Copyright 1999 by the Chicago Tribune)

The morning of the Oct. 30 opening of Famous Door's "Ghetto," technicians and crew members are crawling all over the stage. The group's managers underestimatedthe budget for sets Famous Door constructs its own and they have been forced to pay for help at the last minute. Already, preview performances were canceled because the set had been installed with the wrong hardware, threatening to collapse during its projected six-week run at the Theatre Building.

"We're definitely behind," says John Stark, the show's scenic designer. Behind him, crew members lift a Nazi flag abovethe stage, and someone rattles the sliding doors that are supposed to open and close during the show."We have to seal the back wall so the paint doesn't come off." As he talks, Stark's eyes jump from one potential crisis to another. "We have to make sure the doors work." There's a constant, high-pitched hammering.

In case things weren't edgy enough, on thenight before the opening, while prepping for the ceremony that has marked every show since Famous Door debuted in 1987, the groupdiscovered its namesake good-luck charm was missing.

"Our biggest opening-night ritual," explains Karen Kessler, the group's new artistic director,"is that everyone who's a first-timer writes their name on our door; then we drink cheap champagne from the bottle - no glasses. But last night, when we went looking for the door in the storage room - imagine, it's got all our names, we've been carrying it around for years - we couldn't find it."

"New era," says an unflappable Scott Kennedy, a longtime company member. As it turns out, when the old door came up missing the company didn't really lose too much sleep.

"We got a new door," says Kennedy with a shrug. "It's pretty symbolic, I think."

- - -

On opening night, Dan Rivkin - company co-founder, former artistic director and current executive director - is buoyant. "The show feels great," he says. Rivkin is small but compact, with all the pent-up energy of a neighborhood pugilist in a Nelson Algren story. "We're all connected to the pulse and rhythm of the play. We're trusting it's there."

In "Ghetto," Rivkin plays Weiskopf, a small-time Jewish tailor who plays footsie with the Nazis and makes a fortune as a result.

Earlier that morning, with his wife and daughter on holiday in Michigan, Rivkin had gotten up by himself, convinced he'd had a dream that all would be well with the show. "I can't remember the details," he says, "but I know I felt calm."

He made himself some coffee, read the paper, then ate a heavy meal: bacon, eggs and toast. Then, still in the boxer shorts and "Hellcab" T-shirt that served as his pajamas, Rivkin turned the television over to a college football game, sat down on the living- room floor and began preparing for his personal opening-night ritual: writing individual notes to everyone he could think of who had anything to do with the production.

"There were about 40 total," he says quietly of the sepia-toned cards with white rose bouquets. "It's a pretty common thing to do in theater, but this was such an intense thing. We've gone through a lot. Right now, there's such a close kinship. After these six weeks, some of these people will stay with me for life; some I'll never see again. And right now, I don't know which is which."

- - -

For Famous Door, "Ghetto" has been a long, emotional process. With a budget of more than $86,020 it's the most expensive show the group has produced, arriving immediately after "Two Planks and a Passion," a show so unpopular even Rivkin's mother didn't see it. "Two Planks" lost $35,000.

Instead of retreating and producing a safe, inex-pensive little play, Famous Door decided to be bold. When it took on "Ghetto," the company really thought it would be a make-or-break proposition. "In retrospect," says Rivkin, "(`Two Planks') didn't know who its audience was. With this one, we have a base in the Jewish community. We can take the show to school groups. I'm not as worried as I used to be. We're OK, I know we're OK."

On opening night, there are no bad memories of financial woes, no recollection of tense board meet-ings and compromises.

But if Rivkin's Mr. Positive, Larry Neumann Jr. is Famous Door's curmudgeon. Wiry, nervous and slightly stooped, Neumann is the group's managing director, involved with every detail of the produc- tion. Rivkin had to talk him into doing "Ghetto," and more than once along the way Neumann wasn't sure it was such a good idea. "Everything's on the line with this one," he says, just hours from curtain and still not convinced they're disaster-proof.

As the actors stream in to dress and prepare and the crew continues to struggle with the fine mech-anics of the sliding door on stage, Calvin MacLean, the director who brought "Ghetto" to Famous Door, insists opening night is important only up to a point. "I've learned to stop worrying about it," he says, almost annoyed. "The risks here are all deliberate, conscious - from (Joshua Sobol, the playwright), for whom the risks were spiritual, political and emotional, to ... well, everyone."

Like Rivkin, MacLean is passing out opening-night notes to the actors and crew. He stops and rifles through them as if they were playing cards, then sighs.

"You know ... if it works out, I hope it's a huge hit," he says, looking suddenly like an adolescent boy. Earlier, he had spent the afternoon walking around the Waveland Avenue golf course, picking autumn leaves - which resonate symbolically in "Ghetto" - to accompany each person's card. "I mean, I feel very strongly about this play."

- - -

The day of the opening, Rivkin arrives at the theater around 2 p.m., the first of the veterans to get there. Instead of looking like an actor in a scruffy theater group, he comes off like an impresario. He's in a slate-colored business suit, white dress shirt and tie. All day long, he's glad-handing everybody - even people working on other shows at the Theatre Building - as if he were practicing for the after-show reception with fans, family and potential docents. At intervals, he steps out to Belmont Avenue for a smoke, usually gazing across the street at a women's martial arts school, perhaps mentally sparring.

Meanwhile, Neumann is obsessed with the sliding door on stage that refuses to work properly. "That door is so vital," he says, as he watches the crew sluggishly moving it back and forth on its tracks. "But if it won't work right, I keep thinking, just eliminate the damn door."

The night before, Neumann - who plays Kruk, the ethical conscience in "Ghetto" - didn't leave the Theatre Building until after midnight. When he got home, he slept for 12 hours straight. "It's not normal," he admits. "But the only way I can rest is to get out of here."

Even then, he's not really resting. The morning of the opening, well before his regular cup of coffee, Neumann was checking the theater's phone messages and going on a worrying jag because the show was oversold by at least a couple of dozen seats.

By the time he gets to the Theatre Building, around 3:30 p.m. or so, there are already other actors on the stage. Some, like John Tovar and lanky Brad Johnson, are helping the crew by sweeping, and by piling clothes on stage for the play's first scene. Julie Greenberg is stretching and vocalizing. Red-haired Hanna Dworkin vacuums the floor one minute, then sits deep in meditation, slowly moving her arms and legs from a lotus into a starburst shape. Stage manager Colleen Kenny coolly checks things off a list.

In the corner, director MacLean goes through a last-minute rehearsal with Jay Whittaker, the actor who plays Isrulik, the puppeteer, and who serves as the story's principal narrator. MacLean towers over the slight Whittaker. When he goes through the arm motion he wants, it looks athletic and sure, but when Whittaker does it, there's a fragility and awkwardness to the gesture. Still, MacLean nods encouragement and pats his shoulder.

Activity noticeably picks up with the arrival just a few minutes past 5 p.m. of Joseph "Butch" Gniadek. A local theater legend, the silver-topped, reedy Gniadek is a veteran usher, good-luck charm and opening-night fixture. Upon spying him stuffing programs and otherwise tidying up the house, several actors - including Dworkin and Kennedy, who plays her doomed lover in "Ghetto" - look at each other and smile knowingly.

The dressing room - a long and narrow space to the side of the stage - is packed with actors putting on make-up, tying shoes. Baby photos, postcards and greeting cards cover the mirrors. There are a few bouquets of flowers, presents already messily undone, the gift wrap wilting like petals. Near the back, Kenny's checking props and calming rattled nerves with her own steady presence.

- - -

Before Gniadek and his fellow ushers open the doors to the buzzing public outside, the cast gathers on the stage in a hushed circle. It's an unlikely sight - an elegant Nazi holding hands with a barefoot ruffian, a ventriloquist's red-cheeked dummy as alive as Pinocchio in his happily ever after, the otherwise anxious Neumann transformed into a portrait of tranquility and wisdom. As the group bows heads in meditation, Rivkin suddenly opens his eyes, surveys the group with a glance, then sniffles; he actually looks like he's going to cry.

Finally, the group breaks up, each actor knocking three times with his or her fists on the floor then carrying kisses down to it with open palms. (This ritual was brought to Famous Door by Greenberg, one of the few Jewish members of the cast, and was taught to her by her grandmother as a way to ward off evil. It's the first time the company has used it.)

In a matter of seconds the actors are in their places, the house lights turn warm and inviting, and the murmur from outside becomes a clamor. Although "Ghetto" already has been viewed by quite possibly its toughest audience - a group of Holocaust survivors, many of whom served as advisers to the show - this is the audience that matters. Here are the critics, including the Tribune's Richard Christiansen; Jewish community members, including the Israeli consul, who tonight is escorting Sobol the playwright; the regular theatergoers who will talk up the show to friends or shake their heads wearily in disappointment; potential board members and donors; family and friends.

"Quite possibly, it's a hit," whispers a fluttering Gniadek as he leads a throng of well- appointed elderly women to their seats. "It's got all the markings of being a hit."

- - -

Famous Door's production of Sobol's "Ghetto" is its English- language premiere. Working from three translations - often communicating with Sobol by e-mail to make sure he got it right - MacLean pruned the cast from as many as 85 to a more manageable 16. Based on the true World War II story of the sealed Jewish quarters in Vilna, Lithuania, "Ghetto" employs real characters and events, but in a fantastic, often surreal manner.

The ghetto, imposed by the Nazis, ironically is patrolled by a Jewish police force and headed by a Jewish police chief who has managed to convince himself that, by collaborating a little with the Nazis, he might be able to help a lot more than by openly resisting. One of his schemes is to allow the Jews a theater, putting jobless actors and other artists to work and thus making them "useful" in Nazi eyes.

"I don't usually like plays about the theater," MacLean ruminates as he takes a back-row seat with his wife, Rebecca, to watch the show, "but I like plays that put theater into context, that show what is possible."

At intermission - while the packed house takes a breather - the half-dozen critics barely move from their seats, their faces inscrutable. Rebecca MacLean rushes outside ahead of her husband. He stands in the crowd, grinning as he looks after her.

"You know, what the critics think and feel is really a lot less important to me than the fact that my wife was blown away," MacLean reports breathlessly. "I mean, she couldn't even speak after the first act!"

In the meantime, Kennedy is fretting in the dressing room. "Ah, there were a few surprises," he says, wide-eyed. "I mean, I fell backwards." At another point, smoke had oozed from a light fixture.

Outside the dressing room, Neumann and Rivkin are huddled in the darkness, catching glimpses of the public. "It feels like they're with us," Neumann says cautiously.

A jumpy, pumped-up Rivkin laughs. "It's great! It's great!" he exclaims in a too-loud whisper.

Neumann grins. "Yeah but ..." He's got his eyes on that door.

And sure enough, at a crucial moment during the second act, the sliding door jams. The actors pull and tug to the point of distraction. The door squeals and resists. Finally, it jerks into place with a loud groan.

- - -

When the play ends, there's an extended ovation - with about two- thirds of the house standing. MacLean and his wife hug, and he bows in Sobol's direction, who tips his head in return. The playwright, MacLean and his wife are all swallowed by appreciative hands offering congratulations, arms that embrace them, hands that heartily pat their backs. Gniadek stands by proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

"I guess we have a hit," a dazed MacLean says. "I think Richard and Hedy (Weiss, the Sun-Times' theater critic) liked it. A couple of others told me they liked it. I guess, yeah, it's a hit."

After the bows, Rivkin - still in costume - goes around to his fellow cast members with hugs and kisses and accepts kudos from the audience. Kennedy and Dworkin greet friends. Whittaker beams; his throwing gesture was perfect.

But Neumann is backstage, rolling up the sleeves of the gold shirt he wore on stage as his character, a stubborn historian.

A reception is planned at Shallot's, not far from the Theatre Building, where there will be lavish food and drinks. An exhausted but happy MacLean and his wife are going, and Rivkin - now integrated as just another member of the cast - is already on his way, as are most of the other actors. Kessler says it's very likely there will be a gathering later at one of the group's favorite bars.

But a wound-up Neumann won't attend either event. He'll spend the rest of the night staring up at the rafters, trying to figure out that damn door.

EPILOGUE.

Seven months after Famous Door suffered the worst financial and critical debacle of its 12-year existence, it has a huge hit with Joshua Sobol's "Ghetto."

Since opening Oct. 30, "Ghetto" has received consistent critical kudos. "A thrilling production of a remarkable play," the Tribune's Richard Christiansen wrote in his Nov. 1 review. The next day, the Sun-Times' Hedy Weiss called it "startling, audacious, emotionally riveting."

Drawing special attention were Jay Whittaker as the ventriloquist and Julia Neary as his dummy, whom Jack Helbig of The Daily Herald called "terrific." The Reader's Justin Hayford said "(Frank) Nall makes (Nazi officer) Kittel so chill-ingly magnetic, it's hard to get him out of your system hours after the show ends."

Dan Rivkin, the artistic director who approved "Ghetto" before resigning and then playing a principal role in its 16-member cast, also was praised, as was the performance of managing director Larry Neumann Jr.

On Nov. 15, Famous Door announced it would extend the show's closing date from Dec. 19 to Jan. 29. "We've been making calls to see if we can find another venue for it to go even longer," says Neumann.

According to what Rivkin, Neumann and the Famous Door board of directors had calculated, the show needed to sell 30 percent of its seats to break even.

"We've actually been selling out a lot," says Neumann, "but from a financial point of view, it works out at about 80 percent, because of half-price tickets and things like that."

From opening night to Nov. 28, 2,112 people have seen "Ghetto" at the Theatre Building's 148-seat theater. Total ticket revenue through the same date is $36,370. "We're making upwards of $9,000 every week," Neumann says. "We're pretty happy."

But aside from two grants for general operating expenses - $3,000 from the Donnelly Foundation and $5,000 from the Kaplan Foundation - Famous Door hasn't had any luck pulling in corporate or foundation money for the play.

After a company meeting Nov. 18 to talk about the company's finances, the group decided to start a fundraising campaign targeting the "Ghetto" audiences. Since that night, each program has included a slip requesting donations from $50 to $500. The effort so far has drawn $560.

"I think people do want to support us," says Neumann. "And I have a line item of $2,500 for individual support in the budget, so this helps."

Come Jan. 13, Famous Door will open its next show, "Homecoming," across the hall from "Ghetto." A Harold Pinter comedy, the play's cast will include Neumann; Dan Rivkin's wife, Elaine; Marc Grapey; Roderick Peeples; Scott Kennedy; and Kelly Van Kirk.

"We'll replace some of the actors in `Ghetto,' " says Neumann. " `Home-coming' is all company people."