Let me explain something about going to the theater. The people up there on stage talking? They're actually there. They can hear you And even if they can't hear you, I sure as hell can. So Shut. The Hell. Up.
And another thing: Leg creep. Quit it. Yes, I know you're a guy, and that you think (or want me to think) that your testicles are just so very enormous that you need to keep spreading your legs wider and wider apart to give the boys room, but quit it. You have a seat, I have a seat. Assume that there are electrified lines, buzz saws, sharks wearing lasers, anything that will keep you from crossing the line between your seat and my seat. I don't want to feel your leg creeping into my space, because the next time I do, I swear to god, I'm going to drive a lead pencil deep into your thigh, severing you femoral artery and causing you to bleed to death in a horrific manner. And I'll expect you to be quiet while you die, because there's a piece of theater going on up there, and some of us are trying to watch!.
So here's the deal: From now on, in addition to the admonition to turn off cell phones and unwrap any candies now, the folks who do pre-theater announcements need to add something like the following:
A brief side note: Those who know my movie-going habits, specifically the Girl's Night Out School of Raucous Mockery, will be shaking their heads in disbelief. After all, aren't I the one who practically made a couple of teen girls cry during the Britney movie? Don't I seek out schlock to mock? Haven't I, in fact, gleefully predicted and recited lines in a movie an instant before they are said? To which I respond, well, yes. But not in good movies. Not in movies that people are actually trying to enjoy and think deep thoughts about (with the exception of the Britney movie, and come one, chickie-poos, there's no way in hell you should have been taking that seriously, and you were the only three people out of about 15 to 20 who seemed to think the film was anything other than risible, and really, the sooner you learn that talentless popstars who decide they can act are not to be lauded but to be mocked, the happier you will be), not in movies that have something to say, not in movies that are not hopelessly clich?d and a cynical attempt to bilk people out of their money through hype and mirrors, not, in short, movies that do not roundly deserve, nay demand! to be mocked. And also, Nicholas Cage? He can't hear me. I'm not going to throw his performance off by distracting him at a crucial moment with barely stifled laughter or my own rendition of "Put the bunnah... bayhck..... in the bhoahx." So it's different. Now let me get back to yelling at other people.
So I saw Proof at The Goodman tonight. They play was great -- really interesting, well acted, lots to think about -- but the audience around me kind of sucked. I think especially because it was such a cerebral, thoughtful play -- it's based around math, fershrissake, and brings up questions like what's the line between genius and madness, and what responsibility do you have to pursue your genius if it scares you, and what things need proof and what needs faith, and what are the roles you can expect to play in someone's life, and when is it sacrifice and when is it selfishness, and that's just the beginning -- and because I'd been looking forward to seeing it, I was annoyed that no one seemed to want to just digest. It was all "ooh, I didn't understand the math " (of course you didn't understand the math -- no one did. That was the point) and reciting the prime numbers they remembered, and trying to pronounce Pythagorean, and commenting about how different it was that it was a black cast, and yadda yadda yadda. Yeah, but what did you think?
I don't know what the deal was tonight -- usually the other folks in the audience aren't so annoying (or I don't get annoyed.) I think I'm spoiled by seeing a preview performance in the other theater, as they hold a post-show discussion and people actually seem to want to experience and think about and learn about the production, the script, the actors, the music -- something. This audience struck me as a bunch of people on a night out, and they didn't care where they were. They could have been in a restaurant or at a concert or at someone's house in the suburbs playing pinochle. And hey, that's fine -- I know a lot of people were there because the Goodman is what it is, a Chicago institution that is prestigious to talk about ("Oh, yes, Babsy and I saw a show at The Goodman on Friday," with the subtext being "because we're so literate and smart and pillars of the community and such.") But a lot of people are there -- myself included -- because the Goodman tends to do great, challenging, intriguing theater in a town known for great theater. We're there to watch the play, and think about it, and talk about it (afterwards, not during) and generally experience what smart live theater is all about. So don't ruin it for us, ok?
Of course, maybe it wasn't actually that bad. Maybe I'm just premenstrual and anywhere I'd gone tonight would have annoyed me. Maybe, in fact, it's me, and I'm a crazy, cranky, bitter bitch. All exceedingly possible -- god knows I excel at crazy, cranky, bitter and bitchiness. But in this case, I think it was them, not me. So there.
And another thing: Leg creep. Quit it. Yes, I know you're a guy, and that you think (or want me to think) that your testicles are just so very enormous that you need to keep spreading your legs wider and wider apart to give the boys room, but quit it. You have a seat, I have a seat. Assume that there are electrified lines, buzz saws, sharks wearing lasers, anything that will keep you from crossing the line between your seat and my seat. I don't want to feel your leg creeping into my space, because the next time I do, I swear to god, I'm going to drive a lead pencil deep into your thigh, severing you femoral artery and causing you to bleed to death in a horrific manner. And I'll expect you to be quiet while you die, because there's a piece of theater going on up there, and some of us are trying to watch!.
So here's the deal: From now on, in addition to the admonition to turn off cell phones and unwrap any candies now, the folks who do pre-theater announcements need to add something like the following:
We respect that you have chosen to join us tonight, and I think we can all agree that everyone in the audience is absolutely brilliant. Therefore, you do not need to prove it to those around you.I think that's all very reasonable.
If you can predict the next line in the show, congratulations -- think it to yourself in your head without saying it out loud. Many people in the theater have come here to see the actors' interpretation of the script, not yours.
If you are confused about something in the course of the play, perhaps it is because all has not yet been revealed. Kindly keep your musings to yourself and see how things turn out.
And please, if any of your seatmates are so exhausted from their own gloriously busy and important lives that they slip into dreamland -- exhibited by deep, resonant breathing or, god forbid, snoring -- kindly give them a gentle nudge to wake them up.
Those who ignore these moderate requests shall be impaled on a rusty spike and displayed in the lobby as a warning for future audiences.
Thank you, and enjoy the show!
A brief side note: Those who know my movie-going habits, specifically the Girl's Night Out School of Raucous Mockery, will be shaking their heads in disbelief. After all, aren't I the one who practically made a couple of teen girls cry during the Britney movie? Don't I seek out schlock to mock? Haven't I, in fact, gleefully predicted and recited lines in a movie an instant before they are said? To which I respond, well, yes. But not in good movies. Not in movies that people are actually trying to enjoy and think deep thoughts about (with the exception of the Britney movie, and come one, chickie-poos, there's no way in hell you should have been taking that seriously, and you were the only three people out of about 15 to 20 who seemed to think the film was anything other than risible, and really, the sooner you learn that talentless popstars who decide they can act are not to be lauded but to be mocked, the happier you will be), not in movies that have something to say, not in movies that are not hopelessly clich?d and a cynical attempt to bilk people out of their money through hype and mirrors, not, in short, movies that do not roundly deserve, nay demand! to be mocked. And also, Nicholas Cage? He can't hear me. I'm not going to throw his performance off by distracting him at a crucial moment with barely stifled laughter or my own rendition of "Put the bunnah... bayhck..... in the bhoahx." So it's different. Now let me get back to yelling at other people.
So I saw Proof at The Goodman tonight. They play was great -- really interesting, well acted, lots to think about -- but the audience around me kind of sucked. I think especially because it was such a cerebral, thoughtful play -- it's based around math, fershrissake, and brings up questions like what's the line between genius and madness, and what responsibility do you have to pursue your genius if it scares you, and what things need proof and what needs faith, and what are the roles you can expect to play in someone's life, and when is it sacrifice and when is it selfishness, and that's just the beginning -- and because I'd been looking forward to seeing it, I was annoyed that no one seemed to want to just digest. It was all "ooh, I didn't understand the math " (of course you didn't understand the math -- no one did. That was the point) and reciting the prime numbers they remembered, and trying to pronounce Pythagorean, and commenting about how different it was that it was a black cast, and yadda yadda yadda. Yeah, but what did you think?
I don't know what the deal was tonight -- usually the other folks in the audience aren't so annoying (or I don't get annoyed.) I think I'm spoiled by seeing a preview performance in the other theater, as they hold a post-show discussion and people actually seem to want to experience and think about and learn about the production, the script, the actors, the music -- something. This audience struck me as a bunch of people on a night out, and they didn't care where they were. They could have been in a restaurant or at a concert or at someone's house in the suburbs playing pinochle. And hey, that's fine -- I know a lot of people were there because the Goodman is what it is, a Chicago institution that is prestigious to talk about ("Oh, yes, Babsy and I saw a show at The Goodman on Friday," with the subtext being "because we're so literate and smart and pillars of the community and such.") But a lot of people are there -- myself included -- because the Goodman tends to do great, challenging, intriguing theater in a town known for great theater. We're there to watch the play, and think about it, and talk about it (afterwards, not during) and generally experience what smart live theater is all about. So don't ruin it for us, ok?
Of course, maybe it wasn't actually that bad. Maybe I'm just premenstrual and anywhere I'd gone tonight would have annoyed me. Maybe, in fact, it's me, and I'm a crazy, cranky, bitter bitch. All exceedingly possible -- god knows I excel at crazy, cranky, bitter and bitchiness. But in this case, I think it was them, not me. So there.
posted by SAJ at
11:56 PM
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