Thursday, May 3, 2012


My mother, Vince and I took a cab uptown to Broadway, opposite the Lincoln Center. We had supper at Fiorello. We walked across to the Vivian Beaumont Theatre, passed beneath the new-ish, beautiful plane tree plaza, into the theatre,  presented the War Horse e-tickets I'd printed out. The sullen ticket lady looked at them and barked: Go to the Box Office!!!


There, the nice man behind the glass said, Wrong night: You'll  have to dress up all over again tomorrow. Could we perhaps sneak in? whispered my mother. Nah, said the nice man, You don't want to miss any part of this show.

Yes. Wrong night, even wrong time. In my diary I had written it down a night early. Of course I had not checked the tickets. My mother and the Frenchman were quite nice about it, considering.

And he was right about not wanting to miss any of it. Ironically, some of the acting was quite weak - ranging from over acting to really bad English and German accents; but the music, the staging, the production, and, most of all, the horses themselves, were stunning.
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