| Ladies and gents,
The other night, something exceedingly rare happened: I found myself at home.
There was no opening. No gala. No dinner party for an obscure member of an obscure European royal family in town to raise awareness of something obscure. I had nowhere to be, nobody to see and, most thrillingly, no reason to put on proper shoes.
I decided to watch television.
Now, I remember watching television. You turned it on, flipped mindlessly through the channels until you found something halfway decent, and stared at it, mouth agape, until you got drowsy enough to turn in.
Apparently, this was too easy.
Now I had to choose a streaming service. Then remember whether the app in question was “Now,” “Go,” “Max,” or classic. Then remember my password. Then discover that I had forgotten my password. Then reset my password. Then create a new password that I had apparently already used. Then retrieve a code from my email to prove that I was, in fact, me.
By the time I was successfully logged in, it was time for bed.
Could everyone please stop improving things?
I am not against progress. I enjoy antibiotics. Air conditioning was a triumph. Indoor plumbing has served me well.
But somewhere along the way, we seem to have decided that anything that can be improved must be improved, even when it was working perfectly well in the first place.
Some things were solved.
The light switch was solved. Now we need to download an app to turn on the lamp. The hotel-room key was solved. Now I wave my phone at the door and pray. The thermostat was solved. Now it would like to connect to my Wi-Fi. The doorbell was solved. Now it has a camera and a monthly subscription fee.
Take the automobile.
For approximately a century, if one was cold, one reached for a knob and turned it toward the little red section. If one was hot, one turned it toward the blue. A child could operate it. A reasonably clever Labrador probably could, too.
Now I have to navigate a touch screen while hurtling down the West Side Highway just to get some air on my feet.
And restaurants! I sit down and am presented with a small black-and-white square.
“Just scan the QR code.”
No.
Bring me a menu. A proper menu. I want to hold it in my hands. I want to pass it to the person sitting next to me and say, “Have you seen what they’re charging for sea bass?”
I do not want to enlarge the entrées with my fingers while my telephone asks whether I will allow the restaurant to track my location.
You know where I am. I’m in the restaurant.
Then there is the smartwatch.
Apparently it is no longer sufficient for a watch to tell you the time. It must count your steps, take your pulse, analyze your sleep, monitor your blood oxygen, and periodically vibrate to suggest that you stand up.
Darling, you’re a watch.
Give me a classic Breguet three-hander. Hours, minutes, seconds, elegantly ticking away against engine-turned guilloché tucked inside an 18k gold case. Perhaps a date if we’re feeling decadent. Or, if one insists on modern technology, give me something with a little lume so I can glance discreetly at my wrist and see how much longer there is to go in the show.
Which brings me to one of the few things we have somehow resisted improving beyond recognition.
The theater.
Think about it. In an age when a television requires a password, a lightbulb requires an app and a watch would like access to your medical records, the basic technology of the theater remains almost militantly primitive.
You walk into a room.
You sit down.
The lights go out.
Some people walk onto a stage and tell you a story.
That’s it.
No password. No buffering. No pairing. No software update. Nobody interrupts King Lear halfway through to ask whether you’d like to accept its new privacy policy.
And if something goes wrong—a door sticks, a prop breaks, somebody forgets a line—the actors don’t need a hard reboot. They simply keep going.
We’ve been doing some version of this for a few thousand years, and so far nobody has come up with a meaningful upgrade.
Perhaps there’s a lesson in that.
Some things were born perfect.
And happily, the theater is one of them.
Tidbits from around town…
Overheard Thomas Schumacher, whilst strolling canals of The Venetian Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas, quip, “It’s almost like the real thing,” before ducking into Cipriani for a late lunch.
Spotted Ethan Hawke taking in a Saturday evening showing of Primetime at BAM Rose Cinemas…
Caught Matthew Modine singing along to what sounded like KPop Demon Hunters while jogging around the Central Park Reservoir. I couldn’t identify the song, but Matthew knew every word.
As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours!
Kisses,
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