Fathers & theaters

I’ll probably never see Hamilton. Certainly not on Broadway. If you’ve been priviledged to see it - and, yes, if you've seen it, you are priviledged - great for you. I understand why you blog about it and post about it on Facebook and can't stop talking about it at a party: it's a once-in-a-lifetime event, a very exclusive one, there's nothing like it anywhere, there may never be anything like it again, and you've been lucky enough to experience it.

But I’m part of the 99.9% of the country that hasn't seen it, and probably never will. I don’t have an “in” to see it, to even buy tickets to see it. I also live on the other side of the country and can't afford a trip to New York City right now. I’ll probably finally see Hamilton in 10 years or so, produced by a local amateur all-white group of performers that isn’t really sure how this whole hip hop thing is supposed to work, but they will be oh-so-earnest in their attempt to present the magic.

There’s a blog by Joe Posnanski being shared across the Interwebs right now about how he managed to take his daughter to see Hamilton on Broadway. It’s an incredibly sweet piece. His daughter cried a lot and squeezed his arm a lot, because he made her ultimate dream come true. What a gift. He knows what a huge moment he's been able to give her, that they've been able to share together. That’s something she and he will cherish for the rest of their lives. Beautiful. Great for them.

It made me think of my own father. And theater. Very different experiences from his, however.

My father and I didn’t like each other. In fact, most times, I hated him, and he was none too fond of me. He was an alcoholic who ruined most events: Christmas family gatherings, Thanksgiving family gatherings, my high school graduation, or just an evening meal… and he hated that I would refer to those ruined events, to remind everyone of what an ass he could be. He secretly recorded my telephone conversations and drunkenly mocked me with the information he gleaned from such, leaving me confused and humiliated - no teen girl should have her intimate conversations overheard by her father. He would call my friends' parents late at night and tell them, "You think you're better than me, but you're not," and ramble on and on, and I would have to face their children at school the following Monday and apologize. Most of those parents forbid their kids from coming to our house for sleep overs, and seemed nervous whenever I was in their houses. He did some really other humiliating, even abusive things I'm still not comfortable sharing on a blog, and probably will never be.

And then there were our differences in tastes and values. He wanted me to wear dresses and makeup and be beautiful and elegant, but I wanted to wear flannel and listen to Patsy Cline and watch “Star Wars.” He wanted me to be popular, I wanted to disappear. We were polar opposites on most political issues as well. We consistently made each other miserable.

But there was this one thing we did have in common: Theater. Dad loved theater. He loved a live performance in particular, especially if there was music involved. And he knew, early on, that I loved it too.

There was that time in the 1970s when he made me watch The Sound of Music on TV. I did not want to at all. I did not want to because the kids were cute and happy and singing in the commercials and, therefore, I hated them. And I did not want to because he wanted me to watch it. But I watched it. And I loved it. And I watched it every year it was on TV while I lived in our family home.

There was that time when he took me to the Executive Inn in Evansville, Indiana in the 1980s for a weekend matinee of a touring company doing 10 Nights in a Bar Room in the tiny performance space there - I think it was in the basement. And don’t think the irony of an alcoholic father taking me to a campy melodrama about an alcoholic father was lost on me even then. But the company was actually really wonderful. I laughed. A lot. It was delightful. He’d already seen the production with my mother, and he arranged for the lead actress to come to our table after that matinee performance and talk to me about how to work professionally in theater.

There was that time he took me back to the Executive Inn the following year to see a touring company doing South Pacific. It was a terrific little production as well. And he told me how he’d seen it at the movies, by himself, back in the 1950s.

There was the time he took me to see three storytellers that were touring the state, telling a story about a crime. I can’t remember the crime. I can’t remember the story. But I remember being riveted as I sat there in the high school auditorium, watching three men take turns telling a story - no light effects, no sound effects, no costumes, just them, talking.

On all four occasions, he said to my Mom, “Well, I think Jayne would really like this and should see it.” And he was insistent I see all four - the only thing he ever made me do. And I loved all four of those experiences. He was right. Other than when he taught me to drive a stick shift and took me on a very short motorcycle ride on his beloved Gold Wing, both experiences after a few years of sobriety and many years apart, it's the only great times we shared together. But during those experiences, I never grabbed his armed and squeezed it as tight as I could, like the girl in the Hamilton story. I never sobbed. I sat and watched those shows and really liked them, just like my father knew I would, but the awkwardness, the uneasiness, the distrust between us - it never left us, and we barely said anything to each other before or after the performances.

This blog that you're reading now won't go viral. I'm just not that cool. I haven't seen Hamilton. I probably won't ever see it. And I'll never get to improve my relationship with my father - he died in 1996 - 20 years ago. None of that is viral story worthy. But I haven't thought about those four theater experiences with, or because of, my father in decades, and I'm thankful for Mr. Posnanski for that. Theater is an amazing thing. I need to remember that, and enjoy it, wherever I am, more often.

Alan Rickman

I knew who Alan Rickman was before I had ever seen his face or heard his voice.

It was Spring 1987, I was a junior at Western Kentucky University, and the theater and dance students were all abuzz about the shows on far away Broadway - productions we would very likely never see, because we had no money for the trip, let alone for the tickets. We had no Internet, yet we knew about so many of the shows - who was in them, who directed them, why they were successful or why they wouldn't last long, and on and on. We knew people who had seen the shows. Or knew people that knew people.

And the non-musical play I heard about most of all was Les Liaisons Dangereuses, starring Alan Rickman. Yes, even in Bowling Green, Kentucky, people were abuzz about Alan Rickman on Broadway, someone none of us had ever seen or heard - but, oh, the stories we'd heard about his performance. He was the primary reason I watched the Tony Awards that year - to see and hear him, at last, even for just a few seconds. When I got the opportunity to go to London in the Fall of 1988 for two weeks with the WKU theater and dance department, getting to see nine theatre productions, including Les Liaisons Dangereuses, I was beside myself - I knew Alan Rickman was long gone from the production but, hey, he had been on THAT stage, speaking THOSE lines. Good enough for me. Jonathan Hyde was excellent in the role of Valmont - no disrespect. But when I re-read the play - and I do, every other year or so - its Rickman I hear and see in my head.

In the summers, I'd go to the Henderson Public Library and look through a book that had photos and summaries of Broadway productions for the previous season. It was the closest I could get to Broadway. I would stare at the photos and try to imagine the live performances. I did it with Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and there was Alan Rickman. In Henderson. At least on paper.

I may never have said I was a fan of David Bowie, even though I was, but anyone who really knows me knows that I am a HUGE fan of Alan Rickman. Massive. That his brilliance could translate to film was what all us oh-so-deprived Kentucky theater fans were dying for. He was so obviously, overwhelmingly awesome in the first shot scenes of Die Hard that an extra scene with his character and Bruce Willis' meeting face-to-face was written in while shooting was still happening. Watching him steal Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves was hysterical. Years after they were released in theaters in the USA, I finally tracked down Truly Madly Deeply, which is the role he's known most for among his most diehard fans, and Bob Roberts, which gave me a hint of his political leanings. Sense and Sensibility, Dogma and Galaxy Quest are my favorites of his films - I own all of them. In fact, I have more movies in my own library featuring Alan Rickman than any other actor - even Harrison Ford. By far.

I'll never forget watching Sense and Sensibility yet again, this time with my dear Spanish / Catalan / Swedish / global tribal friend, Alexandra. She was tired through most of the movie, and almost dozed a few times. But when Colonel Brandon came out at the end of the movie in his British uniform after his wedding, she almost flew off the couch. "Stop it, stop it now, rewind the movie, look at him, oh, so handsome, why didn't you tell me he would wear this?!?" We rewatched that scene three times, and the next day, she found a photo from that scene and made it the background of her computer screen at work.

Part of the reason I became so endeared to Benedict Cumberbatch was because his imitations of Alan Rickman are absolutely hysterical. I loved that Stephen Colbert took a few moments out of one of his show to acknowledge Rickman's death and contributions to film - it's not like Rickman was a household name, but Colbert is so obviously a fan. How could anyone not be?!? I'm so sorry I didn't hear what Jimmy Fallon said during his show - I'm sure he said something, because he was absolutely giddy whenever he was around him and about him.

Oh, the missed opportunities to see him live... when I moved to Germany in February 2001, I didn't know he was in the London West End in a revival of Private Lives, and didn't hear about the production until it had moved to Broadway. When I would go to London, I would always be on the lookout - is that him over there? Or there? Or there?!? And when he did Seminar on Broadway in 2012, I didn't fly to New York City - Stefan and I were hoping to buy a house (and we did!), and I was trying to be a grownup. BTW, my biggest regrets in life are over what I didn't do, when I chose being a grown up over doing something crazy and wonderful and expensive... I thought my time would come, another, better opportunity would happen, and I would somehow see Alan Rickman live, in-person, on stage. Somehow. It would happen.

It didn't happen. And now, it never will.

Alan Rickman died the day before my 50th birthday. My sister was with me when it was announced, and she knew before she turned and saw the look of horror on my face what the news would do to me. She's probably never seen an Alan Rickman movie in her life, but she knows me. And oh how I cried. I had a wonderful time celebrating my birthday, but, honestly - every now and again, amid all the joy, I would remember: Alan Rickman is gone. And it would hold me back just a little, just a bit.

The Voice is silent. Too soon.

NPR remembers.