Dolphin Theater

It's Tony® season in New York, and for the first time in almost 15 years, I haven’t seen a nominated play. Sadly, I’ve never even heard of most of this year’s nominated plays.

The Motherf**ker with the Hat. War Horse. Jerusalem. None of them ring even the faintest of bells.

Is Bobby Cannavale the MF with the hat? ACK! It's just galling to me that I don't know.
Production still by Joan Marcus.

There is just one nominated play about which I have only the most rudimentary knowledge: Good People. (Meaning, I know there is a play called Good People.)

Now, batting .250 is pretty pathetic for a baseball player, but it's truly appalling for a former theater geek.

It seems that I'm, officially, out of the loop.

Growing up, theater – specifically, musical theater – was an obsession.

I carved out a good 20 hours a week for Broadway soundtracks: either singing face-to-speaker with my boom box, drowning out the actor’s voice and imagining the orchestra swelling just for me; or performing elaborate stage blocking on the 4’ x 6’ patch of carpet at the foot of my bed.

My dying Eponine was perfection.

Stacks of VHS tapes jammed the back of my parents' entertainment center, most filled with the ABC daytime lineup, several more with Tony telecasts – the tracking worn and shaky from watching and re-watching my favorite performances.

Once I got into casting, my job required that I know actors and their capabilities. That meant seeing a lot of theater, which then meant reimbursed tickets and industry access to even the most hard-to-get tickets.

I saw EVERYTHING. (Well, more accurately, I saw all the Tony nominees.)

And then I had the kids, and I steadily saw less and relied more on the Internet and Variety and my co-workers who were still seeing everything and giving me the lowdown the next morning.

Imagine me: bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, desperately clutching my coffee like Fletcher grips his lovey.

Imagine them: red-rimmed eyes from post-theater drinks, still bubbling with the excitement of the night before…  or, just as often, derisive about the show’s many problems. (Oh, I miss well-placed derision.)

But now, I'm about 850 miles from a Broadway show. Chances of me seeing an original Broadway cast in the next few years are slim, approaching none. So I'm playing the hand I've got.

Atlanta has lots of great theater, and one day I'll get there. You know, that "one day" when I have a great babysitter and some spending change for my non-reimbursed tickets.

Meanwhile, we're taking the kids wherever we go, and last week we took them to see Atlanta's newest hit musical:

Several shows daily at the Georgia Aquarium.

So, okay, yes, your suspicions are on target: the book is terrible and the lyrics uninspired. But the star-making performances far outweigh any negatives.

Plus, there's the best entrance I've seen since Bebe Neuwirth in Chicago.

Just like Bebe, the dolphins rise from below "stage".

Just like Bebe, they're winning and dynamic, absolute naturals.

And just like when I saw Bebe in Chicago or Patti LuPone in Gypsy or Idina Menzel in Wicked, I cried.

Yes, I cried because I was just so incredibly happy to be able to see these creatures do what they do best.

(Have I ever mentioned that I'm a soft touch?)