Broadway woes

I've had many wonderful Broadway experiences that I’ll never forget – and, alas, many I'm sure I loved but don't really remember. In the latter category there’s Sideman with Edie Falco and Christian Slater, The Judas Kiss with Liam Neeson, and, incredibly, Long Day’s Journey into Night with Vanessa Redgrave, Brian Dennehy, Philip Seymour Hoffman and one of my all-time favorites, Robert Sean Leonard. I remember seeing Journey and I think I have a few visual images filed in what’s left of my brain, but I don't honestly remember the show.

Thankfully, there are other shows I remember well: the original Sweeney Todd with Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou, South Pacific at Lincoln Center, Hugh Jackman in Oklahoma!, Christopher Plummer’s King Lear, Lincoln Center’s amazing Carousel with a young Audra McDonald, director John Doyle’s brilliant Company, A Chorus Line 8 times, Brian Dennehy and Christopher Plummer in Inherit the Wind, Patrick Stewart’s brilliant one-man Christmas Carol, Tom Stoppard’s word-rich Arcadia and another Lincoln center winner, Anything Goes with Patti LuPone as Reno Sweeney.

If I had to choose one scene that blew me away more than any other it might well be Jennifer Holliday bringing down the house with "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" from Dreamgirls. It was breathtaking.

But if I had to choose one show that I loved above all the others Angels in America would likely lose by just a breath to the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Nicholas Nickleby, which Ransom and I saw on September 15, 1986. It was nine and a-half hours of astounding theatre, brilliantly acted. 41-year-old Roger Rees, who was heart-racingly wonderful, played the title character.

I learned yesterday that Roger Rees died of cancer in New York at age 71. I never saw him on stage again though I did love the show he directed with Alex Timbers in 2012, Peter and the Starcatcher. It was as cleverly staged as Nick Nick with far fewer props and sets. (You may also know Rees from his roles on The West Wing and Cheers).

We have lost a genius.

The other theatre news is almost as distressing. By now you've likely read about Patti LuPone’s cell phone grab during a performance of Shows for Days. Perhaps you've read her honest comments about people’s behavior in the theatre. She is disheartened by it, as am I and, I presume, most theatre lovers.

Six years ago Ransom and I went to see Hairspray on my birthday. We pretty much hated it, but whether we most hated what was on stage or what was behind us is a toss-up. A hideously fat woman and her three depressingly fat children talked and carried on non-stop. When I politely – and yes, I was polite – asked her to please bring it down a notch she roared, “Hell no, we paid a lot of money for these seats and we're going to enjoy ourselves.”

Between the candy unwrapping, the drink slurping, the talking, texting and taking – of pictures – I am not an alarmist to worry about the future of live theatre.

We are a rude people. We are a selfish people. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.

La LuPone and I are pissed.