Talk of the Town - Good night, sweet audience June 05 2002

Who’s snoring in row H?



“The play’s the thing,” wrote Shakespeare, who also noted that “our little life’s rounded with a sleep.”

That’s me. I have a hard time staying awake in the theater.

This disability doesn’t apply to movies. Contemporary films are loud enough to waken the most seasoned narcoleptic, especially the previews: “In a world gone mad — (PLOOM! BADA-BOOM! Followed by 90 seconds of pulsing computer-generated techno-clamor) — he was the angriest one of all!”

No, I’m talking about the legitimate theater. An amusing phrase, since it implies a seedy guy down the block whispering, “Psst! Wanna buy an act?”

Stage-related slumber has been on my mind, because we just received a brochure from Atlanta’s Alliance Theater Company for its 2002-03 season. Don’t get me wrong. I admire the Alliance. The Allies won the Big War. But do I want to drop a couple of hundred bucks on season tickets when I could pass out in my TV room for free?

For me, the pattern is always the same when seeing a play. I settle in with high expectations. I look around at the audience. These are people with money — city people. They smell good, have tennis club rankings, talk about their backhand and drive luxury cars made by former Axis powers. And when I say Axis, I mean the original fascism-and-potatoes Hitler/Hirohito/Mussolini Axis, not this namby-pamby Axis of Evil that doesn’t even have good uniforms. And who’d drive a luxury car made in North Korea?

Then the curtain goes up. The lights go down.

First mistake.

Yes, I know. When houselights dim, the footlights flare. But I’ve reached a stage in life (no pun intended) when the absence of direct illumination sends a signal to my anatomic mainframe: Time for a nap.

This condition is related to encroaching middle age. But in looking back on my history of theatrical dozing, and my very first playtime snooze, there were far more sordid reasons afoot.

It was in college, during a freshman class trip to see Candide on Broadway, with music by Leonard Bernstein and story by Voltaire. (The latter, being 200 years dead, got second billing.)

Before the show, we took the (Statue of) Liberty of visiting one of those all-you-can-drink beer, wine or sangria establishments that were the rage during the 1970s, when Dudley Moore’s drunk turn in Arthur was considered hilarious. (Whatever happened to sangria? The last time I asked for it in a restaurant, the waitress looked at me as if I’d requested blackstrap molasses.)

Anyway, I took the restaurant up on its sangria deal. So by the time I hit the Broadhurst Theater, I hit the Broadhurst Theater. I think it was a men’s room door.

I remember the overture and the audience laughing uproariously at the final curtain. Whatever went on in between remains a mystery, although I’m told both Voltaire and Leonard Bernstein went on to do pretty well in their respective fields.

My next Big Sleep occurred a couple of years later, when my Shakespeare class went to see King Lear at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival in Connecticut. It should be noted that King Lear is a tremendous work of drama, representing the Bard in his highest form. But it’s also more than four hours long. Some 250 minutes. I know — I started to keep track. It was like going in for surgery, when the doctor tells you to start counting after they administer the anesthesia, but you never get past “6” because you’re out cold. Except in this case, I was conscious during the entire operation.

I was not, however, under the influence of Spanish wine. Neither was I the only undergraduate snug in the arms of Morpheus. There were kids passed out all over Stratford. When Old Lear finally keeled over, there was hearty applause, less because of the performance and more from the dawning hope that, if the title character had croaked, the end of the play could not be far off.

The next embarrassing moment came during my honeymoon — and shame on you for whatever you’re thinking. No, it occurred in Dublin, Ireland, at the legendary Abbey Theater, where a production of The Plough and the Stars was under way.

This classic look at the struggle for Irish independence features many characters that are hardcore Dubliners, possessed of an accent particularly impenetrable to the American ear, even though we allegedly share a common language.

I tried very hard to understand what they were saying, but other than detecting a general antipathy toward Great Britain, experienced little success. This effort, coupled with a stubborn case of jet lag, left me so exhausted that I slept through several gun battles and the violent demise of at least one major character.

So in general, my review of a play is as follows: It drags a bit during Act One. Act Two is completely forgettable — although things seem to perk up by Act Three, when I’m awake again, if somewhat puzzled by plot twists and characters whose reason for being eludes me.

But after a few hours of play-going, I leave the theater refreshed. In fact, I’m ready to go out.

Anyone for blackstrap molasses?

glen.slattery@creativeloafing.com

Glen Slattery’s little column is rounded

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