Front of House: Observations from a Decade on the Aisle (12 page)

Nederlander Theatre

The line of tents stretched all the way down to 8th Avenue, and the teenagers and young adults in the queue were bundled up in heavy coats and hats. Some of them were sitting in beach chairs on the sidewalk. Others huddled in small groups, shared food, listened to the radio, or hopped back and forth to try to keep warm. It was only about fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, but the Rentheads had been outside for hours. I was amazed that nobody had fallen to hypothermia yet.

Rent
offered cheap tickets for seats in the first two rows of the orchestra. After the show had been open for a while these tickets were sold by lottery, but at the beginning of the run they were first come-first serve. Ardent fans queued up very, very early to get them. I was told that the tent city appeared every night as fans camped out on 41st Street to be first in line for tickets the next day. Even though I thought it was perhaps
slightly
overzealous, I had to admire these superfans’ commitment to their favorite show. The Rentheads stood their ground in the freezing January night even though they had already seen the show multiple times; they were dressed as their favorite characters and knew every lyric and bit of dialogue.

I wasn’t a Renthead. However, when I was sent over to the Nederlander to sub for one performance of
Rent,
I was excited for three reasons. One, it was a new show. Two, I’d never been to the Nederlander Theatre. It was an incredibly ramshackle, run-down house, and I loved those.

Three: ushering was the only way I was going to stay warm at night. The heat in my apartment building had broken down a week earlier, my home was freezing cold, and thus far, my landlord had completely ignored the entire situation. Even worse: the spring term at my Uni hadn’t started yet, so I didn’t have anywhere warm to go during the day. With no other recourse, I bundled up in multiple layers of sweaters and gloves when I was in my icy apartment, and tried to spend as much time as possible in places that offered central heating, like the library. Working as an usher provided me with another temporary refuge from the cold.

However, my zeal fizzled shortly after I walked into the ushers’ room at the Nederlander Theatre and discovered that I was going to be treated like shit all night long. The ushers were on par with the rudest patrons I’d ever seated. I was sent up to the mezzanine, where one of the regulars said exactly three words to me: “You. Over there.” It wasn’t an auspicious beginning.

I didn’t enjoy the show at all. Idina Menzel as Maureen was brilliant, but she was the only bright point for me. To make matters worse, I was horribly cold, because the old theater was drafty. I usually wore nice black sweaters to work in the winter, but I wasn’t permitted to do that at the Nederlander.
Rent
’s ushers were supposed to look less formal than traditional Broadway staff, so I had to go on the aisle in a short-sleeved black t-shirt. I didn’t even have an ushers’ scarf or collar around my neck to provide a little extra warmth; I had to wear a
Rent
sticker instead. As I watched the show I shivered, longed desperately for the toasty sweater I’d been forced to leave in the ushers’ room, and rubbed my arms to try to keep warm.

I was in college full time, working full time, and living in an unheated apartment. And there I was, watching a bunch of pretentious losers sing about how wonderful it was not to pay rent, and how it was selling out to work. I found myself soured on the show by the end of the first act. This was my generation? Really? These were the people with whom I was supposed to identify? Anyone who thought that those of us on the cusp of Gen X and Y behaved this way en masse didn’t have a fucking clue. I had nothing in common with those pompous transplants.

Yeah, I was bitter. I’ll freely admit it in this case.

As I ventured out into the frosty evening after the walk-out, bundled up in several layers of clothing, I pulled my scarf tight around my face. To say that I had not been converted to the Church of
Rent
would be an understatement. I looked back one last time at the line of tents and lawn chairs, which had grown significantly during the three and a half hours I’d been working, and I shook my head. It boggled my mind to know that I had what the Rentheads wanted more than anything: I’d seen the show that night. In fact, I’d been paid to see it. I knew that any of the fans in that queue probably would have traded places with me in two seconds flat, and that it would have been a brilliant and fulfilling experience for them. One woman’s trash is another’s treasure, as they say. I tried to remind myself of that little fact as I headed off to the bus stop.

When I returned to the Nederlander Theatre the next week to pick up my check, it wasn’t there. The people at the box office were snippy when I asked if they could please double check for me, and I was finally told that I would need to wait around to talk to the head usher. Since I needed to get to work at another theater on time, I declined and left. And since the Nederlander was all the way down on 41st, and I usually worked further uptown, I never bothered to go back. I needed the money desperately, but I honestly didn’t want to deal with anyone at
Rent
ever again. I knew that the theater was supposed to mail my check at the end of the week if I didn’t pick it up in person, so I figured I’d just have a short delay in receiving my pay.

My check arrived in the mail several months later. The envelope was dirty, there was a shoeprint across the address, and it was covered in coffee cup rings and brown stains. I wouldn’t have expected any less. It was a fitting finale to my
Rent
experience.

Shubert and Ambassador Theatres

The Broadway revival of
Chicago
has been in three different theaters since it started its run in 1996. It began at the Richard Rodgers on 46th Street, moved over to the Sam S. Shubert on 44th, and finally bounced up to the Ambassador on 49th, where it remains to this day. It’s now in its 19th year, it has surpassed
Cats
as the second-longest running Broadway show; and from what I understand, it’s not planning to go away any time soon.

I subbed at
Chicago
many times over the years. During the first spring I worked for the Shuberts, the original cast members — Bebe Neuwirth as Velma Kelly, Ann Reinking as Roxie Hart, Joel Grey as Amos Hart and James Naughton as Billy Flynn — were still with the show. Bebe returned at least once later on to reprise her role as Velma, and I was always glad to see her name in the program.

Bebe is one of the nicest, most gracious, most fantabulous Broadway performers I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. I will go on record with that.

I seated Bebe at several opening night performances for other shows. She always looked me in the eye, smiled and said hello as she handed over her ticket. Most patrons didn’t do that even at regular performances. On an opening night, when many audience members treated the ushers like pond scum, it was truly an anomaly. At one show, after I took her to her seat, I turned around to see her picking her way through an empty row. I was baffled until I realized that even though she needed to get to the lobby, she hadn’t wanted to block my aisle or get in the way of all the other patrons I was seating. Celebrity or not, most people aren’t even remotely that considerate. Bebe always was.

Other than those brief opening night greetings, I never had a chance to chat with Bebe. When I subbed at
Chicago
I saw her onstage as Velma Kelly; every now and then when I was crossing through Shubert Alley after an evening show I caught a glimpse of her at the stage door, surrounded by enthusiastic fans.

One weekend when I was subbing at
Chicago
there was a new Roxie Hart. The actress, who shall remain nameless in the interest of kindness, had a beautiful operatic voice. Unfortunately, that didn’t work very well in
Chicago.
I think that if she had been doing a different sort of show —
Show Boat,
perhaps;
The Phantom of the Opera, Les Mis,
a Rodgers and Hammerstein piece — she would have brought down the house. As Roxie, however, she was totally out of her element. The songs weren’t right for her voice, the interaction with the audience seemed to make her uneasy, and it was obvious that she hadn’t yet become comfortable with the choreography.

Usually, when a performer crashes and burns, it’s juicy gossip both backstage and in the front of the house. In this case, however, nobody mocked our hapless Roxie. Everyone seemed to be aware that she was doing the best she possibly could and was just perhaps in the wrong venue; an Olympic gold medallist diver forced to perform on a ski slope, so to speak.

Before the matinee I sat on my aisle arranging my Playbills. The usual pre-set din provided accompaniment to my work; musicians tuning up, stagehands walking back and forth. I knew without looking at the stage that Bebe, who was back in the show as Velma, was out there too. She always was. Before half-hour you tended to find her onstage, doing a focused ballet barre.

This particular afternoon, however, it sounded as though a dance class was underway. I stood up and looked toward the stage to see what was going on.

“No! Don’t do it that way, you will hurt your knees!”

Bebe was onstage in her leotard, as usual. However, instead of doing pliés, she was coaching the new actress. The two of them were running through Roxie’s choreography, and Bebe was giving her co-star pointer after pointer. Not only was she trying to make sure that the new Roxie knew the dances, she was trying to ensure that they were performed safely.

How many leading actresses would have done what Bebe did? It would have been very easy to sit back, shrug, and say, “It’s not my problem. Let the dance captain handle it.” A lesser actress might have been happy to see her co-star struggle and fail.

Not Bebe. She was invested in the success of the show as a whole, not just herself. She cared about her colleagues. She clearly wanted the new girl to do well, and she was even willing to sacrifice her own time to make that happen.

And that, friends, is why Bebe Neuwirth is the kindest, most wonderful Broadway performer of all.

I don’t think I’d ever be inclined to join a Broadway performer’s fan club. If I did, though, it would be Bebe’s. (Jazz) hands down.