We were not a theatrical family, and while my Dad can really sing and my Mom enjoyed the arts in school, theater was not on my radar growing up. So, it being my first Broadway show, I kept my ticket stub and Playbill, which I have continued to do for almost every show since. (Apologies to Marie Kondo and my loving wife.)
When “Beetlejuice” moved into the theater and I walked out onto that stage, I couldn’t help but glance up at the house-right side of the mezzanine. I instantly remembered the inverse view, and the little boy whose view it was, unaware of the permanent tattoo being inked into his core. There’s a “Memory” joke to be made here, but I’ll spare us. After all, I’m sentimental, not cloying. I acknowledge the difference.
That sixth grader had no sense that something had just begun. I’m willing to bet that I adored every second of the show. But the 11-year-old anti-sentimentalists in my class had already begun to chip away at me. So “Cats” was “weird,” or even “dumb.” Being in love with Broadway wasn’t exactly cool.
Ten years ago, I was at La Jolla Playhouse doing the out-of-town tryout of what would become “Chaplin.” Before a 9:30 a.m. student matinee, my voice was not waking up. Panicked, I started running the seats of the theater, hoping the physical exertion would get my voice moving. Starting down by the stage, I ran horizontally through row A, then B, and so on, touching each seat as I passed.
Not only did it do the trick vocally, but I suddenly felt very connected to the room. Since that day, I’ve tried to run the theater before every performance, at theaters around the world, including the 10,000-plus seat Muny in St. Louis. I claim it’s solely as a warm-up, but I would be lying if I said it hasn’t become somewhat, dare I say, sentimental.
