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Tartuffe, Impostor, Hypocrite

To mention, let alone stage, “Tartuffe” (or “The Impostor”, or “The Hypocrite”) in these turbulent times is almost too obvious. There is nothing I can say about this brilliant enduring satire that scholars of history and literature have not already said with significantly greater insight. I will just leave this quote here from the program from the best production of this play that I saw in Stratford in the summer of 2017 (and we thought times were turbulent THEN…):

“Tartuffe” was the first adult play I ever saw live. It was also the only adult play I saw as a child in the Soviet Union, in our externally beautiful, internally uninspired, historic Volkov Theater [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/07/26/all-my-world-is-a-stage/]. Credit goes only and eternally to Molière (and to the translator, whoever he was[1]) that this experience did not sour me on either live theater or French literature. That my enduring love of both has shaped my life is something that could not have been anticipated from that first chaotic encounter.

“Tartuffe” came to town when I was maybe 11, and my mother decided that this will make a fine mother/daughter afternoon of culture. We had fewer such opportunities than one would expect, for reasons that are many, varied, and complicated, ranging from familial to societal. Everything that pertained to cultural development in my childhood, every museum visit, every book about art, came from my mother. I cannot bear to think what my early childhood would have been had we spent less time together, but I used to often wonder what it would have been like if we had spent more. And this is most certainly a story for another time.

In order to prepare for this momentous event, she decided that we will read the play aloud together. It was a great idea. I still remember the first lines spoken by Mme Pernelle to her maid Flipote and Elmire’s response, that opening scene that sets the stage long before the titular character makes his entrance . To me, they are like the iconic opening bars of a musical. We took turns reading it aloud, sitting on the stools in my mother’s kitchen. It was pure joy: the relatable characters with fun names, the dialogue alternately wacky and clever, the ultimate victory of sane minds and loving hearts over liars and cheats. After “Tartuffe”, I read the rest of the plays in the Molière “greatest hits” collection, and liked them all, but none had a lead character as deplorable and deserving of retribution as this one[2]. It aged extremely well, from the day it was written to the day I read it a little over three centuries later to our tense present. My oh my, plus ça change…

And then came the actual day. I do not remember the time of year (but choose to set it on a beautiful springtime day) or what I wore (a good sign; I hold enough grudges from my childhood for not being able to choose what to wear on a special occasion). I remember arriving and heading straight to the theater buffet for a glass of sparkling lemonade and a “basket” pastry. (For how much I keep mentioning this pastry, I should just make it already—there are recipes online. Of course, I fear it will not be as amazing as I remember it from childhood. Nothing ever is.) My mother cannot be credited with coining the phrase “eat dessert first”, but can definitely be trusted to always do it. It was a matinee, the buffet was not crowded, and we enjoyed our pre-show treats before proceeding without undue hurry to our seats. At which point we discovered that we arrived an hour late and missed the entire first act, Mme Pernelle’s opening speech that I memorized being the first, but by far not the only, casualty.

To be honest, I do not recall feeling particular distress at that moment. I was happy to have enjoyed a pastry, and I did not expect much from the spectacle, for I have been to the Volkov before on school field trips. Its reputation at the time was consistent with everything else in our stagnant provincial town. We sat way in the back of the orchestra, under the balcony, a terrible spot in any theater. Either the acoustics or the actors themselves were lacking, but we had trouble making out what was going on; the words were completely unintelligible (and this was back in the days when my young hearing was very keen, so if I could have heard anything, I would have). And thus the second act passed in a haze of confusion.

After the second intermission (first for us), my mother, determined to see and/or hear the rest of the play, searched for better seats. Fortified with more treats from the buffet, I was game. We spotted an empty opera box and moved in, feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. We actually started to enjoy the final act when the door behind us opened and two guys in their 20s rolled in, looking and smelling like they partook of something stronger than sparkling lemonade at the buffet. Checking their tickets with some incredulity, they asked if these were in fact their seats. My mother barked that the seats were ours, and they meekly retreated, presumably back to the buffet. We felt triumphant. It might not seem like much, but it was a perfect coda to a memorable and fun afternoon to which the play was merely an atmospheric backdrop.

I do not expect that I will live to see “Tartuffe” again performed in the language in which I first read and loved it, but I would like to someday experience it in the language in which it was written, the original words I studied in college, in the House That Molière Built, where it is allegedly the most produced play (where so far I only keep running into “Cyrano de Bergerac”).

P.S. About translations: I am of the opinion that French and English are not entirely compatible when it comes to literature. Established translations, to my ear, do not convey the lightness of the original—yet some modern translations are too colloquial to retain that time and place that is unmistakably Molière. I have seen some adaptions of his plays that were competent, yet unrecognizable, although for “Tartuffe”, I prefer the crisp, sparkling translation by Ranjit Bolt to Richard Wilbur’s staid and stolid one. This was the translation used in the 2017 production mentioned above.

[1] In this particular case, it was someone by the name of M. Donskoy. I give credit where credit is due.

[2] What were the other plays in this collection, you ask? About what you would expect: “Don Juan”, “L’avare”, “Le Bourgeois gentilhomme”, “Les Fourberies de Scapin”, and “Le Malade imaginaire”. I saw a televised Moscow theater production of “Le Bourgeois gentilhomme” as a child, and never forgot the hilarious part where M. Jourdain discovers that he has been speaking in prose his entire life. Coincidentally, this play remains one of the few on my theater bucket list—I have not seen it live to this day.

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Fat Ham, or Not Your Father’s Bard

Disclaimer: I am not a theater critic, nor could I ever be one. I am excited to share and recommend what I like, but with the wisdom (and empathy) of the years, I do not feel sufficiently invested in discouraging folks from seeing shows I do not enjoy. I just cancel my season subscription. Well, of course I will call a couple of my gal pals to warn them, but all of this is to say, we here at #oldladywriting are not panning any shows, especially in our local theater community. We do not need the negative energy. And so, here comes another glowing review, well-deserved.

Sometimes I see a show because I know it or about it, and I am excited to experience it. Occasionally, it is because someone I know is in a show. And then there are the theaters where I want to see everything, because they are consistently good. And by “consistently” I mean, sometimes for a quantity of years and depending heavily on the artistic director. As of this writing, I made a one-year commitment, with an option to renew, to the Detroit Public Theatre.

“Fat Ham” just opened the 10^th season at the DPT. I am not ashamed to admit that I knew nothing about it (because I am also not a literary critic). I actually vaguely assumed it was a Hamilton parody. I was completely wrong, as it is actually a modern-day reimagining of Hamlet with a queer Black protagonist. Shakespeare again—and Hamlet again! https://oldladywriting.com/2024/04/06/rosencrantz-guildenstern-are/

I have seen different Hamlets, cerebral, brooding, vengeful, and eliciting different levels of compassion dependent on the production and its star. But it is always his story. We know the end, but it is the mind’s journey to the inevitable conclusion that captivates. “Fat Ham’s” sweet, sensitive protagonist Juicy, a child of no privilege, is a lot less self-centered and a lot more caring than Hamlet has ever been. How much more relatable is a young man who is not a prince, but just a regular person who is burdened by the world in which parents range from neglectful to abusive, friends are equally beleaguered by the big and small tragedies of everyday existence, and life was never fair to begin with.

Some of the Bard’s iconic plot points are there: the father whose death was engineered by the uncle who then married the mom, the father’s ghost calling the son to avenge his death, the mom whose loyalties and motivations are suspect. But quite a bit is different, too (spoiler alert): far fewer people die, even when justice is served, fate takes back seat to positive action, and ultimately, the kids are all right.

I fought the urge to give Juicy a hug and tell him that it will all work out in the end. I kept thinking of one those rhetorical questions, “what would you say to your younger self”, because I saw a bit of my younger self in Juicy. Not everything, and obviously not the part of uncle killing father and all that, but just that general feeling of not having agency, of being trapped in a situation with limited means to change. I wanted to tell him that breaking free from the ties that bind and gag is essential. Polonius’ famous advice is not quoted in “Fat Ham”, but I have always taken it to heart: “To thine own self be true”. And say what you will about that old courtier, but as a parent, he is one of the best in the Canon, for he loves his children and tries to do right by them.

And then there is the humor. “Hamlet” is not particularly funny, other than that scene where Polonius is desperately kissing up to the prince while the two are cloud-gazing. “Fat Ham”, however, is joyously hilarious, heartfelt and witty, introspective and warm, and rowdy and raucous as life itself. The acting in this particular production is absolutely effortless. There is not a single false note in the cast. I am continuously amazed and impressed by the abundance and caliber of local talent. And also, let us not forget the fun set, an impressively detailed backyard complete with the pig rotating on the spit, kind of like a warped interpretation of “Pleasant Valley Sunday” come to life. I am thinking that these meticulous lifelike sets are almost a trademark for the Detroit Public. The last couple of shows I have seen there were equally impressively immersive.

I realize that I have said a lot more about the play itself than about this particular production, but truly, this is because for me, it is almost impossible to separate them now. So if you are in Metro Detroit over the next few weeks, see “Fat Ham”. If you are not so fortunate, keep it in mind for future productions. It is a hopeful message of a glorious triumph of love and self-awareness over toxic masculinity, and that is a beautiful thing.

https://www.detroitpublictheatre.org/season-ten

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The War of the Roses

Five years ago, I wrote how in my quest to complete the Shakespeare canon, I was still five plays short. As of this writing, I only [still?] have two to go (“Troilus and Cressida” and “Two Noble Kinsmen” for those keeping track at home). “Henry VI” trilogy is done, and how!

I have to note that it took me fewer attempts to get to Henry (three) than to Vienna (five). I literally had tickets to see it at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in the fall of 2020, and we all know how that went. Michigan Shakespeare Festival was going to produce it this summer but sadly, had to go dark. I was merely wondering what might be playing at The Old Globe in San Diego during my upcoming trip next spring when I noticed that it is actually doing “Henry VI” this summer. And so I said to myself, who am I if I am not true to this glorious quest? I found the perfect weekend when the “Henry VI” Parts 1-3 would play on two successive nights, reserved a hotel room, and spent a couple of months in happy anticipation of a visit to the place of which I warmly think as American Crimea.

Credit to production designers: Lawrence E. Moten III, Scenic Design; David Israel Reynoso, Costume Design; Mextly Couzin, Lighting Design; Melanie Chen Cole, Sound Design; Caite Hevner, Projection Design.

I have been to The Old Globe several years ago, and loved their production of “Red Velvet”. However, checking the tickets shortly before the trip, I was slightly dismayed to discover that “Henry” is being staged at an outdoor venue. I pictured lawn seats, actors scurrying to not be seen behind awkward wooden set pieces, and lots of bugs. In the Midwest, I have missed more than one outdoor performance and sporting event (yes, I have been known to attend a baseball game, don’t look so shocked!) that have been rained out. However, I know as well as anyone that it never rains in Southern California, and was willing to put up with the rest of the potential unpleasantries just to cross this elusive trio of plays off my list. Spoiler alert: this did not turn out to be your usual Shakespeare in the Park.

Now, much as all I know about French history I learned from the novels of Alexandre Dumas, all I know about English history I learned from Shakespeare. While I still need to recite the opening lines of “Richard III” to help myself remember who is York and who is Lancaster (and need a mnemonic device I heretofore have not found to identify which rose is red and which is white), I am happy to have finally filled the gap between “Henry V” and “Richard III”.

It turns out that the gap includes some pretty exciting stuff, such as Joan of Arc’s last stand, epic battles between the English and the French, and intense subsequent plotting and fighting for the crown among the various English heirs and pretenders. What’s not to like? Ah, here is what: my least favorite line in all of Shakespeare, “let’s kill all the lawyers”, makes its annoying appearance. Even though in the play (and I knew this before seeing it) it is meant as the first step to chaos and political instability and is spoken by a villainous character, it has been misquoted for centuries. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I have been seeing Shakespeare performed primarily at the Stratford Festival in Canada, which is as good as it gets. I have seen some fantastic interpretations elsewhere, innovative, beautifully acted, creatively staged, but I have always thought that Stratford’s scale and scope is second to none. Until now. And unexpectedly, this “Henry VI”—actually, styled as “Henry 6”—an English Civil War saga 600 years old, filled me with patriotism. I was all like, look at our American actors being as good as Canadians!

First, the outdoor theater at the Old Globe is basically the same as any other theater but without a roof—and a roof is not critical to a play unless you are dropping a chandelier from the ceiling. But the way the natural surroundings of the gorgeous Balboa Park worked with the set, however, was both unique and exhilarating. Every time those giant doors opened to let actors on stage and we saw, instead of the usual backstage darkness, majestic trees lit in the night, it was a spectacle like none I have ever experienced. The most powerful moment came early on, when Lord Talbot, The Sword of England, first burst on the scene, from the actual forest, backlit and accompanied by stirring rock music. It was just too cool!

Second, rarely have I seen a Shakespeare production that is so accessible, yet still recognizably classic. The inventive prologue gave a quick summary of The Henriad (Richard II/Henry IV, Henry V–it was yet unwritten by Shakespeare at the time of the staging of Henry VI) and set the stage for what is to follow. The costumes, the crowns, the crowds, the chaos—oh, it is history all right, but what gripping history! Maybe these are earlier plays, but what they lack in familiar soliloquies they more than make up in the absorbing (and true) story that is better than any tragedy (or comedy) from the pen of the same author.

This production is full of fun anachronisms, including a hilarious presentation by Richard of York to explain his right to the throne with the aid of an overhead projector. I have to add that, besides the valiant Talbot, Richard was my other favorite character. Is he supposed to be sympathetic? I found his sincerity and single-minded focus on the throne endearing. There was one scene where others are talking, planning, plotting, and he just paces around the stage, literally circumnavigating it, talking to himself. I caught myself with my mouth literally gaping open, trying to absorb everything that was going on.

I liked the first part more than the second one, for purely subjective reasons—more of the French (Charles the Dauphin bearing hilarious resemblance to King Herod in “Jesus Christ Superstar”), Talbot and the cult of Talbot, and just a lot more humor. The second part, all about the infighting and plotting for the English throne among the English themselves, is quite a bit darker. And once that madman Richard III shows up on the scene, events start snowballing, and you know it will end badly. He gets his own show later; let’s see more of the other people.

Also, Part 2 started right off with the reenactment of the January 6 riot, complete with the QAnon Shaman, albeit with the Union Jack painted on his face—and, obviously, with Shakespeare’s words, which, I imagine, elevated that particular disaster. It was disturbing and a terrible reminder that we humans never change and learn nothing from history. We live through these cataclysms and they shock us, but there is nothing new under the sun. Shakespeare already wrote about it…

The thing about Shakespeare is, his words, or even what we take to be his words, are constantly edited and reinterpreted. Having seen “Henry VI”/”6” for the first time, I do not know if I have fallen in love with the play itself, or with this particular version of it. But does it really matter? It was a magical experience that touched my heart, and that is what great theater does.

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Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are

When I first read “Hamlet” in a high school literature class, Shakespeare’s language was still difficult and unfamiliar, but I immediately and always felt affection for its conflicted [anti]hero. A family friend told me about “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”, which I also immediately read, intrigued by the concept, and understood nothing. I have seen some magnificent productions of “Hamlet” over the years, and have been fortunate to ponder and debate its themes with folks much smarter and more astute than myself. Until now, I have never seen the parallel universe version.

When “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” rolled into Toronto, with two of the Hobbits, Dominic Monaghan and Billy Boyd, as the leads, I was determined to make the trek. Now, the Hobbit connection is of no use to me—I slept through all those movies, sitting upright and with my eyes wide open, and actually listened to the book on tape, all 197 hours of it, and retained none of it. But, I appreciate both the tremendous stage training and presence of the British actors, and the immense talent of Tom Stoppard, one of the greatest—if not THE greatest—living playwrights. I have come a long way since I first read his words.

Toronto, on occasion, has served as an extension of my theater playground. It tends to have a slightly different lineup for big Broadway shows through the Mirvish theaters, and some straight plays in addition to the major musicals. I do not know the city, just how to find my way to the couple of theaters and, obviously, to the Hockey Hall of Fame. My favorite restaurant, Le Marché, fell victim to the pandemic economy, so the play was truly the only focus of this trip.

I was not disappointed (spoiler alert: far from it!). But I was surprised. My memory of this play was so hazy as to be almost nonexistent. I just knew what is common knowledge: absurdist tragicomedy, similar to “Waiting for Godot”, minor characters from a major play. All of this is technically true, and none of it is sufficient. I did not find it absurdist but actually quite heartfelt and authentic—unless life is absurd, and that is a premise that I refuse to countenance. And as for being minor characters—well, maybe they only passed through “Hamlet”, but they are the heroes of their own story. I was reminded of how Fredrik Bakman weaves the same cast of characters through several novels, with some front and center in one book but only episodically appearing in another. Stoppard did it earlier.

These guys were so gentle and genuine. Rosencrantz in particular was sweet, befuddled, with a hint of Eric Idle-esque wide-eyed mischief. Guildenstern was a bit more anxious and focused, and also wistful. There is so much to absorb and contemplate. They live in a parallel universe and we know how their story will end, but they do not know it. They are not entirely sure of anything, including the limits of their own power and will. They are floundering, but they are living—as are we all. And that is really the story. We might think that they do not have agency, but that is only because the title of the play gives it away. And even despite that, I was waiting for it to unfold differently. I did not get the sense that they are marching toward an inevitable conclusion. They are just making some decisions that will affect their lives in dire ways—as do we all. The Casablanca quote came to my mind, the one about how “the problems of three [let alone two—OLW] little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.

And there is no predestination, just a series of circumstances and how people make the best, and occasionally the worst, of them, because they are not omniscient. It is a story of two guys who are not necessarily worse than anyone else. And in this production, it also helped that Hamlet himself was the worst character in the ensemble: bearded middle aged man, prone to bulging eyes, with a startlingly booming voice and an utterly charmless manner. He was manipulative, callous, and revenge-driven. It was impossible to care, let alone root, for him. Perhaps that was intentional, but I do not know the play—I only know what I felt. This all goes back to who controls the narrative—“who tells your story”.

And so this experience just confirmed, yet again, my firm belief that plays need to be seen, and the power of live theatre to make one think and feel is unsurpassed. I wrote before about that one moment for which I wait in each show, and here there was the instance that I realized what is coming, and spouse whispered to me, “This is how they die”. So invested was I that I forgot the title of show! And then when Guildenstern said, “There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said — no. But somehow we missed it”. It broke my heart. And that is really it; “the rest is silence”.

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Do You Hear the People Sing?

It has been brought to my attention more than once[1] that all my theater posts have referred only obliquely to my most favorite musical of all time, “Les Miserables”. And so because I (1) tend to not write timely and (2) am most assuredly not a theater reviewer, here is a tribute more than 30 years in the making.

My first encounter with “Les Miserables” was when the French black and white 1958 miniseries made it to the Soviet television during my childhood. It seems to be the superior cinematic version because it is French and stars the great Jean Gabin. At whatever single-digit age I was when I saw it, however, I was incredibly impressed by Gavroche, his pluck, tragic death, and the fact that he lived inside an elephant. So much did I carry on about this elephant than when we saw the US movie version, the one with Hugh Jackman[2], my kids were besides themselves with the realization that I did not exaggerate this fact. (I really do not embellish—it’s just that my reality has routinely been stranger than fiction…)

When I moved to New York City in 1990, “Phantom of the Opera” was the hottest ticket in town. It was not even brand new by then, but the wait for tickets was two years. Two years, “Hamilton” fans! In those pre-internet days, I literally had to call the box office and be told that I can get on the wait list. I planned to be in NYC for at least three years, but I was also 21. Needless to say, I never got on a wait list, and never saw “Phantom” on Broadway.

Somehow, word got around that “Les Miserables” not only did not have a decade-long wait for tickets but was offering student discounts to the tune of $14. Now, this was a very different time with very different pricing structure for live theater. Full price tickets were $50, which was substantial, especially for poor students. But, movie ticket prices in NYC were climbing into double digits, so to see a Broadway show for just a few more dollars seemed—and was—extremely reasonable. Some friends of mine took advantage of this amazing offer and reported that, while the show was good, it was “depressing”. This was high recommendation, leading me to believe that the story was not Hollywood-ized. Of course I loved it. If I knew then what I know now, I would have seen it again. And again.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, “Les Miz” was touring on a semi-regular basis, and I saw it twice more in Detroit. The third time, in 2010, my kids were finally old enough to be worth a ticket (for at that point, we were already hundreds of dollars away from the measly $50, let alone $14). I built it up as the best thing they will ever see live on stage. The lights came down, and I broke out in cold sweat, because—“There is no ship in Les Miz”! The Abomination came to town. For three interminable hours, I watched my beloved show dismantled. Gone were the revolving stage and the barricades, replaced with CGI images. Gavroche’s song was cut. The whole production was just somehow pedestrian, dull, in a word—miserable. And poor Enjolras, the tragic hero of the doomed uprising, is wheeled away in a cart possibly borrowed from Spamalot (don’t you just expect him to spring up singing “I’m not dead yet”?) Trevor Nunn, the director of the original production, hated it, asking “why something inferior has been created when something superior could have been created.” [3] Why indeed?

I took this musical for granted because it always existed, it always toured, but after seeing the new and worsened version, I was crushingly disappointed. I took to the internet and discovered that the original version was still playing at the West End. That was all well and good, but before I even had time to lament this unreachable dream, I learned that I would be going on a business trip to London in the coming months. If ever I believed in luck and fate, it was at that moment. But… but, I must have forgotten that life is just a series of turns around which fate is waiting with a stuffed eel skin[4]. Thinking that a musical that is a quarter of a century old is not the hottest ticket in town, I figured that I will just grab a ticket at a half-price booth upon arrival. However, leisurely perusing West End offerings with the idea to see what else I could see[5], led me to a sudden shocking discovery: there were no tickets for “Les Miserables” during the time of my trip! Whaaat?! An increasingly frantic internet search revealed that Alfie Boe[6] was doing a limited run as Jean Valjean. Furthermore, Matt Lucas was appearing as Thenardier at the same time—and frankly, my money is still on him causing the sellout, because when he said “Paris in the DUST” and chuckled knowingly, the audience just died like when Lin Manuel Miranda first appears on stage and utters “Alexander Hamilton”.

So yes, that was a spoiler alert: I got the ticket, from a reseller. I actually got two tickets, because they were not sold singly, and it was still cheaper than a ticket to a touring production in Detroit, because, well, U.S. theater prices versus the rest of the world. If you know, you know. It was all that I remembered and missed, and more, because I knew to never take it for granted again—not just the gorgeous music and the moving story, but Trevor Nunn’s iconic production.

In the few years that followed, I was extremely fortunate to see the original London production four more times. The last time was in the spring of 2018. In 2019, it closed, and was eventually replaced by The Abomination. On my last visit to London, in November 2021, weeks after Les Miz’ post-pandemic reopening, I walked on by [ https://oldladywriting.com/2021/11/28/west-end-and-beyond/]. I am grateful that the last time I saw Les Miserables, it was in its full glory, revolving stage, barricade coming together and turning, no unnecessary projections and other staging fails too numerous to mention. Hope dies last, but in any case, the original production of Les Miserables lives in my memory.

[1] Maybe it was only once, but very recently on World Theatre Day.

[2] Hugh is great in many ways, but he is no Jean Gabin. I said what I said.

[3] https://playbill.com/article/trevor-nunn-speaks-out-on-revised-london-bound-les-miz-mackintosh-responds-com-169704

[4] P.G. Wodehouse

[5] I also saw “Billy Elliott” and “Betty Blue Eyes”; the first one because a colleague chose it and the second one because it looked like something that would never come to the U.S., which, as you know, is how I pick my West End shows.

[6] Alfie Boe is an incredible operatic tenor. But the best Valjean is Killian Donnelly, who not only sings, but is a fantastic actor. OK, Jean Gabin is THE best Valjean overall, but Killian Donnelly is the best singing Valjean. I said what I said.

West End and Beyond

The great Russian writer Konstantin Paustovsky astutely noted, “A sense of nature is one of the foundations of patriotism”. During the pandemic, while everyone was communing with nature, camping and hiking, I most assuredly was not. I visited one national park (with mixed success) https://oldladywriting.com/2021/06/11/i-went-up-north-once-once/, did not take down my old lady bicycle from the ceiling of our garage where it has been hanging for about twenty years now, and did not take up “hiking” as a hobby. I waited and bided my time in a Midwestern suburb until an opportunity to travel to London presented itself.

I saw five plays in seven days, which is my ideal vacation under any circumstances. Now that the original production of “Les Miserables” has been replaced (not permanently, I fervently pray) by the abomination that is the 25^th anniversary version, my London dance card is emptier. I must clarify that at the West End, I try to see shows that I am unlikely to see anywhere else. Unless Sir Patrick Stewart, Sir Ian McKellen, or the not-yet-knighted David Tennant or John Simm are appearing in “Jersey Boys” or “Book of Mormon”, I am catching those when they come to Detroit. On this trip, I even wandered out of London, to Bath and Richmond. The theater scene even outside of the West End was breathtaking.

And here they are, in order of appearance. Spoiler alert: all were great.

Number One: “Only Fools and Horses”—a delightful new[ish] musical to welcome us back to the West End. I actually researched the current offerings for about five minutes and this one jumped out at me as something that will never make it to the US, being as it is based on what is apparently a cult favorite English sitcom from the 80’s that is not part of the BBC America repertoire. The fact that I missed many inside show references did not diminish the enjoyment. The shady dealer older brother, the earnest goofy younger brother, the slightly demented grandad, various other comical yet lovable characters inhabiting their corner of London, catchy tunes, fun choreography, heartwarming story, and the evident delight of the audience made me want to go out and find the original TV show. This was met with zero success during the trip, but thank God for Brit Box.

Number Two: “Magic Goes Wrong”—the latest installment in the “Goes Wrong” series by Mischief Theatre company. We saw “Peter Pan Goes Wrong” at the London Apollo a few years ago (“Magic”’s current home), and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. The woman who sat next to spouse actually confessed that she wet herself laughing, which is neither surprising nor shameful given the level of creative absurdity that starts even before the curtain goes up. The element of surprise is gone once you have seen one of their shows—I mean, you know that everything that can go wrong will—but it is still a hilarious great fun. Penn and Teller created the magic side of it, so there is some actual legitimate magic alongside the bumbling tomfoolery. I suppose *that* is the surprise.

Number Three: “Blue/Orange”—a snapshot of the British mental health system (which seems as woefully deficient as the American one), full of dark humor and unnerving exchanges, with racial tension in the mix. On a Tuesday evening, the little theater in Bath was packed, which did my heart good. In this version, the character with the most authority of the three was played by a Black actor, which shifted the power dynamic to an intriguing level. Like “Art”, this is a play I would want to see again and again to continue to analyze its many nuances.

Number Four: “Abigail’s Party”—a 70’s comedy of manners. I saw it once before, in Belfast, and wondered then why such a juicy acting opportunity is not presented in the US. On second viewing, I have to concede that, while there is tremendous joy in period costumes and set, the play is very British. It is not just a play set in a specific decade, but in a specific place (I, of course, appreciate every Demis Roussos reference). But I still think that the crafted written characters can stand well enough on their own, and you do not have to be British or have lived through the decade to appreciate this powerful dark[ish] satire of the middle class pretenses. It is a bit of a precursor to “The God of Carnage”, to my mind. (And how many Yasmina Reza can one post contain?)

Number Five: “Private Lives”—which needs no introduction. I am well familiar with this play both on its own and through “Moon Over Buffalo”. Like “Art” (there I go again!), I have seen it in three countries—and like with “Art”, I traveled to England to see Nigel Havers in it. Of course, he was marvelous as Elyot, as he is in everything he does—and Patricia Hodge as Amanda was an extra treat.

This time, I was determined to meet him, waited at the stage door, and was shocked when he actually came out—and there was no one to converge on him but me and the trailing spouse. You would think that I would have used this opportunity to shine with my witty repartee and winning personality. You would be wrong—I have no such gifts. Spouse said that I should have prepared and rehearsed a speech. Son asked if mentioned how much we appreciated his performance in “Art”. But of course not—I blurted out that I came all the way from Detroit to see him on my birthday (sort of endearing), and went on for a bit about how much I loved him in “Chariots of Fire”. While I did not mention that I have literally seen the film over fifty times in the theater and can recite it verbatim (which is apparently more annoying than charming, as my family tells me), I inanely informed him that I have a “Chariots of Fire” luggage tag on my suitcase. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/09/27/adventures-of-a-suitcase/ What a dork! Having followed Nigel Havers’ career for forty years, having even read his autobiography twice (“Playing with Fire”; highly recommended), that was the best I could do under pressure. Well, I suppose I could have done worse. (Someone, please tell me how I could have done worse!) I am consoling myself that I excel in a more intimate discussion setting. Next time, next time…

Honorable mention: Upon returning home, I had the opportunity to see “Pretty Woman” the musical. My assessment of the show: the seats at the Fisher Theater in Detroit are the most comfortable ones.

Gratuitous images of Shakespeare’s Globe, which was closed, and the filming of an episode of “McDonald & Dodds” in Bath.

Who Tells Your Story?

Although I love theater, I am almost never at the forefront of seeing something before it becomes popular. A lot of it is because I do not live near where shows start—although I am given to understand that “Fiddler on the Roof” premiered at Detroit’s Fisher Theatre in 1964, that was literally before my time. The odds of me finding myself, during my travels, near a Broadway or West End show that is not yet big but will be are pretty slim. While it has happened more than once that I saw a show that I thought was destined for greatness which later went nowhere[1], the opposite never happens. Probably the biggest missed opportunity, not counting all the shows I regret missing in Stratford over the years, was during a 2015 visit to New York.

My actor son was living in Brooklyn and about to leave on tour with “Aladdin”[2]. The family was visiting him, and naturally, decided to see a Broadway musical. Walking past the Richard Rodgers Theatre, I noticed the not-yet-familiar black silhouettes on gold background.

“What is this all about?” inquired I.

“It’s a new rap musical about Alexander Hamilton”, replied son, dismissively.

“Hmm, that sounds really stupid”, opined I, disdainfully.

“It does indeed”[3], agreed son, and we moved on, chuckling to ourselves. This was too much even for this theater-appreciating family. Spouse, in his low-key way, was noting that “Something Rotten!” “looks good”. When this man says that something “looks good”, it means that he is super-excited and jumping up and down inside with the mad desire to see whatever this is. We bought tickets to “Something Rotten!” and enjoyed it immensely, witnessing a standing ovation in the middle of Act I—which, of course, is an incredibly rare occurrence, and a sure indication of potential long-term success[4].

I did not give “Hamilton” another thought until, on a Christmas flight to London, I saw the soundtrack as one of the offerings of Delta in-flight entertainment. I tried to listen, and it was nice enough, but the flight is an overnight one. I sleep on overnight flights. I fell asleep.

And then I woke up with a jolt, because something terrible happened to the Hamilton family (OK, they also turned the lights on and started serving breakfast)! I am neither proud nor ashamed to say that my knowledge of American history is limited to two years of high school—and the first year, my English was not good enough to fully grasp the goings on. Alexander Hamilton was covered that year, and I remembered that he was shot in a duel by Aaron Burr, but who knew that his son was also killed? It was sad! It was like “Les Miz”!

I landed in London a “Hamilton” fan, and decided to travel to New York in the foreseeable future and see this musical in person. I mean, how much could it cost, if we fly with miles and grab a hotel room with points? Couple of hundred bucks for tickets?

Not so fast, newly-minted-fans! This brought back memories of “Phantom” in the ‘90s [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/04/25/team-phantom/]—but, times have surely changed, and in the classical dilemma of time versus money, I had a little bit less of the former and a tiny bit more of the latter. Tickets were procured, and their extortionate cost was somewhat balanced out by the fact that we flew to New York on Spirit Airlines, and with no more than a handbag per person.

Was it worth it? Yes, yes it was—although spouse did say, after it was all over, “It was great, but not like the first time I saw “Les Miz”. I will not dispute that, because “Les Misérables” holds an extra-special place in my heart. I also will not do a review of “Hamilton”, because I doubt that anything is left unwritten about it. But this is what it means to me.

In theater productions, I live for that one moment when everything shifts and you remember it forever, either because it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard:

“A handbag?!” in “The Important of Being Earnest”

“The whole staff was slaughtered” exchange in “Hothouse”

or it breaks your heart:

“Could you ask as much from any other man?” in “Jesus Christ Superstar” (because you know what happens to him…)

As soon as the miners appear in “Billy Elliott” and sing “The Stars Look Down” (because you know what happens to them…)

or, in some cases, the entire play is brilliant: “Art”; “August Osage County”

I will not call it an “aha” moment, because it is not a moment of cerebral discovery, but it is more of an “oh”—or “aww”?—moment, which is purely emotional in nature. It is the “wait for it” or “catharsis” moment. It is what live theater does best, that moment of unity of hearts and souls between the characters on stage and the audience.

“Hamilton” both starts and ends on that moment. The opening number is so big, so smart, so creative, so instantly recognizable, and when we heard, “What’s your name, man?”, and there was that little pause, and Lin-Manuel Miranda appeared and said “Alexander Hamilton”—well, the entire audience of 1,300+ lost their collective minds! Not to take away from “Something Rotten!”’s standing ovation in Act I, but that was a rock star-caliber moment. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s presence is electric, and his charisma and enthusiasm on stage cannot be overemphasized. I would say that I knew, once again, that I was in the presence of greatness [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/07/26/all-my-world-is-a-stage/]—except that by the time I got to see “Hamilton”, live and with the still original cast, that would have been a major understatement.

And then there is that closing number, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story”. I love a good ending. I mean, who doesn’t, but I really, *really* love a good ending. A good ending is worth the price of admission even more than a good beginning, because it stays with you, even after the curtain falls. “Hamilton” ends like it begins, with the satisfying big number, but with more poignancy. It’s the combination of “Anatevka”, “Impossible Dream”, and “Do You Hear the People Sing?”, these other great finales, because it is both tragic and hopeful, tender and confident, wistful in the loss of a promising life cut short, yet satisfying in the summary of its legacy. It earns my inarticulate but sincere praise of “I cried and cried”.

Who tells your story? Little by little, I am trying to tell mine…

[1] My spouse still laments “Martin Guerre” by Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil, the creators of “Les Miserables” and “Miss Saigon” fame. You haven’t seen that version of “Martin Guerre”? No one has.

[2] Small print--not THAT “Aladdin”.

[3] This is why my writing career is still fledgling. I cannot write dialogue.

[4] This was after “The Musical”, which I still think is one of the most fun and clever numbers of the genre, basically an entire “Forbidden Broadway” in several minutes and on a major stage. And to be fair, Christian Borle did get a Tony for his part in this, not to mention eight other nominations for the show itself!

It was a magical weekend overall. We also saw “Bright Star”, starring the wonderful Paul Nolan, who deserves an award for every role which he graces with his talent, and stayed at the Algonquin, Harpo Marx’ old stomping ground. Those are stories for another day!]

All My World Is a Stage

In my pre-plague life, I never had a spare weekend. I [used to] see a lot of live theater. Over the past couple of decades, most other hobbies fell by the wayside as this one escalated.

A few people asked me about the origins of this love. One was Geraint Wyn Davies[1]. He was just being polite and making small talk, but I launched into some inane monologue of sharing a birthplace with the first professional theater in Russia, the Volkov, named after its founder, Fedor Volkov. This is factually true, but really, in my day the Volkov was a disaster. It is a gorgeous classical building of pale yellow, with white columns and ornate façade, second in appearance only to the Bolshoi. Many famous theaters are so nondescript from the outside. The House that Moliere Built is simply stunning in its unimpressiveness, despite being home to the largest and deepest stage I have ever seen. But the Volkov is beautiful, and sits in a strategic location, facing the large round Volkov square containing the statue of Fedor Volkov himself (no surprise),

and one of the oldest historic monuments in town, the 17^th century Banner (Znamenskaya) Tower. It is a spectacle—but a spectacle that used to be entirely external.

Oh, to be sure, it is also magnificent inside—with its marble red-carpeted stairs, frescoed walls, sculpted ceiling, velvet curtains, and a buffet serving delectable pastries. Unfortunately, what used to happen on stage in the ‘70s was either stale plays by Ostrovsky (in all fairness, I have never seen or read any of them), stock Communist plays (I have certainly never seen those either), Nutcracker (with substandard local or traveling cast), and an occasional Moliere or other permissible Western classic (performed in a standard static declamatory style). Before the Young Viewer’s Theater was built (after my time), my class would occasionally troop over to the Volkov on a field trip to see a morality play about the Young Pioneers.

The pastries were always excellent!

Right before we left the Soviet Union forever, my grandmother and I spent a few days in Moscow. The family friend with whom we stayed knew someone who worked at the Satire Theatre, and managed to get us in to see “Pippi Longstocking”. If one was to have such luck as to get into the Satire, or really any Moscow theater in those days, one would be hard pressed to find anything less exciting than “Pippi Longstocking”. Nonetheless, as proverbial beggars cannot be choosers, it was still thrilling. There were a couple of actors whom I knew from TV, and that was enough. I still recall one tune from the musical, for that is indeed what it was, and that is no small measure of an impression it made on me almost 40 years ago. I never heard this tune again except in my head. Those were the days when memories were made.

In the US, we were astonished to learn, theater tickets were distributed on a sort of first come, first served basis to those who had the means to pay, rather than on a complicated favoritism scale as a part of a behind the scenes black market economy. That was an incredible concept, although I did not know the actors and did not want to see them. Whenever my mother and I found ourselves in New York at the same time, she dragged me to Times Square to stand in line for half price tickets. The first Broadway play I saw was “Foxfire”, with Jessica Tandy, Hume Cronyn[2], and Keith Carradine. We must have already been living in the US for a bit, because I knew who Keith Carradine was[3]. I understood almost nothing, as my English was so poor and certainly not theater-ready at the time, but I did understand that I was in the presence of greatness. I held on to the memory and still cherish. I wish I had kept the program…

We saw a few great shows over the years when I was in high school: several G&S productions https://oldladywriting.com/2020/03/29/it-is-a-glorious-thing/, and an amazing production of “As You Like It” in Jackson before Michigan Shakespeare Festival settled there. https://www.michiganshakespearefestival.com/ It is still the gold standard for that play for me. Each act was done in a different setting. The city was all shades of gray and furs and muffs, the forest was all pastels, and the rest I do not remember. Nonetheless, for what was my first encounter with Shakespeare in the language I was still learning, it certainly left a lasting impression. But the real theater life started in Fort Worth.

When I was in college and my parents (I use the term loosely when it includes my late stepfather) lived in Fort Worth, they discovered a small regional theater called Stage West. https://stagewest.org/ In a tiny space of about 100 seats, they used to put on a fantastic variety of plays—and still do. My first exposure was to a dysfunctional comedy at Christmas called “Seasons Greetings”—we still laugh about “Pig number one, pig number two”, although I have never seen it performed since. From then on, every time I visited my parents, we would go to Stage West. It was always a delight, with an underlying feeling of uncomfortable incredulity about how a troop of local actors in some shed on a rough dockyard-like street would do a better artistic job than the permanent staff of the oldest professional theater in all of Russia, working in a gorgeous building with delicious pastries.

As an aside, I had the great fortune of revisiting Stage West a few years ago during a work conference in Dallas. My mother joined me, and we saw Stoppard’s “The Real Thing”. As a purportedly more sophisticated theater goer after the passage of almost three decades, I was still astonished. It was a world-class production. And one of those moments when I said to myself, I am the luckiest girl in the world. Gosh, I just live for those moments!

And then there came Stratford. https://www.stratfordfestival.ca/ This is a story that has been told often, and at almost every Stratford social event. It is just a conversation starter—how long have you been coming, what was your first experience? In my young married life, theater was not a factor, as we had neither time nor money, and never both at the same time. One fine day in 1996, my college friend suggested a girlfriends’ day to see a play. So the three of us drove three hours, arrived on a rain-soaked Saturday in August, ate some weird concoction prepared by one of us (not me!) for lunch in the car, and entered the Festival Theatre to behold the great William Hutt as King Lear. It was unquestionably one of the defining moments of my life. I wish I had kept the program…

Initially it was an annual trip. Initially it was just Shakespeare. Then we added other shows that sounded interesting, and once a season became not enough. Then some years later my friend lost interest and was replaced by my spouse. Then my kids started coming, and several other friends came along, and I even went by myself once when I could not sell anyone on “Fuenteovejuna”[4].

Along the way, I started to go to the theater everywhere I have traveled for work or leisure, and then planning trips with seeing plays as the goal. It became my identity— “I go to the theater”. It is what I do and who I am. For the time being, I do not and I am not. It feels like an intermission of my life. With theaters closed for the foreseeable future, I no longer know who I am and what to do with my after-work life. As I see it, I have two options: (1) reinvent and find some new interests, or (2) hunker down with my memories and wait it out. Or maybe both? Stay tuned…

The new Tom Patterson theater–as of this writing, it has not yet opened…

[1] I am just name dropping here. J

[2] Is it a coincidence that Hume Cronyn is Canadian? I think not.

[3] I saw Keith Carradine on a BroadwayCon panel a few years ago, and he actually mentioned “Foxfire” with fondness. What a full circle!

[4] Anyone who has not seen this Stratford production should be living with regrets. I am just saying.

Team Phantom

***Warning: this post contains plot spoilers. I do not want to discourage anyone from reading anything I write, but here it is: I will be divulging the plot of “Love Never Dies” below. To my three loyal readers—I think you already know this, so please read on!

Last Saturday I woke up to the words “The Phantom of the Opera is here!” thundering through my house. Being the musical lover that I am, I rolled out of bed, quite literally, and stumbled downstairs toward the source. Spouse was watching the Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber YouTube channel, The Shows Must Go On.

When I moved to New York City, “Phantom” was the hottest ticket in town. It was not even new by then, but the wait for tickets was two years. Two years, “Hamilton” fans! In those pre-internet days, I literally had to call the box office and be told that I can get on the wait list. I planned to be in NYC for three years, but I was also 21. Needless to say, I never got on a wait list, and never saw “Phantom” on Broadway. Instead, I continued to listen to the tape. I loved the soundtrack, and still do.

However, something always bothered me about “Phantom”. Plot is important to me (unless we are talking about “G&S” (https://oldladywriting.com/2020/03/29/it-is-a-glorious-thing/). The fact that Christine ends up with Raoul always seemed like a copout. Raoul is not that special, but he is handsome, and beautiful girls end up with handsome men and not with disfigured cavern dwellers. I realize that that’s the original story, but I also think that Sir Andrew can do whatever he wants to do. And guess what? A quarter of a century later, he did. “Love Never Dies” is a vindication of Team Phantom.

Seeing “Love Never Dies” was one of those unexpected transformative experiences that only live theater can give. We found ourselves in London for a night’s layover, and my only goal was to sleep in a pod. That was, by the way, absolutely terrible. You might think it would be cute to sleep in a box where you cannot even comfortably turn, as I did before I experienced this nonsense, but trust me—it is the worst. But I digress.

We had a few evening hours in London, so of course ran to Leicester Square to buy show tickets. “Love Never Dies”, the sequel to “Phantom”, seemed interesting. Little did we know, it was selling terribly and was already set to close. I am still sad about it. This is not only one of the most beautiful stories and musical works I have seen (“Beneath the Moonless Sky” and “Devil Takes the Hindmost” quartet are alone worth the price of admission), but it has also finally reconciled me to “Phantom” by redeeming (and ultimately martyring—and what can be more redeeming than that?) the seemingly superficial Christine.

Once I saw “Love Never Dies”, I have not been able to view “Phantom” the same way. Once you know that Raoul will end up a drunk and a gambler and a total anchor for Christine, their whole courtship in “Phantom” looks doomed. I kept wanting to tell Christine to just ditch him and stay with Phantom.

When I saw “Beneath a Moonless Sky” live on stage, it was so unexpected and so heartbreaking. Christine sang, “I loved you, I’d have followed anywhere you led”, and I just saw her in a completely different light, a woman beaten but unconquered by a bad marriage, full of regrets over a lost love, a woman who was prepared to follow her heart but who was given no choice in the matter and tried to do her best. And Angel of Music returns too late, because life is complicated…

I understand that a lot of the fans of the original story hated the fact that Christine dies in “Love”. But I think that no other solution would have worked. No one would have believed if she and Phantom stayed together and lived happily ever after, and no one would have believed if she stayed with that wastrel Raoul. Sorry, but she basically had to die—which makes the entire two-parter a great and tragic love story and ultimately elevates the original “Phantom”[*].

Now a word about the failed London production versus the revised Australian one, which was more successful. If you see “Love Never Dies” on official video, you will see the latter one—and I am sorry. Aside from the fact that I saw Ramin Karimloo as Phantom and Sierra Boggess in it, the West End version is superior in several subtle but key ways. First, the set is better—one of those rare instances where computer generated set works (and anyone who knows me knows that I do not love CGI on stage). The lights of Coney Island in Adelphi Theater were unforgettable! The entire show is just darker and more mysterious, which is absolutely what it needs to be.

Second, starting the show with Madame Giry and the Phantasma freaks reminiscing is much more intriguing and evocative of the start of “Phantom” (“The Coney Island Waltz/That’s the Place That You Ruined, You Fool!”), while starting the show with Phantom singing “Till I Hear You Sing” [Once More] is just too much foreshadowing. I am a firm believer that you just do not need to see Phantom in his mask until a few numbers in. You know he is coming, unless you have never seen or heard of him. In which case, you are in for an even bigger treat!

[*] Honorary mention goes to the amazing music box monkey that steals the show, according to my youngest son.

It Is a Glorious Thing

If you do not know that “Chariots of Fire” is my favorite movie, you do not know me. https://oldladywriting.com/2019/06/04/run-your-own-race/ Once I saw it, I became obsessed with everything mentioned in the film, such as

Watching PBS, in the hopes of running into any of the actors who appeared in “Chariots”. This was before BBC America, friends!
Watching the Olympics. OK, I loved the Olympics since Moscow ’80. “Chariots” didn’t do it singlehandedly, but still.
Wanting to go to England. We had no resources to do that for a very long time. Eventually I went to London for spring break of my senior year in college. With my grandmother. I repeat—with my grandmother. If you do not know how fraught our relationship is, you do not know me. But there is a happy end to this particular story—I have visited London many times since then, sans Grandma, and each trip has been an improvement.
Wanting to take “Sybil” for my middle name. Sybil is NOT my middle name, because by the time I could acquire one, I had fallen in love with The Monkees.
Wanting to see all the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas.
Wanting to have “Jerusalem” sung at my funeral. I am saving this one for last. Literally and obviously.

So, one of the many unexpectedly wonderful benefits of this great film is that it introduced me to the world of Gilbert and Sullivan. And unlike my belated foray into running, this was instant. In the movie, Harold Abrahams joins Cambridge’s Gilbert and Sullivan society. Apparently, this is factual. So snippets of the operettas are part of the soundrack—it is not all Vangelis. I must confess, although of course—of course!—I bought the record, I am not a huge Vangelis fan. I am generally not a fan of instrumental music. Not going to classical music concerts is one of my small rebellions against my upbringing. But I love musical theater. I need words and a plot.

Over the past 40 years, I have only seen four of their operettas—the three BIG ones, and “Ruddigore”.[1] It started with “HMS Pinafore”. My high school, during a woefully depressed year when our millage did not pass, the school day was cut to five hours, and buses were cancelled (a disaster in rural Midwest), put “Pinafore” on in the choir room. The set was minimal, if any, but the costumes were great, because all guys were dressed like sailors. I recognized “He is an Englishman” from “Chariots of Fire” and was pretty excited. I was also amazed at the vocal and acting talents of my peers. The fact that I was generally unfazed by the immense inanity of the plot is a commentary on how limited my command of the English language was at the time.

In short succession, my mother and I managed to see professional touring productions of “The Pirates of Penzance” and “The Mikado”. I had high hopes for the latter because of its special part in “Chariots”—but either my English regressed or the plot is even more bizarre than that of “Pinafore”, because I did not understand it. I have never seen it again.

“Pirates”, however, was great! “Pirates” is (or should it be “are”?) great! The production we saw in Detroit in the early ‘80s was perfect. I remember nothing about it except the lead.[2] I think “Pirates” stands wonderfully well on its own merits. It is a fun, light, colorful bit of cheery entertainment. I am generally very open and even eager to see variations on the classical traditions—with certain exceptions. Directors, please, do not mess with “Pirates”!

“The Pirates of Penzance” also happens to be my husband’s favorite musical. Strangely, he does not care about the rest of the G&S body of work. He just loves “Pirates”. Specifically, he is obsessed with the Major General character. Even more narrowly, the “Modern Major General” song, and how quickly the actor can do it. Fast-talking Major General equals great “Pirates”. The Major General who is not fast enough just ruins everything for spouse.

He also claims that he saw that touring production in Detroit and remembers the young blond lead. To think that we could have met a decade before we did, at a Gilbert and Sullivan show! It would have led nowhere, for a whole host of reasons, but it is kind of romantic to think that we might have been at the same theater event. Happy World Theatre Day!

[1] This is kind of shameful. I know I had many other opportunities. Once the plague is over, I should focus more on G&S…

[2] The actor who played Frederick in the touring production of “The Pirates of Penzance” subsequently returned as the lead in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat”. I like to pretend that I saw Andy Gibb in “Joseph”, but I did not. I saw this guy. I wish I knew who he was, because he was great. If anyone knows—please tell me. This was before I started keeping show programs, unfortunately.