Every day is like another / Theatre Adrenaline

Days 3 and 4: Saturday, February 18 and Sunday, February 19

I hadn’t planned on doing two days at once, but Saturday and Sunday weren’t all that dissimilar: a matinee, dinner with an old friend, and a second show in the evening, so why not combine them?

Let’s start with Saturday. It was unseasonably warm (in the mid-60s), so for the first time I was able to ditch my sweater and heavier jacket and stick with a short-sleeved shirt and windbreaker.

I walked up to the Theatre District (I’m getting real familiar with this walk: west on 11^th to Fourth Street, Fourth to Broadway, and then north as far as I need to go) and actually got to the theatre a little early to see Sunday in the Park with George, which is a musical I love. We saw the last Broadway revival in 2008 and were sobbing at the end of Act One, so this one had a lot to live up to. 

I went in with great hopes (given the reviews of last year’s concert version that had turned into this full production), and was very interested to see the Hudson Theatre, which is simultaneously the newest and oldest theatre on Broadway. “How is this possible,” you may ask? The building itself was constructed in 1903, but for the last 50 years or so, it’s been either dark or a conference center. (In the ‘50s, it was the home of Steve Allen’s Tonight Show, so there’s that, too.) It’s a nice facility, comfortable, good sight lines, but suffers from kind of a sterility (sort of a yellow-beige paint scheme with bronze-tone seating) and is hampered with some of its original architecture (narrow staircases, odd bathroom lines—stanchions and velveteen ropes to control lines, but only a single entrance and exit, so incoming and outgoing traffic are always bumping into each other). I’m sure that it’ll settle in soon enough, but for now, let’s say it’s not my favorite theatre.

As for the show, it just missed for me. Performances, led by Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford are good and professional and well-sung, but fall short of the transcendence I want from this show. The technical aspects are good (especially the chromolume), but it’s not what it might be.

Meh.

After the show, I walked back down to the East Village (down Broadway to Fourth to 13^th Street this time) for dinner with an old college friend, whose career path I quite admire. Those of my readers who have read my other blog may be familiar with Jack Cantwell. Jack was an actor at Cal State Fullerton in the ‘70s. He was “old” (that is to say, in his 40s) and had had a successful career in business (insurance?) before finally being able, with the support of his wife and family, to do what he always wanted to do and pursue a career in acting. He wasn’t great—in fact, in some things, he was plain awful—but he was sincere, enthusiastic, and living his dream.

In a similar way, this friend (who shall go unnamed, but those of my readers who know her will know of whom I’m speaking) decided that, at long last, she was going to get her MFA in acting—in New York, off all places—and is almost done with the process. (The main difference between her and Jack is that she’s a really good actress.) We talked about old times and the future, and generally had a fine time before we walked over to the Classic Stage Company for their production of The Liar by Pierre Corneille, as translated and adapted by David Ives. It’s an absolutely delightful production and script—modern, self-referential, smart, funny. It’s a rhyming couplets, which can become tedious, but Ives’s rhymes are clever and unexpected. 

It's that kind of a show

After that, it was a search for some ice cream (which I found; good cookies-n-cream, not as good butter pecan) and then home to write some and study my script. I even finished early enough that I was finally able to get a good night’s sleep—even if I apparently missed a singing, screaming, shouting match that lasted from 4:00 am to 4:30.

Sunday, my initial goal was to find a New York Times, so I walked over to a bodega I can see from my bedroom window—only to discover it’s actually a flower shop. I walked all the way around the block, found a 7-11 with the paper, and came back to the apartment (there was no way I going to lug it around all day), only to discover an actual bodega just on the other side of the block that carried it. Live and learn.

The weather was even nicer than Saturday (I think my chances of seeing snow are slim at best), but since I was going to Lincoln Center that night, I felt like I had to wear a nice shirt and sports coat, so I had the choice of sweating all day or hauling my coat over my shoulder. (An odd thing I’ve noticed the last few days, even though it’s been warm during the daylight hours, people are still bundled up in ski jackets and scarves like it’s the arctic out there; it’s not.)

I walked up to the theatre district yet again, this time to see Come From Away, a new musical by Irene Sankoff and David Hein based on real events. After 9/11, when U.S, airspace was closed, 38 planes from around the world were forced to land at the airport at Gander, Newfoundland, meaning there nearly 8,000 extra people were jammed into a town that normally has a population of only 10,000.

I have to admit I was a little dubious about it going in; I didn’t know just what kind of a musical it was going to be. The last time I felt that way about a show was when I saw Natasha and Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812. I thought, “Do I really want to see this?,” but went in—and had an incredible time. This was the same thing. (I need to start distrusting my feelings even more.) This show starts with people being hearty and stomping in time to the opening number, so I was a little worried, but in a way that was the opposite of my experience with La La Land (where the opening number started with promise and lost me after two minutes), Come From Away won me over almost immediately and never let go (with the exception of one number that seems completely out of place and virtually stops the show—in the wrong way). The show recovers, though, and is one of the best things I’ve ever seen. It’s warm, human, funny, and is the kind of show I almost wished would never stop. The biggest drawback was the three guys in front of me. The one on the right kept checking his phone and texting someone. The one in the middle kept bending over and taking notes on a pad (I assumed he was a critic, which surprised me because, even though they review shows in preview, this was only the second preview.) The one on the left kept leaning over and talking to the other two. In my imagination, I pulled the middle guy aside and told him never to go to the theatre again.

Imagine my surprise then, when, after the show, they started talking and I realized they were part of the production staff, and the middle guy turned to me and apologized if they’d been at all disturbing. I felt like a boob for having hated them and told them how much I loved the show.

Like I said on Facebook, "See this show."

After that, I had some time to kill, so I wandered over to the Drama Book Store and bought the script for The Liar, then headed uptown for dinner. I sat in Central Park a little while—it was a lovely spring evening even if it was February—then walked over the restaurant where I was meeting a woman whom I’d directed in a show a few years ago and who has since moved to New York to pursue her acting career. (And, of course, she’s waiting tables in the meantime … ) We had a great time, even if the restaurant, which I expected to be kind of dead, was packed and extremely loud.

We finished and I walked over to Lincoln Center (basically across the street) to see a 25^th anniversary concert of Ken Ludwig and George and Ira Gershwin’s Crazy For You, directed and choreographed by Susan Stroman, who had done the original. I had high hopes for this one. It’s a great score, the numbers are breathtakingly good, and it had an all-star cast. As I mentioned on social media, it’s rare that I have sky-high hopes and expectations that are not only met, but exceeded to the point of being obliterated.

Maybe it was the fact that they knew they had only one shot at it, maybe it was that numbers that had previously taken over a whole stage were forced into a tiny rectangle in front of a chorus of about 200 singers (and that is no exaggeration) and an orchestra, but from the opening number, the whole thing took off like a rocket and never came close to touching the ground. It was one of those evenings where even a guy like me, who gives a standing ovation reluctantly at best (and then usually only to be able to see around people), shot up from my seat at the end of Act One (I even shouted in joy at the end of the show; I wasn’t alone). It was one of those transcendent evenings that we usually only dream of. When I came out, I was in sort of a haze of adrenaline and inspiration. I just did not want to leave the theatre, and when I finally did, didn’t want to leave Lincoln Center. I wanted the whole damn thing to start over again.

"I'm up among the stars / On earthly things I frown"

I kind of floated back to Times Square, caught the subway home, get lost by taking an unfamiliar route, and came back to the apartment, which was shockingly quiet—there were no drunken brawls outside. Oh, sure, the occasional drunken shout, but mostly peaceful and serene. It was a nice change of pace and the perfect prologue to Monday, the day rehearsals began.