xtcian

Oh, Big Daddy!

11/7/03

Broadway and 45th Street

Because I am a bit of a neophyte when it comes to this "New York City" thing, I thought "off-Broadway" meant those theaters that were just off Broadway, you know, like on 45th Street near 8th Avenue. I thought "Broadway shows" had to actually be on Broadway. Boy is that wrong. "Off-Broadway" means "somewhere in Soho." "Broadway" means "almost anything in midtown."

I should write a book called "New York Late Bloomers" so none of you say the stupid things I've said.

Anyway, we saw "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" tonight, with Ashley Judd, Jason Patric and Ned Beatty. The reviews had been unkind to Ms. Judd, so I expected a debacle, but I thought she comported herself well. Ned Beatty, of course, was fabulous, but he's been one of my favorite actors since he played Otis in the first "Superman" movie.

We'd come to see Michael Mastro and Amy Hohn as Gooper and Mae, and naturally, they oozed with humor and talent. Those two are the ultimate "working actors," quietly turning in wonderful performances for years. Just so you can get them in your mind's eye, Amy was in "Meet the Parents" as the airline attendant who spends five minutes typing in Ben Stiller's request for a seat (she's very funny). Michael was most recently one of the gay best friends of Helen, the object of affection in "Kissing Jessica Stein" (here's a picture).

Tessa, Amy and Michael backstage at the Music Box

After the show, we went to Joe Allen's for a burger, which is one of the age-old traditions of Broadway. Sitting next to us was Al Pacino, who looked more like the Unabomber than a movie star, but he's earned it, I guess.

When you're inside Joe Allen's, you can feel the euphoric, nervous tension of decades of theater ghosts. One tradition: back when the New York Times was printed in midtown, the actors, producers and director of any given play used to come to the restaurant after opening night. There they would wait for the NYT review to come out, no doubt plowing through three or four anxious martinis. Around one in the morning, someone with a paper, ink still wet from the press, would rush in � and the crowd would gather in hushed excitement. A rave meant they might be stars; a bad review meant they might be closing in two weeks. It must have been pure ecstasy in that restaurant when the critics glowed and the place exploded.

Now the Times is printed in Jersey and doesn't get to the city until 5 in the morning. Most stars read their reviews on the internet at 3am, by themselves in the cool glow of a lonely screen. Nobody to share their excitement, or commiserate their defeat. The internet has been fantastic for many things, but not this.

Posted by irw at November 7, 2003 11:39 AM