My Broadway Story
I’m standing at the window of a Theatre District hotel on West 46th street, peering through the diagonal slant of the metal pipe maze that encases the facade of the building, for glimpses of neon. There’s a muffled roar from the crowd enjoying an open-air performance in nearby Times Square. What is it about Broadway that captures the imagination of so many? A place where young hopefuls with stars in their eyes are drawn like moths, beguiled by artificial lights. Where talent, hard work and luck may not be enough? Where dreams are made, or trampled underfoot like trash discarded by the hustle of humanity streaming along the elephant-grey sidewalks?
There are many ways to tell a story.
With song and dance is one.
A popular one.
The musical.
The Broadway musical.
The ‘pinnacle’ of musical theatre.
The prestige.
There are forty-one Broadway theatres, (but only four that actually reside on the street named Broadway) each with a minimum of five hundred seats. Potentially 20,500 plus people per night line up to gain entry to a place where they can escape their lives for a couple of hours and be transported to another place and time.
I’m here in Manhattan to fulfil a bucket list item.
But I’m not here to see the big productions. I can see them back home.
I want to see the ones that are less likely to make the journey to the other side of the globe. So I leave the cocoon of my minuscule hotel room and head out into the night to walk the short distance to the venue. Construction work on the corner of 46th and 8th hampers my progress. People weave in and out at very close quarters, going either way, watching their step on the uneven ground. Should I have left earlier?
The lineup at 45th reaches the corner. I glance up the street. There are lines all the way along the sidewalk in both directions, on both sides. How many theatres are there on this stretch of West 45th? Which line is for what show? So, I ask. Finally, I find my line, grateful for the mild weather. It would be a test of stamina in the wet or cold. I check the time. Will we even make it in for the start of the show? But the line shuffles along through security and into the crammed foyer. Like they do before every show. Ushers pointing people in the right direction. How many patrons are local? How many are tourists?
A shock of artic air from the air-conditioning hits as I take my seat – lesson learned, bring a jacket. I imagine what it must’ve been like in the early days. The 1920s. Oppressive heat and all those bodies, without a cooling draught. Modern theatres with their sterile décor can’t compare with the ornate ceilings, gold leaf and scroll work, aged though time. The chandeliers, the ceiling frescos. Character. Atmosphere. Tradition. A sense of being part of something unique.
As the house lights dim, the hum of the audience settles and waits in anticipation for the first words, the first notes of the opening song….
And the shows I saw?
Water for Elephants: (Imperial Theatre -1923) Based on the movie of the same name which I’ve not yet seen. Glad I went. Brilliant show. Liked the staging.
The Notebook: (Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, originally The Plymouth, 1917) A no-brainer for a romance writer. Nicholas Sparks has a huge following. And yes, they did the rain scene. Very enjoyable.
Hell’s Kitchen: (Sam S Schubert Theatre,1913) Loosely based on the life of singer Alicia Keys growing up in Manhattan in the 90s. I actually knew more of her music than I thought. The set design was also really well done.
Suffs: (Music Box Theatre, 1921) Based on the America Women’s Suffrage movement at the turn of the 20th Century and the events leading up to the ratification of the amendment that gave the right for some women to vote. Not quite as staid as it sounds. As is typical, there were ‘changes made’ to suit a particular narrative.
I guess that is the prerogative of any writer – to tell a story their way.