| Ladies and gents,
We find ourselves inside the small, delicious pause in the Broadway calendar which I have always adored. It arrives after the last opening night has spent its final flashbulb, but before the Tony nominations turn the street into a brawl. For one brief moment, there are no frontrunners, no snubs, no “momentum,” no “narrative,” no producer pretending not to care while refreshing prediction columns with the frenzy of a day trader.
I attended the final play opening of the season: August Wilson’s Joe Turner’s Come and Gone, which bowed triumphantly Saturday night at the Barrymore Theatre.
Debbie Allen, who directed, looked every inch the general of an army that had already won the war. Taraji P. Henson’s stage chops paired perfectly with her movie-star electricity. Same goes for Cedric “The Entertainer,” who was in splendid spirits at the after party, as he huddled with his co-star (and great Wilson interpreter) Ruben Santiago-Hudson. As for me, I couldn’t take my eyes off Joshua Boone, who I predict will be captivating Broadway audience for decades to come.
The house was stacked. Michelle Obama was there, for crying out loud. Producers Brian Anthony Moreland, Tyler Perry, and Kandi Burruss greeted a steady stream of A-list well-wishers, including LL Cool J, Simone Smith, Shonda Rhimes, Phylicia Rashad, Tina Knowles, Denzel Washington, Leslie Uggams, Taye Diggs, Susan Sarandon, Misty Copeland, Karine Jean-Pierre, Anthony Anderson, Shamea Morton, Brian Stokes Mitchell, Adrienne Warren, David Rockwell, Melba Wilson, Karine Jean-Pierre, Sydney Lemmon and Alex Winter.
But the real star of the evening, of course, was August Wilson, whose masterpiece calls out with as much clarity as it did in 1988.
By the time the final openings roll around, everyone is running on fumes and/or vodka. Publicists have developed the haunted eyes of Antarctic explorers. Producers have either achieved enlightenment or acid reflux. And yet, beneath all the fatigue, there is something almost holy about this interval before the competition begins.
Because competition will begin, dear readers. Soon enough, the nominations will arrive, and with them the annual transformation of artists into racehorses. Lovely people who spent months speaking earnestly about ensemble and community will suddenly be discussed in terms of odds, positioning, categories, vote-splitting, and whether anyone “peaked too early” – a phrase I’ve only ever uttered once (about a disappointing soufflé at La Grenouille).
But not yet.
For these few suspended hours, every show still belongs equally to the season. The closed ones, the hits, the noble flops, the surprises, the little engines that could, the big engines that perhaps should not have tried. Before the Tony machinery starts grinding, there is a brief democratic hush in which each production gets to be remembered simply as an offering. Not a contender. Not a campaign. An offering.
I have lived through enough seasons to know that the awards, while thrilling, are never the whole story. I have seen shows ignored by prizes that later shaped generations. I have seen winners vanish from memory faster than a cocktail shrimp at an opening-night party. I have watched young actors lose awards and gain careers, and old pros win awards and go right back to fretting about their legacy.
Theater is not built for permanence. That is its tragedy and its triumph. It happens, it disappears, and then we spend the rest of our lives failing to accurately describe what it felt like. Awards try to pin it down, God bless them, but a live performance resists embalming. You can hand someone a trophy; you cannot hand them the sound of a house holding its breath.
So let us all hold our breath a moment longer, shall we? Let’s enjoy the moment. And rest up. Next week all hell breaks loose.
Tidbits from around town…
Caught Ayo Edebiri slipping into Carversteak at the Civilian Hotel between shows.
Spied Michael Kors at Sant Ambroeus simultaneously appraising a croissant and a fellow customer’s blue blazer.
Overheard Kara Swisher at The Grill describing a tech titan as “not evil, just dumb.”
Saw David Rockwell at the over-the-top opening celebration for the trio of new eateries at 550 Madison: Bar Chimera, Cote Madison, and Sushi Yoshitake. He designed all three, as well as the building’s “Club Level” amenities, and still has time to dazzle Broadway audiences with his scenic designs (see: Fallen Angels in all its Deco glory!)
As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours!
Kisses, |
