Read Online Front of House: Observations from a Decade on the Aisle by Denise Reich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Denise Reich
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44th toward the Belasco Theatre. The doorman was standing outside, and he smiled at me. “Congratulations on the Majestic!” This one left me dumbfounded. The Belasco was dark and between productions; there weren’t even any ushers working there at the moment. Who was talking about me, and why? And was there really so little happening on Broadway that I was an interesting topic of conversation?
I later discovered that at least two ushers at other houses were angry that I’d been made a permanent staff member at the Majestic. They were bitching to their friends, and the word was getting around. And the more I heard, the more I decided that the gossip-mongers were downright pathetic.
Oscar Wilde once said, “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I get where he’s coming from. On the other hand, I’d posit that being talked about in a negative fashion is worse than both of Oscar’s choices.
Sunday morning bagel feast with Greg and stage manager friends, backstage at Jackie Mason: Prune Danish at the Royale. Author’s private collection
The Ghost Light
The most magical time in a theater, for me, is when nobody’s there. When it’s dark and silent and the ghost light casts shadows on the walls of the auditorium, it’s indescribably beautiful. It’s the sort of enchantment that can never be replicated with pyrotechnics or clever stage effects; you could put the top actors of every era together and they’d never be able to come close to touching it.
When you walk through a darkened theater, you’re immediately aware that it’s brimming with energy. All the emotion felt by the actors and patrons stay within those walls. If it’s just you and the ghost light, you feel it acutely, and it’s enough to send those proverbial chills down your spine. The glow from that solitary lamp changes the entire appearance of the theater, and the bas-relief angels carved into the proscenium seem animated and alive. And perhaps they are.
Between shows, the dark, silent auditorium can also be a refuge for actors and crew members. As you pass through the rows of seats, you often spy dark shapes slumped here and there. They’re not ghosts; they’re show folks who are trying to rest up for the next performance.
Why are they there? On two-performance days — those are Wednesdays and Saturdays at most productions; perhaps also Sundays at shows geared toward family audiences — the split shift is a conundrum for many. After the matinee performance ends, the cast and crew usually don’t have to work for another two or three hours, depending on their department. For ushers that have the early shift there’s even more time; there are a good four or five hours of freedom.
Some show folks who live in Hell’s Kitchen or somewhere else on the West Side are fortunate enough to be able to go home between performances. That’s not the case for most, however. Most people don’t live close enough. When I lived up in the Bronx, for instance, I had to leave two hours for the express bus to get to the Theater District. There would have been no way for me to go home on long matinee days. On short days, assuming I caught a bus at three, I’d get home around five…and then immediately need to get back on the bus to go back to work for the evening performance. It was a waste. When I lived in Manhattan I was able to get home on short shift days, but it still wasn’t feasible on long afternoons, when I was getting out at 4:30 most of the time.
As many theater folks, I was stuck in midtown between shows, and I became adept at finding things to do. When I was a sub, I used the time on Wednesdays to make my rounds to other theaters to pick up my checks from the previous week of work. Sometimes I’d been assigned to five or six different theaters over the course of the week, so I had many stops to make. I did my banking between shows, too.
On short matinee days, when I had
I later discovered that at least two ushers at other houses were angry that I’d been made a permanent staff member at the Majestic. They were bitching to their friends, and the word was getting around. And the more I heard, the more I decided that the gossip-mongers were downright pathetic.
Oscar Wilde once said, “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I get where he’s coming from. On the other hand, I’d posit that being talked about in a negative fashion is worse than both of Oscar’s choices.
Sunday morning bagel feast with Greg and stage manager friends, backstage at Jackie Mason: Prune Danish at the Royale. Author’s private collection
The Ghost Light
The most magical time in a theater, for me, is when nobody’s there. When it’s dark and silent and the ghost light casts shadows on the walls of the auditorium, it’s indescribably beautiful. It’s the sort of enchantment that can never be replicated with pyrotechnics or clever stage effects; you could put the top actors of every era together and they’d never be able to come close to touching it.
When you walk through a darkened theater, you’re immediately aware that it’s brimming with energy. All the emotion felt by the actors and patrons stay within those walls. If it’s just you and the ghost light, you feel it acutely, and it’s enough to send those proverbial chills down your spine. The glow from that solitary lamp changes the entire appearance of the theater, and the bas-relief angels carved into the proscenium seem animated and alive. And perhaps they are.
Between shows, the dark, silent auditorium can also be a refuge for actors and crew members. As you pass through the rows of seats, you often spy dark shapes slumped here and there. They’re not ghosts; they’re show folks who are trying to rest up for the next performance.
Why are they there? On two-performance days — those are Wednesdays and Saturdays at most productions; perhaps also Sundays at shows geared toward family audiences — the split shift is a conundrum for many. After the matinee performance ends, the cast and crew usually don’t have to work for another two or three hours, depending on their department. For ushers that have the early shift there’s even more time; there are a good four or five hours of freedom.
Some show folks who live in Hell’s Kitchen or somewhere else on the West Side are fortunate enough to be able to go home between performances. That’s not the case for most, however. Most people don’t live close enough. When I lived up in the Bronx, for instance, I had to leave two hours for the express bus to get to the Theater District. There would have been no way for me to go home on long matinee days. On short days, assuming I caught a bus at three, I’d get home around five…and then immediately need to get back on the bus to go back to work for the evening performance. It was a waste. When I lived in Manhattan I was able to get home on short shift days, but it still wasn’t feasible on long afternoons, when I was getting out at 4:30 most of the time.
As many theater folks, I was stuck in midtown between shows, and I became adept at finding things to do. When I was a sub, I used the time on Wednesdays to make my rounds to other theaters to pick up my checks from the previous week of work. Sometimes I’d been assigned to five or six different theaters over the course of the week, so I had many stops to make. I did my banking between shows, too.
On short matinee days, when I had
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