Trickle-down from terrorism - Dance Theater - Brief Article

Dance Magazine, Dec, 2001 by Sylviane Gold

THE LAST TIME BROADWAY WAS IN a war, theater lights were dimmed as a precaution and Times Square shut down for curfew at midnight; patrons were asked to share programs to save paper; set designers helped the army with camouflage; and about a third of the men in Actors' Equity joined the military. According to Gene Brown's book Show Time, touring shows had trouble making dates because the railroads gave priority to war supplies and troops, there was shock when the top ticket price shot to $5.50, and theater managers were told to go on with the show in case of an air raid on New York.

This time, the air raid came first, and Broadway shows went dark for three performances after the calamity. Stunned performers gallantly returned to work two days later only to face, in many instances, severely depleted houses. Borderline shows closed instantly, and the theater community, actually behaving like a community for a change, acted quickly to save the rest: Landlords agreed to forgo rent, performers took pay cuts, creators accepted reduced royalties--all to keep shows running through the steep downturn in ticket sales in the wake of the disaster.

Initially, in 1941, the attack on Pearl Harbor also resulted in dramatic drops in box office. But by 1942, Broadway was picking up the mood of the country and beginning to boom: Shows like This Is the Army and Oklahoma/lured ticket buyers with patriotic themes and then donated box-office receipts to the war effort; theater stars danced with servicemen and women at the Stage Door Canteen. And when the war ended, Times Square became the hub of the celebration.

It's hard to imagine history repeating itself in quite that way now. With uncertainty the only certainty, it's hard to predict what the theater district will look like by the time you read this. It's not hard to envision the streets filled with New Yorkers looking for relief from war headlines in the shows and restaurants of a thriving entertainment neighborhood--but it's equally possible to picture a deserted Times Square with dark marquees, shuttered theaters, and restaurants emptied by continuing terror attacks and a hobbled local economy.

What seems completely impossible is that anyone will ever again take for granted the routine business of Broadway: the lines at the half-price ticket booth, the crowds of tourists waiting to get into Phantom of the Opera, the struggle to find a bus or taxi in the choked streets at 10:30. Only the hopefuls queuing up for cancellations at The Producers seem like a permanent fact of life right now. And even they may lose interest in laughing at Hitler jokes if the country takes a few more psychic jolts like the one that hit us on September 11.

The morning after, my radio went on as usual at 7:30, the announcer read the latest news as usual, and then, instead of the usual Mozart, Bach, or Rossini, a particularly plaintive version of "Danny Boy" came over the air. After the first four notes, I had to turn it off, unable to bear either the beauty or the sadness of that familiar tune. And even though enough time has passed so that sad music no longer feels physically painful, there's still no telling when New Yorkers will be ready to hear the music and watch the dancing in the theaters the way they did before. And more important, there's no telling when the tourists will return.

TOURISTS ARE ESSENTIAL TO THE theater economy. And it isn't just that tourists buy tickets. The tourist who tips a bellboy in a Manhattan hotel is helping to pay the rent on his Brooklyn apartment, which in turn is keeping the landlord shopping at Macy's, whose advertising keeps the daily newspapers afloat, and they in turn keep a newsstand owner solvent so that he can continue to pay his daughter's tuition. Do I need to spell out that without the tourist, neither the bellboy, the landlord, the newsdealer, or the nervous employees of the department store, ad agency, and newspaper are likely to feel splurging on theater tickets?

And theater tickets are a splurge. Everyone's been talking a lot lately about how the theaters stayed open during the London blitz. Not only did the shows go on--they became crucial in maintaining British morale in the face of nightly German bombardment. But theatergoing in wartime London and theatergoing in contemporary New York are hardly comparable. Without TV sets, VCRs, or DVDs, Londoners had to go out if they wanted to be distracted by anything more involving than recorded music. And the price of a pair of tickets didn't put live theater beyond the means of working people. Today's Broadway and off-Broadway shows can hardly be reckoned bargains--like the original, the revival of Oklahoma/will be opening in the midst of a war. But will people fearing for their jobs, not to mention their lives, be willing to pay $90--or even $20--to sit in the Gershwin Theater and hear about corn that's as high as an elephant's eye?

I don't know the answer. But I know that it seems more likely they will prefer the sunny mood of Rodgers and Hammerstein to the dark heart of Assassins. That Sondheim show, about the men and women who have attempted to murder the American president, has already been canceled. In the aftermath of the bloodiest day in American history, other changes have been made--to a line here, a lyric there. Will they be enough? Will there be an audience for a show in which cops are the bad guys and characters are executed by dizzying falls from a high tower (Urinetown)? For one in which murderers elude justice with a song (Chicago)? For one in which a despondent executive contemplates jumping out the window of his high-rise apartment (Contact)?