Come and meet those dancing feet . . .
So 42nd Street is just what one would expect of a grand scale, old school musical (Here, 1980 is defined as “old school”, further memorialized by this photo of the marquee from the original production). It was strange for a moment how un-special the whole thing was. Here I was, sitting in the producer’s seats for free for no real reason other than I am from Texas and so is she and all these people around me were buzzing with excitement and buying the glossy programs and talking about life back in Akron or from wherever they came. I used to travel from Ohio with friends and jam pack two weeks’ worth of sightseeing and theater into a four day weekend and drop a load of cash. It was an event. Now, it was just some random Thursday in November. I may not be rich, but perhaps I am spoiled. I’m a naughty, naughty girl. I deserve a spanking. So naughty, me.
The next time I travel could someone please remind me to pack one of those magical suitcases that are inevitably present in every musical about some naive “kid” coming to New York to “make it”. They seem to be forever featherweight depsite someone’s entire existence being stuffed inside its confines. I need me one of those fancy things. Really I do. If I were in the show, I would be so tempted to stuff bricks in the prop suitcases one night just to add realism. Oh the hilarity that would ensue when the actors would actually have to lift a suitcase as though it were full.
Naughty method actor.