Time To Say Goodbye
I opened the paper to read what was closing on Broadway. I always do this after the Tony Awards. Shows that didn't win anything close left and right. It's called the June Bloodbath; and it is a repugnant time in the theatrical community of New York City. It is a bad day when so many are put out of work.
The very week after the Tonys, shows were closing. Some I'd seen, some I hadn't seen; and some that shocked me.
When I read that the revival of SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE was closing I began to cry. I thought I would have more time. I thought I would be able to see it again and again. When I learned of the rapidly approaching end of the run of this show that had touched me, so, there was no time to make arrangements to see it again. Every evening, every afternoon, every time that the actors were to walk on that stage was scheduled, something in my life was scheduled, as well.
I would have to live with the memory.
I'm luckier than most. I saw the play twice. Through the good graces of friends, I landed in choice seats at Studio 54. I saw the play, once, from the second row of the mezzanine, where I could enjoy the special effects and the grand scheme of the play. The second time I was there, I sat downstairs, in the second row, where I could see each nuance, every expression, hear every breath and sigh, see each tear that rolled down Jenna Russell's face, the glint in Daniel Evans' eyes. Both times, I had the same reaction, though the experiences were different: I spent most of the play weeping. Both times, the person sitting to my right couldn't help but notice the weeping. Sitting in the second row, trying to contain myself so as to not be distracting to the cast, the elderly gentleman beside me handed me a tissue. I had to stay in my seat after each act, regaining my composure. The themes the writers provided, the philosophies, the understanding of the struggle of the artist, as an entity; and the way those actors presented the philosophies - well it was an embarrasment of riches. When you add to that the extraordinary harmonies in that score (particularly the number Sunday, from the end of the act), well, of course I was weeping.
Then there was that final moment when the muse watches the artist, turns to leave and he looks at all that white and gasps. Twice I got to see that and it has left me breathless, for life.
I'll miss having that play, that cast, only five blocks away; but at least I had it for those few hours.
The very week after the Tonys, shows were closing. Some I'd seen, some I hadn't seen; and some that shocked me.
When I read that the revival of SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE was closing I began to cry. I thought I would have more time. I thought I would be able to see it again and again. When I learned of the rapidly approaching end of the run of this show that had touched me, so, there was no time to make arrangements to see it again. Every evening, every afternoon, every time that the actors were to walk on that stage was scheduled, something in my life was scheduled, as well.I would have to live with the memory.
I'm luckier than most. I saw the play twice. Through the good graces of friends, I landed in choice seats at Studio 54. I saw the play, once, from the second row of the mezzanine, where I could enjoy the special effects and the grand scheme of the play. The second time I was there, I sat downstairs, in the second row, where I could see each nuance, every expression, hear every breath and sigh, see each tear that rolled down Jenna Russell's face, the glint in Daniel Evans' eyes. Both times, I had the same reaction, though the experiences were different: I spent most of the play weeping. Both times, the person sitting to my right couldn't help but notice the weeping. Sitting in the second row, trying to contain myself so as to not be distracting to the cast, the elderly gentleman beside me handed me a tissue. I had to stay in my seat after each act, regaining my composure. The themes the writers provided, the philosophies, the understanding of the struggle of the artist, as an entity; and the way those actors presented the philosophies - well it was an embarrasment of riches. When you add to that the extraordinary harmonies in that score (particularly the number Sunday, from the end of the act), well, of course I was weeping.
Then there was that final moment when the muse watches the artist, turns to leave and he looks at all that white and gasps. Twice I got to see that and it has left me breathless, for life.
I'll miss having that play, that cast, only five blocks away; but at least I had it for those few hours.
posted by StephenMosher at 2:34 PM
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