My worst night in the theater since Lincoln

The run of my play, A OR B? at the Falcon Theatre ends on Sunday.  If you want to see it, this is your last chance.    Here's where you go for tickets.  Happily it's been very well received.   More than the laughs it’s getting, I’m most gratified that no one seems to be leaving at intermission.  This is a big deal for me. 

I think back to maybe my most uncomfortable night in the theater EVER. Thank God this wasn’t my play, but there’s always the fear that someday it might be.

This was years ago. Before I had kids. There is a large theater scene in LA – lots of small theaters (99 seats or less) in various pockets around town like West Hollywood, East Hollywood, and North Hollywood. Nothing south because there’s no South Hollywood. Once somebody does name a neighborhood that then theaters will follow.

Anyway, my wife and I used to love frequenting these small theaters and seeing new plays and musicals. Not all were great, but most were worthwhile. And there’s always something exciting about watching live actors perform. I was also producing TV at the time and was always on the lookout for new talent. From time to time I would hire actors for guest star roles after discovering them in one of these modest venues.

One day we noticed that a certain actress had written a comedy. I'm not going to mention her name.  We were fans of her on-camera work so decided to give it a try. It was held at a small 49-seat theater just off Melrose Ave.

This was a Saturday night and there were maybe fifteen of us in the audience. Not a good sign.  We all sat in the first three rows. The actress/playwright sat behind us in the fourth row.

The play was awful. Painful. Torturous. And this actress/playwright laughed uproariously at every lame thing the poor actors were saying. No one else even cracked a smile. We all just squirmed in our seats and wished we could have crawled underneath them.

When intermission came (what seemed like nine hours later), my wife and I bolted. We got in our car and drove past the theater. Everyone else was leaving as well. Couples were racing to their Hondas and hatchbacks. I suspect that when act two began the theater was empty except for the playwright. Now you wanna talk about a douche-chill moment. Can you imagine?

All playwrights would like standing ovations and Tony awards, but I’m quite content to see everyone returning to their seats after intermission.

Interestingly, there are a lot of plays now that don’t have intermissions. Generally they’re comedies and less that ninety-minutes. But theater owners encourage this because it eliminates people leaving at the act break. I chose not to go that route. And it’s not because I want to live dangerously. There’s something about live theater – once you hit forty-five minutes you somehow HAVE TO use the bathroom. You’ve seen the lines. You’ve been in the lines. I should’ve read the reviews of that actress/playwright’s play. When the nicest thing anyone could say about it was you were allowed to pee, you know you’re not headed to Broadway.