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By Ellis Nassour
enassour@aol.com
The Tony Award is theater’s most prestigious and coveted prize.
But Tony is a strange name for a theater honor. So why? And who was this Tony? Tony, actually, Toni, was the nickname of beautiful Denver actress Antoinette Perry, who later turned to producing and directing in an era when women in the theater were relegated to acting, costume design, or choreography. Today, she’s, sadly, all but forgotten. But, in her prime, she showed innovative theatrical instincts and scored an enviable roster of hits. Amazingly, even well into the 1970s, she was the only woman director with a track record of hits.
Her route to New York was circuitous, but, once here, she came to the attention of David Warfield, a most popular actor of the early 1900s, and his frequent partner, impresario David Belasco. Miss Perry was cast as Warfield’s leading lady in Belasco’s A Grand Army Man at his new Styvestant Theatre (now the Belasco).
Soon, another man vied for her attention. Frank Frueauff, an old beau from home who merged Denver Gas and Electric with Cities Service (now CITGO), came to town and wouldn’t take no for an answer. After their 1909 marriage, they traveled the great liners to Europe and entertained in robber baron style at their Fifth Avenue apartment.
Miss Perry’s theatrical aspirations clashed with Frueauff’s conservative lifestyle and she gave up theater to become a full-time wife, mother and hostess. Until 1920, when she was approached by Brock Pemberton, a flamboyant press agent turned producer. She became an “angel” in his production of Zona Gale’s comedy Miss Lulu Bett, which went on to win the Pulitzer Prize. Miss Perry became Pemberton’s silent partner.
In 1921, Frueauff was diagnosed with heart problems. He died the following year, leaving a $13-million estate but no will. Eventually, his widow was awarded nine million dollars.
“Mother generously lent money,” states daughter Margaret Perry, 91 and a former actress who lives on a wilderness ranch in Colorado, ?and bailed actors and playwrights out of overdue hotel bills. She also enjoyed the extravagant life and, in the summer of 1923, took us, our governess, ‘Uncle’ Brock, as we were instructed to call him, his wife Margaret and ten others to Europe for seven weeks. On coming home, Mother heard theater’s siren call again.?
Antoinette Perry told an interviewer she wasn’t leading a very fulfilling life. “Should l go on playing bridge and dining, going in the same old monotonous circle? It's easy that way, but it’s a sort of suicide, too.”
She was soon back on the boards in starring roles in a broad spectrum of plays by Kaufman, Ferber, and William S. Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan).
In 1927, due to the debilitating effects of a stroke which left a side of her face paralyzed, she fell into a great depression and left theater. But theater was still in her blood.
Inspired by actress/playwright Rachel Crothers, who directed her own plays, Perry decided she wanted to direct. She and Pemberton joined forces—not only as co-producers and director but also romantically.
In 1929, they struck paydirt with Preston Sturges’s Strictly Dishonorable, a cynical play about virtue and Prohibition. A critic praised Perry “for doing a man’s job” as director. Movie rights were sold. A month later, the stock market crashed. “Mother awoke two million dollars in debt,” recalls Margaret. “It took seven years to recover.”
Perry and Pemberton shared an office in a theater adjacent to the Imperial, and lunched daily at Sardi’s, where they fueled tons of theatrical gossip. However, at the end of their business day, she’d go home to her daughters and he to his wife.
“After the stroke,” reports Margaret, “Mother tired easily. She came home, ate, read scripts and saw we did our school work. Promptly at nine, Brock would phone and they’d talk for hours.”
With the introduction and popularity of the Toni Home Permanent products, Miss Perry discreetly altered her nickname to “Tony.”
She remained strongly focused as a director. In one month in 1937, she directed (and co-produced) three Pemberton productions, “Sometimes rehearsing in our living room,” says Margaret, “once while peeling peaches for preserves.” Of the team’s 17 plays in 13 years, there were impressive hits, among them: Personal Appearance (I934) and Claire Boothe’s Kiss the Boys Goodbye (I938), a spoof of the search for Scarlett O’Hara. The latter had a stellar cast, including Helen Claire and Benay Venuta.
Miss Venuta spoke of working with Miss Perry. “I was a tall, brash blonde, a big band vocalist who’d never read for a play, and I got the part of this gal attempting to get the role of Scarlett by sleeping with all the men involved with the film. The show was a smash. Helen wore a hoop skirt and pretended to be from the South with this accent that dripped magnolias.”
Miss Venuta, noting that Miss Perry didn’t mind ruffling feathers, reported a pre-Broadway situation in Washington involving black actor Frank Wilson, who played a butler in Kiss the Boys.
“While the scenery was being loaded in,” said Miss Venuta, “we rehearsed at the very first-class Willard Hotel. When Frank arrived, the doorman wouldn’t let him enter. I said, ‘This is disgusting. And right across from the White House!’ When I told Tony, she raised a ruckus. The hotel said Frank would have to use the service entrance. Tony stood management down and said if Frank wasn’t allowed to enter the front door, the company would check out. With reporters and photographers present! The hotel backed down.”
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