Is there a doctor in the house?

OK, I don’t want to make light of someone’s misfortune, but it was sort of amusing when ten minutes into the second act of Blithe Spirit last night someone in the audience actually blurted out those words. I mean, I sincerely hope the person is well, but this was a first for me in a Broadway theatre. It took the actors a few moments to realize that the commotion in the audience wasn’t just a wayward text-er or cell phone, but someone from the audience actually asking for medical attention. What made it even more surreal was hearing Jayne Atkinson proceed to ask the audience the same question from stage. It was like being in some bizarre hidden camera show. And then we all had to sit in uncomfortable silence as we listened to the afflicted audience member’s companion make the 911 call, “The Shubert theatre. No, Shubert. Shu - bert.” Awkward.

Anyway, how can you not love Angela Lansbury? Watching her dance around the stage like your drunk old aunt at a gypsy wedding reception is worth the ticket price. The play itself seems almost quaint compared to the full on raunchiness we’re now accustomed to on TV and movies. But it’s refreshing (or maybe surprising?) to realize that at one time adult comedies were written without overt sexual references, nudity or profanity.

Rupert Everett and Atkinson make an unlikely couple with his pulled back face - hardly noticeable from the balcony - and her matronly demeanor. But they do a wonderful job of getting on each others nerves. I’m still undecided on Ebersole’s performance, mainly because our viewing angle (from the upper reaches of the Shubert balcony - love you Chris, but damn, those seats were up there) made it often difficult to see facial expression. She did some odd vocal inflections, but I feel like they may have worked had we been able to see them in tandem with her physical characterization. I think the amplification up in the nosebleeds was a bit mushy as well, leading to some minor intelligibility issues. Susan Louise O'Connor made the most of her small role and contributed some great physical bits.

Trish, Chris and I topped off the evening with my fave after dinner snack, pickled beats at Junior’s. Yum. But I have say, those Junior’s waiters are freaking me out. They’re just a little too friendly. Makes you wonder what nastiness their slipping into your cheesecake without you knowing. Oh, and over a rather ordinary slice of Junior’s red velvet cheesecake I discovered that Chris Grimm was born the same year I saw my first Broadway show, Les Miserables, 1988. Holy botox! So here’s a big f*ck you to Chris - I’m an old fart who could have been your teenage dad.