Las Vegas, where he was a headliner for Caesar's Palace, singing all of his great hits night after night. But for a talent like Newley, just appearing after a nice prime rib dinner and a keno game wasn't satisfying for him.

He wanted to make a return to legitimacy, but how? Well, that changed when he got an idea from a producer named Don Gregory in 1978. Now, Gregory had a niche as a producer. One person shows about famous people. He produced Henry Fondas, Clarence Darrow, Julie Harris as Emily Dickinson, James Earl Jones as Paul Robeson. He asked Newley if he had any interest in doing a one-man show about Charlie Chaplin. Newley thought about it, but he wasn't a fan of Chaplin. He admired him, but never laughed at him. But he found some sort of kinship with Chaplin's early life. Like Newley, he too was an East London kid, a product of a broken home, a multi-hyphenate, and a man who used art to get out his frustration with the world.

[7:23] Robert W. Schneider: But it wasn't a one-man show. In Newley's mind, it was a musical, much like the musical he wanted to make about Napoleon, which would star him and Barbra Streisand as Josephine. Can you imagine? So, they parted ways, but not ideas. At the same time this was happening, Newley got a mystery script, a thriller script from a writer named Stanley Ross. Ross was a major television writer, writing most of the Batman TV show episodes and a bunch of episodes for All in the Family. The name Archie, of Archie Bunker and Mike Stivick were Ross' ideas. Now, Newley didn't take to the mystery script, but he liked Ross and asked if he had ever done a musical before. And the answer was no. But that didn't stop Newley and Ross from musicalizing the life of Charlie Chaplin.

Now, bio-musicals are tough. The best advice given to Newley and Ross was, don't do his whole life, just do a section of it. But Newley knew better, or thought he knew better. His first musical covered the life and death of a character. Why couldn't Chaplin? Well, little chap wasn't a real person. The little tramp was. But besides that, so, they read everything they could on Chaplin. And what they learned was that he was a genius of silent comedy, a tough auteur. But offstage, well, here are some of the Chaplin highlights. He was 35 when he married 16-year-old Lida Gray after getting her pregnant. The Joan Barry paternity case, which led him to being prosecuted for transporting her across state lines for immoral purposes.

His marriage to Una O'Neill when he was 54 and she was 18. That he was a communist sympathizer. His exile from America, and so on, and so on. So, where is the hero in this asshole? Well, Newley could focus on the talent of the man, obviously. He could recreate Chaplin's adorable little tramp persona, showing how funny this man was, and create a musical about the contrast between the adorable little tramp and the monster offstage. But Newley couldn't do that because he did not have the rights to use the Chaplin image. He was forbidden to recreate scenes from the movies, dialogue, play movie clips, or even wear Charlie Chaplin's bowler hat or look like Charlie Chaplin. So, how do you do a musical about Charlie Chaplin and not be Charlie Chaplin?

What is there even left to musicalize? If there is any moment to musicalize, it would probably be when Chaplin was banned from entering the United States in the 50s for his inability to answer questions about being a communist sympathizer. How does that impact him? How can the country he loved and the country he gave so much to turn their back on him? Well, Newley, who always knew better, decided to forge on anyway. He didn't care if he couldn't do Chaplin bits because he thought Chaplin wasn't funny. It was the sad life of Chaplin, the abandoned, tortured East London kid that Newley wanted to explore, the life is hard being an artist, oh, to be a tortured genius, where all that little kid longing to be loved angle that Newley felt he understood inherently.

When you think of that sleazy, tortured, lounge singing artist, you think of Newley with his over emotive qualities, the life is a stage conceptualizations. Newley even once said, quote, only those of us who have been through glamour can know how painful it really is. Give me a break. Newley came up with the idea that Chaplin was a funny guy, funny man, and wanted to include a song about it, which eventually was reprised in the show a hundred times just to make sure the audience really understood. And if it sounds like Candyman, maybe it does. Here's one of the songs.

[11:34] ♪ Musical number: "Funny Man" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[12:18] Robert W. Schneider: At first, it would be Newley and Burt Bacharach doing the score, but Bacharach smartly left the project. So it would be Ross and Newley and the story would cover every aspect of Chaplin's life. There would be three chaplains on stage. Chaplin is a boy. Chaplin is the movie star. And Chaplin...

[12:37] Robert W. Schneider: As the old man, Newley would play the latter two Chaplins, with Newley also playing Newley, the narrator.

[12:46] ♪ Musical number: "Funny Man" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[15:18] Robert W. Schneider: With John Rubenstein as Chaplin, Joe Layden directing, and a book by Ernest Kenoy and a Roger Anderson and Lee Goldsmith score. When interviewed about the two Chaplins coming at the same time, Newley would say, with a minimum of modesty, our having Chaplin in the person of Anthony Newley infinitely helps us. There are very few performers who have that insane quality of physical comedy and movement. When I read this, I had to reread that quote to see if that was someone else talking about Newley, but no, it was actually Newley talking about himself. What in God's name? So, not only did the Gregory Project with John Rubenstein never ever happen, but Merrick could see that working with Newley again wasn't worth his time, so he dropped the project, which was then picked up in December of '82 by James Niederlander, who wisely said Newley could not direct the show, so they picked Michael Smuin, a director-choreographer who had just worked Miracles on Sophisticated Ladies.

He was also running the San Francisco Ballet at the time. Smuin was told they wanted a big old extravaganza with glitz and glamour, but they could not use any Chaplin iconography, dialogue, etc. No worries, Smuin would figure out something, and he knew he could deliver on the glitz, so he got Douglas Schmidt to do the scenery, Willa Kim on the costumes, and the great Ken Billington on lights. The plan would be that this $4.3 million musical would try out in Los Angeles in August and September of 1983, then open at the Mark Hellinger Theatre on November 10, 1983, coming in during the iconic season of La Cage Aux Folles, Sunday in the Park with George, Baby, The Rink. Actually, believe it or not, La Cage is one of the main reasons Chaplin doesn't go to Broadway.

In June of '83, as Chaplin is about to go into rehearsals in LA, James Niederlander was producing and prepping the previews of La Cage out in Boston, and he invited the producer, talk show host David Susskind, to come see the show. Even before the curtain goes up, Susskind was like, how much can I invest in La Cage? And Niederlander was like, well, why don't you watch the show first, see if you like it, and we'll go from there. At intermission, Susskind ran over to Niederlander with his checkbook and was like, La Cage is going to be a big fat hit, what can I do to get in? They both agreed on $500,000, that is not disputed by either one of them, and that would be the last thing that they agreed on.

And Niederlander said to him, allegedly, I can give you a $250,000 share in La Cage if you put $500,000 into Chaplin. Now, Susskind was Suss, Anthony Newley, Stanley Ross, oh, but he really wanted in La Cage, he knew it was going to make a lot of money, so okay. Susskind wrote $750,000 on a cocktail napkin, and that was the agreement. Then a month later, Niederlander was like, hey, we need that $750,000 now for Chaplin, and Susskind was like, no, $500,000 for Chaplin, $250,000 for La Cage, like we discussed. And Niederlander said, no, I said that all $750,000 was for Chaplin, and you give an additional $250,000 for La Cage. So Susskind did it when Niederlander said, look, I can find the $250,000 somewhere else for La Cage, leaving Susskind out in the cold.

Susskind didn't want that, so he forked over all the money. Out in LA, rehearsals were a bit complicated. It took a cross-country search to find the young boy who'd play Little Charlie. They found a guy named Scott Grimes. He had a great career. He was like 10 years old, and he'd already done 25 commercials, and he originated the role of Pepe in Nine. Which one is Pepe? He's one of the boys walking around with a tambourine. And three weeks before they began, they had auditioned over 3,000 actresses to play the role. It was an actress that they were looking for that would play the role of Una O'Neill, Lida, and Paulette Goddard. Couldn't find anybody, but eventually, three weeks before the first rehearsal, they found Andrea Marcovici, the great cabaret singer.

The show, which had 16 different scripts before the opening night, had 44 scenes. It was a strange beast. Newley and Ross, honestly, in the story, wrote a boring, then this happened, then this happened, linear musical, with narrators telling you, not showing you, what happened to Charlie. His most exciting moments all seemed to happen offstage. The narrators, like I said, would be Chaplin, Stan Laurel, of Laurel and Hardy, and Anthony Newley, as Anthony Newley. Smuin begged Newley and Ross to dramatize those moments, but no, Dice, what if there was less, I'm a tortured artist, and my life is so sad, wah-wah, and more comedy? Nope, Newley didn't want that. The only thing they allowed Smuin to do was to fragment the story, so it was non-linear, at least.

The one thing that seemed to be working was the show's technical wizardry. Smuin and Douglas Schmidt concocted magical movie moments to keep the show dazzling its audiences. If you can find a bootleg of this online, it's incredible to watch. The sets were so iconic that when Newley appeared on the Johnny Carson show, he discussed them. Johnny? Yesterday, we went to look at the stage at the Dorothy Chandler, which is completely clear, except for about 300 guys with oxyacetylene torches. It looks like a shipyard down there, because our set is enormous. It goes up and turns sideways and comes in steam and everything, and it's really kind of a staggering sight to see a show taking shape. Obviously, you can't cover all of Chaplin's life. Is there a certain period in his...

[20:31] Robert W. Schneider: We, in fact, John, do cover his entire life, from the age of six to his death. Yeah. We flesh forward and backward in time and mix them up. I always found Chaplin's childhood fascinating, because both Stan and I were more interested in the making of Chaplin, the clown, than Chaplin, the performer, because I always thought that was done. Nobody did that better than him. So, really, our story is the private Chaplin, which is a pretty extraordinary story. And while we're here, we should probably play the song that Anthony Newley sang on The Tonight Show to promote Chaplin, the musical. I will let Anthony Newley set it up. Toward the end of the show, Charlie was having great trouble with the American political scene, and he was very unpopular.

The dichotomy between that funny little guy on the screen, the poor man, and the private Chaplin was so enormous for the American public, they couldn't believe that this guy... In real life, he was a millionaire. He loved his millions, and he married very young girls, which they also couldn't understand. And so the two Chaplins were so different, that I think, to many people's eyes here, he became a bit of a monster. And on the boat coming to Europe, the Internal Revenue sent him a cable saying, you will not be allowed back into America unless you stand trial on your politics and your morals. And it broke his heart. And he sings this song to the Statue of Liberty as it fades into the background. Can I sing it?

[22:01] Robert W. Schneider: Yes, please.

[22:02] ♪ Musical number: "Goodbye, Lady Liberty" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[25:04] Robert W. Schneider: Shine on, lady. Now you're free.

[25:16] ♪ Musical number: "Sweet Dreams" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[26:06] Anthony Newley: I thought now might be a very good time to return to Broadway. Broadway's been very good to me and mine, and I'd like to get back to it.

[26:28] Robert W. Schneider: What kind of apprehensions, if any, do you have about going back on stage again?

[26:33] Anthony Newley: All the normal ones. Will one be accepted? I mean, will one enjoy the same success one had in the 60s?

[26:43] Robert W. Schneider: Why should people in the economically difficult times pay 40, 50 bucks to come and see you?

[26:52] Anthony Newley: I doubt whether I would pay 40 bucks to come and see me unless it was, as I say, an earth-shattering event. But we live in difficult times, and wanting to make people laugh or cry may not be the most important thing in their life anymore.

[27:08] Robert W. Schneider: On August 12th, 1983, the musical premiered at the massive Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, and the first review that came in was from a TV critic who said, "It's amazing! Go get your tickets now!" For Newley, who had not been on a theatrical stage in 17 years, that review must have felt great. But it was hard to hear that review over David Suskind yelling and screaming, because David Suskind had flown in to see the show and was screaming full voice in the lobby of the theater during intermission at Newley's new agent and other co-producer, yelling how bad the show is, and that this agent-slash-producer was, quote, a poser, an idiot, an adult. Don't believe him?

[27:49] Anthony Newley: The newspaper said enough to back him up. The L.A. Times, they adored Michael Smuin's direction and choreography. They loved Douglas Schmidt's scenery, Willa Kim's costumes, Ken Billington's lights. But on the show, they said, quote, "Not only is the psychologizing pretentious and unnecessary, it backfires." The Los Angeles Herald-Examiner writer Jack Vertell, yes, this one and only, said there is scant hope that even the greatest cosmeticians will be able to disguise its basic emptiness. Variety made up of 41 scenes and two acts, the show plays like a rush hour on the freeway. But Smuin is a terrific traffic director. Newley's performance is undistinguished. There's none of the spunk and cheekiness he displayed in the musicals of the 60s in which he starred. Admitted, he's playing an older man, but there should be more enthusiasm, especially in portraying such a colorful character as Chaplin.

[28:38] Robert W. Schneider: The Desert Sun Review, and I've said it before, friends, if you can't get The Desert Sun Review, why bother? When you see a play about George Gershwin, you expect music. When it's Sarah Bernhardt, you expect drama. And when you attend a theatrical production about Charlie Chaplin, you expect comedy. Don't expect many laughs from the Los Angeles Civic Light Opera production of Chaplin, now playing at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. This play is more of a musical drama than a laugh-getter, like most of the Little Tramp's classic films. The San Francisco Chronicle, their headline, "An Ego Gets in the Way of Rebuilding Chaplin." Basically, this is the Anthony Newley show, or the Anthony Newley tell, because the audience has never shown anything, and the only comedy comes at the end of the first act, when Newley did a Chaplin routine that he would do in his music hall days, the drunk opera patron, which is honestly best seen in the 1992 biopic Chaplin, starring Robert Downey Jr.

[29:29] Anthony Newley: Even the L.A. audiences were turning on Newley, who they all agreed was one-dimensional and just played Chaplin as he played little chap, cocky, and, well, Anthony Newley. Una O'Neill said she wasn't happy, but wasn't going to waste her time trying to stop such a clear disaster. And to make matters worse, in an interview, Anthony Newley once again said that Chaplin wasn't funny and that his sound films were some of the worst films ever. That got people protesting, with one editorial saying in an editorial letter described as a man and his ego, quote, "How can Newley, with so little sensitivity and awareness of Chaplin's great gift, possibly portray Charlie on the stage? A better title for the show would be An Evening with Anthony Newley, His Ego and Company."

[30:12] Robert W. Schneider: What to do, what to do. Soon, the doctors converge in L.A., everyone coming out to help. Leslie Bricusse, Larry Grossman, Alan Fitzhugh, director George Schaeffer, David Suskind, they all come in with ideas. Well, to their credit, Newley and Ross worked every night after the performances, rewriting. They put the whole show in chronological order. They cut scenes that made no sense, like a scene where grave robbers steal the body of Charlie Chaplin. And some things didn't need to change because they were complimented by the critics. A couple of songs, like this song called The American Dream.

[30:43] ♪ Musical number: "The American Dream" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[31:54] Anthony Newley: It's strange, really, because when I first saw Times Square, I was so disappointed. I mean, it looked so grubby. Like an old bum waking up in a bed of yesterday's newspapers. And Fifth Avenue, well, Fifth Avenue was so overpowering. The tall buildings looking down as if to say, "You'll never make it here, Limey, you're not tough enough." But when evening fell, and New York burst into flame with her nighttime jewelry, she became an enchanted city. And suddenly I understood. The skyscrapers, the advertising signs, the hustle, the bustle. America wasn't just a country. She was optimism. Hope. Faith in the future. America was a brilliant idea. And I said to myself, "This is it. This is where I belong."

[32:47] ♪ Musical number: "The American Dream" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[33:42] Anthony Newley: Or this lovely song for Sidney, Charlie's brother.

[33:45] ♪ Musical number: "Hello God, This Is Sidney" — performed by Anthony Newley ♪

[35:00] Anthony Newley: And sadly even some of the bad songs stayed, like Why Can't They Leave My Private Life Alone.

[37:52] Robert W. Schneider: The thing you love, I don't know. I like crumpets with my tea, why? I don't know. Mozart fills me with ennui, why? I don't know. I prefer my roast beef rare, why? I don't know. I don't know, and I don't care, why? I don't know. I don't give a damn. Loving someone half my age is part of who I am.

[38:46] Robert W. Schneider: This is Tom Kirby for Photo Play. Then the production team took an unorthodox step. They could tell that the show was improving, and they invited back the critics who panned it. They were now playing to standing ovations to let the critics see the work they had done on it. "Progress has been made," wrote Mr. Vertel in the Herald-Examiner. Mr. Sullivan's reappraisal in the Los Angeles Times appeared under a headline stating, quote, "Chaplin, it came a long way." It was still not enough, and the closing notice was posted a week earlier at the Pavilion than anticipated. But something had shifted in someone, David Susskind. Now he was liking the show and thought it had potential. Before the last LA performance on September 24th, Mr. Susskind addressed the cast and crew. He told them, "It's a wonderful show. Now we're coming to New York, and we're gonna open."

[39:32] Robert W. Schneider: What? How? The deal Susskind made with Nederlander, Arthur Rubin, and Raymond Katz—that's Newley's new agent—was this: Mr. Susskind put up the first $500,000, the other men collectively the next $200,000, and Mr. Susskind a final $400,000. In return, Mr. Susskind won top billing as producer, artistic control of the show, and an itemized breakdown of all the expenses. None of this, however, was put on paper, just agreed upon verbally. Guys, we saw what happened last time. Why is nobody writing anything down? The next morning, ten trucks picked up the scenery and costumes and headed to the Hellinger. Actors had put down a thousand-dollar deposits on apartments in New York. Kathy Lohr, the mother of Aaron Lohr, a seven-year-old actor in Chaplin, said that she had taken an unpaid leave from her nursing job, pulled Aaron out of school, and rented a New York apartment for herself, her mother, and Aaron.

The night before their flight, they heard the deal was off. Mr. Rubin and Mr. Nederlander said they'd decided that facing $300,000 in pre-production expenses in New York, they would not begin rehearsals until they received $500,000 from Mr. Susskind.

[40:43] Robert W. Schneider: Now, Mr. Susskind said his understanding was that he would pay $250,000 on Friday, October 14th, rehearsals would begin on Monday, October 17th, and he would pay another $250,000 on Tuesday, October 18th. Since he was out of town on the 14th, Mr. Susskind sent his aides to the Nederlander organization office with a check for $250,000 and with the message that he doubted the accuracy of the cost accounting on Chaplin. Mr. Nederlander countered that he was asking for the money because word on the street was that Susskind didn't have it. That was it. David Susskind did what any good producer would do. He wrote a telegram to the Nederlander saying, quote, "I have no more involvement in Chaplin," and then he proceeded to vomit.

That's a true story. Newley, Ross, and Katz scrambled trying to get the missing $1.5 million to get Chaplin into the Hellinger, but to no avail. A few months later, ironically, it would be filled with the musical version of the film that made Newley a star, Oliver. But Newley did not want to give up. He was not a loser. He was the man who created two of the most iconic shows of the 1960s. He was still viable, and most importantly, he was right. The biggest mistake, he thought, was how overproduced the show was and how poorly directed it was. He said Smooin directed it like Hello, Dolly! Newley said he was never in a Hello, Dolly! type show, so why would Michael Smooin direct it like that? Why was there so much set when all he needed was a ladder and a spotlight?

[42:07] Robert W. Schneider: I don't know, Anthony. Maybe because he asked for those things or because the tone of the show needed it. Anyway, Newley would find a theater to produce Chaplin. His Chaplin, the world would see his genius. It would go to Broadway, and Newley would be on top again. But he would not try out in Texas and their theater under the stars. Yee-haw and pip-pip! The new idea was to partner with Theater Under the Stars, presented as part of their free outdoor series, get so many Houston businessmen to invest in it, and take it to Broadway where Newley would be on top. Houston's wealthy, prominent businessmen would be in the show business, and Chaplin would be the musical success Newley thought it should be.

Now, to make sure it worked, the first thing Newley did was to make sure he would direct it. He said that Smooin was the only director he'd ever allowed to direct his own work, and he regretted that because clearly, the rave reviews Smooin got were just accidents. When asked why this version, the Houston version, would succeed, Newley said, quote, "The style of the show now is more Newley. The obliviousness to seeing the world around him, what kind of fool am I really does strike differently, doesn't it?"

[43:15] Robert W. Schneider: Well, the show opened in July of 1985 in Texas, and the reviews somehow were worse than LA. The Houston Chronicle said Newley, who makes the mistake of trying to be all things to this show, as Chaplin himself did in certain films, has clearly lost his way in the miasma of Newley-isms. As author, he has not found the single keen thread to make the show fly. As composer, he's failed to create any really outstanding single songs and has forced the song list into a series of utilitarian musical supports for the onstage non-action, with all the music seeming to have been ground right out of the same Quaker Oats box. Inevitably, there were a few musical moments better than others, but most were vaguely suggestive of other scores.

The lyrics were often obvious, but perhaps the greatest flaw is Newley's own performances of Chaplin as directed by a very permissive Newley. The one telling piece in the show is "One Man Band," a song in which Chaplin tries to do it all. Perhaps Newley should listen to the message in his own material.

[44:12] Robert W. Schneider: Sidney, Sidney, don't you understand? All my life I've been a one-man band, singing for my supper since I was a type, like a mongrel begging for a bone. Making my own music is the only music I have ever known. Charlie, you're already a millionaire. Like Paddy Riley, I work best alone.

[46:56] Robert W. Schneider: And in the end, perhaps, Chaplin never really had a chance. The musical officially died in Houston in 1985, but you could argue it died the moment Anthony Newley agreed to do it. Not because he wasn't talented—that's quite the opposite. Anthony Newley was one of the most gifted, original, and unmistakable performers of his generation. He could write a hit song, stop a show with a glance, and command a stage in a way few people ever could. But that was also the problem. For more than 30 years, Newley had built an entire career around being Anthony Newley. The voice, the mannerisms, the vulnerability, the bravado, the eccentricity—it was all him. Audiences didn't come to see a character; they came to see Newley.

And Charlie Chaplin is not Anthony Newley. A successful musical requires collaboration. It requires surrender. It requires a star willing to disappear into the machinery of a show that belongs to everyone. But Newley had spent a lifetime building vehicles that revolved around a singular personality—his own. He wasn't selfish; he was simply operating the only way he knew how.

[47:58] Robert W. Schneider: After Chaplin, Newley continued performing, writing, and making occasional television appearances. He remained a beloved figure to theater fans and songwriters, forever linked to the standards "Feeling Good," "Who Can I Turn To," and "Candyman." But the era of Anthony Newley as a major theatrical force was largely over. He would never again mount a project of this scale. When he died in 1999 at the age of 67, the obituary celebrated the songwriter, the actor, the iconoclast, and the original. And that's the word that keeps coming back when you think about him: original. Because Anthony Newley was never comfortable standing in someone else's shadow—not even Charlie Chaplin's. And maybe that's the final lesson of Chaplin. The greatest mistake the production made was believing Anthony Newley could disappear into another legend. He couldn't. He was too much of one himself.

[48:55] Robert W. Schneider: For our last episode of the season, we are looking at an actor who was a chameleon, working in mediums as diverse as can be when he got the hankering to do a musical. And not just any musical—a Shakespearean musical. To be or not to be. And it is not to be. For Randy Quaid and Lone Star Love on our next episode of Broadway Bound: The Musicals That Never Came to Broadway. Bye-bye.

[49:48] Robert W. Schneider: Click the tab that says AMTA. That stands for the American Musical Theatre Archives. And make a tax-deductible donation to keep shows like this one on the air. Oh my gosh, I sound so much like PBS right now. I'm so sorry. And sadly, I can't even send you a tote bag. But I can wave energetically if I see you on the street. And isn't that worth the price of a donation alone? Actually, donate to PBS. That way they can send you a tote bag you can put over your head, waving at you if you're really ashamed and embarrassed of my vociferous energy. Once again, Rob W. Schneider dot com. Click AMTA. Make a tax-deductible donation, and I will be forever grateful.