I saw
Doubt on Friday night.
Yes,
finally. (Nothing like skidding in under the wire.) After all that’s been written on this board, my expectations were high — and they were exceeded. The play was compelling and beautifully crafted, which I had expected, but also hysterically funny, which I had not expected. It was a good audience, drawn in immediately, and all of us, I daresay, experienced the shared journey that happens when the theatrical planets are in perfect alignment.
With, I have to say, the notable exception of Jena Malone. Let’s just be kind and say she was in wa-a-a-a-a-ay over her head, and, with all the talented actresses available, I wonder why she was cast. Doobrah and I named her Poor Jena One Note.
As wonderful as it was to see the play, the real and lasting benefit of the evening was finally meeting Doobrah, who is every bit as laid back, wickedly funny, and all around terrific as you would imagine. And her mom is every bit as much fun to be with. They were having dinner across the street at Hurley’s before the show, and I joined them about halfway through so we could catch up before the theater. Great fun.
We walked back over to the theater about 7:40, and I just happened to notice that the stage door was ajar. So I walked right up and opened it. Of course. I peeked in, then stuck my head back out and announced to Doobrah and Mom in a stage whisper, “There’s a man watching TV. I looooove the theater. It’s so
exciting, so
glamorous.” Whereupon a man who’s leaning up against the side of the building says, in a mock stern voice,” Do NOT open that door." “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain?” I quip. Turns out he’s George the stagehand and he offers us a quick backstage tour. If we’d showed up about twenty minutes earlier he’d have given us the whole tour, dressing rooms (with people in them, ahem) included, at which point Doobrah is grinding her teeth over the waiter at Hurley’s who brought the check on the back of a turtle. We follow George and it’s about as exciting as you’d imagine, which is to say not very unless you like tiptoeing around in the dark and not seeing anything. I did like the little strips of airplane cabin lights on the floor, however.
Then it’s off to the play, and I had a good feeling from the minute I walked into the Walter Kerr Theatre, which is a beautifully restored jewel box and perfect for the intimate experience of seeing a play. It’s just a house with good vibes. The place was packed, by the way, and thanks, Telecharge.com, for the 11th row orchestra seat for $45!
What can I say that hasn’t already been said? Eileen Atkins and Ron Eldard were born for the stage. They are easy, commanding, and utterly at home. I loved the way in which Ron Eldard can be
still onstage, and draw you in effortlessly. Not easy to do, and not many can. I can also see why Adriane Lenox won the Tony on the strength of one scene; she was a knockout. It was an amazingly fast ninety minutes, and the standing ovation at the end was genuine, effortless, and earned.
You all know what comes next. Stand around by the stage door and wait for You Know Who, who, as we all know by now, is a complete gent about having his picture taken with a bunch of gushing strangers. We wait, we wait, we wait, we wait, Doobrah and I giggle quietly behind our hands at the circle of sober-faced New Yorkers standing like unsmiling little acolytes with programs and pens in hand . . . and then there he is.
Woof! What a cutie! Love that shiny, shiny, shiny blonde hair. While he’s signing my program, I thank him for such a wonderful performance and I say that, personally, I think Father Flynn probably wound up as a Cardinal. “You do?” he says, laughing. “Could be – he had all the tools.” I also said I was sorry the play was closing, but at least Monday he could cut his nails (which have to be long for the play and are freaky as hell up close). He groaned and said he couldn’t wait, since every time he looked at his hands he was “creeped out.” I should think so. He was funny and sweet and everything everyone else who’s done this has said he is, and the next few minutes are kind of a blur. I deliberately backed off while he was signing programs for Doobrah and her mom, so she’ll have to tell you what he said to her.
Then it was time to take the pictures. I was already groaning inwardly, since I am hopeless when it comes to cameras and I mean
hopeless. I am horrendously farsighted with bad astigmatism and I can’t see a damned thing up close without my reading glasses, which are in the bottom of my Black Hole of Calcutta shoulder bag. So when Doobrah hands me her digital camera, I’m already flustered because I know what’s coming. It’s got some little focus field marking in the middle of the
teeeeeeeeeny screen, which of course I can’t see so I’m holding the thing at arm’s length and squinting. Ron and Doobrah are laughing, and then he says, in his very best “Give me a break, Marty” voice, “It’s just a
camera.” Then he tells me I’m holding it too low and he starts giving me direction, with gestures. So of course I say, “Let me guess — you’ve always wanted to direct?” and he laughed. (What I was thinking, and
thank God didn’t say, was, “Dunbar could have taken better pictures than I do.”) When I scooted over to get my picture taken I thanked him for putting up with us, and he laughed again. The man has a great laugh. Among other things.
As the great Angela Lansbury once said in an interview, “I live my life in paroxysms of remembered embarrassment.” Me, too. But here’s the deal. You might as well be yourself — the minute we walked away we were gone from his mind. It’s not as though we’re gonna be sitting around in a few years over a beer and he’ll say, “Remember the time you couldn’t work the camera at the stage door, you big ninny?” So who cares? We made him laugh.
Other than the fact that I couldn’t get a cab back to Grand Central and had to RUN the last six blocks
in heels so I wouldn’t miss my train?
A perfect evening.
