My Trip to New York: Introduction

Several months ago, I learned that my favorite actor, Alan Rickman,  would be performing on stage in New York, in Henrik Ibsen's John Gabriel Borkman.

I've seen him in 27 different roles (edit: 31--I had forgotten a few), but had never seen him on stage before, and that's something I really wanted more than just about anything.  And here he was, coming to NY, instead of his usual London.  Come hell or high water, I decided I would be there.  After all, it's only a six hour flight, so how could I not?

On the way back home, I had several hours in the airport, so I wrote down my experience.  It turned out to be quite a lot, so I decided to transcribe it onto a blog, with a bit of editing, and then let everyone read about it. Here it is:


January 17th, 2011

I'm sitting at JFK, having a glass of white wine.  I've never ordered wine at an airport before; it always seemed like an expensive extravagance.  But I've got a few hours to wait, and I thought, why not?  It's a huge glass, too.  I'll have to make it last so I don't get all squiffy.  What a great excuse to sit at the one relatively quiet place in the airport and write a letter!  In the end, this turned out to be pretty long, so I've divided it up into chapters.

Everything you ever wanted to know about one particular weekend in my life, and so much more!

Arrival in New York:

I arrived in New York on Friday evening.   Not knowing what to expect exactly, I decided to make things easy on myself by reserving a car service, and paying the extra $15 to have the driver meet me inside the airport.  That way I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to find him.

Well for some reason, the guy didn't come inside, but stood outside, pointing his sign at all the taxis.  How he expected me to see him, I have no idea.   When I'd been waiting for a ridiculously long time, and was about to call the car service to ask where he was, I went outside into the cold, and found him.  He took my luggage, and we practically ran about a mile and a half to a parking garage way over on the other side of the airport.   Not exactly fifteen dollars well spent, but at least I never got lost.

We drove into Brooklyn, which was about a 40 minute drive.   There's lots of traffic, like in the Bay Area, but I noticed that New Yorkers all seem to follow the same traffic rules and philosophies, so it all runs smoothly and efficiently.  It's not like here, where people float around aimlessly at varying speeds, tailgating, driving in each other's blind spots and changing lanes willy nilly.   In the Bay Area, when I'm on a freeway (even as a passenger), I'm gripped with fear, because other drivers are so unpredictable.  I didn't feel that in New York.

When I arrived at my hotel,  I was informed that my reservation was actually for the other Holiday Inn Express, four blocks over.  Aaack!!  How the hell did that happen??  I had been living and breathing Google Maps street view, memorizing the route between 279 Butler St. and the Harvey Theatre at 651 Fulton, and now they tell me I'm not in that hotel at all?

Well, the nice lady behind the counter made it right, and did a hotel switcheroo, so I ended up in that one which I had planned for.  It was only $93 per night, too, which was less than the other one.  Yay!

Since it was too late to do any exploring, I went up to my room and worked on the knitting project I had brought.  It was my first pair of Norwegian mittens, in honor of the Ibsen experience.   I had vague fantasies of giving them to Alan, but I knew that wouldn't really happen, because a) the poor guy gets inundated with gifts from adoring fans--cockeyed pencil drawings of Severus Snape and whatnot,  b) I'd never finish them in time because I was having to do each row twice to take care of mistakes, and c) my tension was too tight in the first one, so it's smaller than the second.  Still, it's good to have something to daydream about while you're working on a complicated pattern which requires extreme focus.

My First Full Day in NY:

The next morning was Saturday.  I had purchased two tickets to "John Gabriel Borkman".  One was a cheap-seat ticket for the Saturday evening show, and the other was up-close for the Sunday matinee.  By the way, isn't that a hideous promo picture in that link?  What were they thinking?

Since I had most of the day to kill before going to the theatre, I spent it exploring, of course.

The first thing I did was walk to and from the BAM Harvey Theater to assure myself that I could do it, and that it looked like a safe place to walk alone at night.  If it looked too seedy, I'd have to work out transportation plans.  As it turned out, that was not a problem.  Brooklyn is a little worse for the wear after the snow storm of a few weeks ago, and there are still some piles of trash around from when trash pick-up was neglected, but I understand that isn't the norm.  There were piles of old snow around, and people were industriously shoveling sidewalks. 

There were lots of people around, going about their business and interacting with one another, but no one seemed scary.  A comparable area in the Bay Area would have had people lying on the sidewalk or mumbling loudly to themselves, or wandering into the street with a baseball bat.  I didn't see anything like that at all on my entire trip.

Like I said before, I had studied Google Maps street view in depth, so getting to and from the theater was pretty easy and familiar.

Once I had satisfied myself that I'd be able to not get lost, I ventured down into the nearest subway station (which you can't miss, because they are everywhere) and purchased a MetroCard.  The signs are self-explanatory, and even though I don't know New York, I did know that I wanted to head towards Central Park in Manhattan, because that's where the Guggenheim Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art are. 

It was a longer ride than I expected, but I enjoyed it.  Mostly people just sat quietly, but one guy came in and did a magic trick or something.  I would later find that this is a regular occurence.  Someone comes into the car and gives a little performance.  One lady sang a praise Jesus song, and another time a couple of guys came in and did a little mariachi number.  It was kind of fun, but I didn't give them any money. 

Speaking of money, I'm still working on my $8 glass of chardonnay.  (Remember, I composed these posts while waiting for my flight home.)  The lady who tends bar says we're the first customers she's had all day, now that her shift is over.  She says she gets so bored and sleepy, and that the planes coming in to land every 30 seconds are like sheep, trying to lull her to sleep.  The one other person here just ordered a Bloody Mary, and he can't possibly be a day over 17.  Good on him, I say.  He seems to know a lot about Bloody Marys.

Anyway, back to Saturday.  I found the Guggenheim Museum, and walked inside, but they were installing a new exhibit, so only part of it was open.  I spent a little time inside, but it was a bit of a bore.  You look up into the giant skylight thingy, with it's interesting architecture, and go, "Ooh, that's nice."  But that's about all.

So I left and walked several blocks to the Met.  And here, let me digress a bit once again and take a moment to say that I can see why so many rich and famous people live in this area.  It's about as nice and convenient as you can get.  Heck, I wouldn't even mind being one of those doormen for those fancy apartment buildings.  Of course, they probably have to take the subway home to Brooklyn at the end of their shift.  But I think I'd enjoy standing there and watching the people walk by. 

The Met was interesting and enjoyable, except for the fact that, like every other public, indoor space in New York, it is heated to about 85 degrees.  New Yorkers seem perfectly content to bundle themselves up in their great winter coats, and wrap giant woolly scarves around their necks, in a big slip knot under their chins, and keep all that gear on when they are indoors, where the temperature is like an Arizona summer.

I can handle the cold sting on my cheeks outside--I kind of like it, actually--but I don't like to be roasting indoors while carrying a bunch of bulky winter outerwear over my arm.  You'd think they'd want to save energy, but no.  Apparently they'd rather get heatstroke.

It was neat to see some of the familar, famous paintings up close.  There are a few that I always thought were a bit ho-hum when seen as a little print, but which are are absolutely breathtaking in their real life full glory.

 Speaking of being absolutely breathtaking in one's real life full glory, it was time for me to go back to Brooklyn, for my first showing of JGB.  To see Alan Rickman on stage. Squeeee!!!

Saturday's showing of John Gabriel Borkman:

When I went into the theater, an usher pointed me up a flight of stairs that seemed to go on for eternity.  Unlike most New Yorkers I've seen, I'm not in particularly good physical condition, which was very apparent as I huffed and puffed my way up those stairs.

But I made it.  The seats up there are goofy little bar-stools, but the view was pretty good, even with a giraffe of a guy sat in front of me.  If you are fat and out of shape, though, it's really a good idea to splurge on the expensive seats at BAM's Harvey Theater, or you won't be comfortable.

I've heard people say that they can't go because they have no one to go with, but as far as I could tell, there were plenty of people who appeared to be on their own.  Really, no one cares.  So if you want to go see a play and have no one to go with, just go anyways.

The set is very minimalistic, yet striking,  with five distinct, brilliant white mounds of snow against a pure black  background.  There is some period furniture in the foreground, which gets hauled away in the darkness by guys in black when necessary.

In the first scene, Gundhild Borkman (Fiona Shaw) and Ella Rentheim (Lindsey Duncan), met each other for the first time in many years.   Gunhild has been shamed by her husband, a bank manager who spent time in prison for embezzlement.  She is counting on her son to restore the family honor, but her sister Ella has her own plans for Erhart, who she took care of after Gunhild no longer could.   This is where I began to see what a fantastic actress Fiona Shaw is.  I've only seen her as Aunt Petunia in the Harry Potter movies, but she's really impressive.

Meanwhile, we hear the footsteps of John Gabriel Borkman himself, as he paces back and forth in his rooms upstairs.  He's being living in the upper floor of the estate (which now belongs to Ella), in self-imposed isolation for the past eight years since getting out of prison.  He's been pacing back and forth, obsessing about his eventual return to power.  Alan later said that he spends that scene alone in his dressing room with the sound turned off.

He said he doesn't like the feeling of being isolated from the play, but it helps him to not hear what Gunhild and Ella are saying, because they are talking about his character, who is really too self-absorbed to realize how his actions affect others.

At the end of the scene, the stage goes dark, and the movers come on and discreetly change the furniture.  One of them is an imposing, silver-haired figure in the darkness, slowly carrying a candelabra onto the set and placing it on the piano in the middle of the stage.  The lights come up to illuminate the scene, and he's standing, completely still, in front of the piano, while a young girl starts to play.  My eyes filled up with tears for a moment, because it was like, there he is.  It was--what can I say--sublime.  Then he began to talk, as Borkman, and I was back in the story.   Oh my, that moment will stay with me forever.

I'm not going to describe every scene of the play, but it was such a joy to watch him.  It always is, but onstage it's more.  The other actors were excellent as well, but that's different.  I would certainly be happy to see any of them in other works, but I wouldn't abandon my family for a weekend and spend $1200 on a pilgrimmage to an unknown place for the sole purpose of seeing them. 

At one point, towards the end of Act I, Borkman and his former lover, Ella (his wife's sister) were having a heated exchange.  All of a sudden Alan, who was completely immersed in his role, somehow managed to spot that something wasn't right in the audience.   So he immediately said, "I think we'd better stop.  Someone is ill."  He and Lindsey walked off stage, to the confused whispers of the crowd.   Within moments, paramedics arrived to tend to a guy in one of the front rows, who had passed out or something.  Once they had left, Alan and Lindsey came right back and started from the top of where they left off.   I was impressed at how smoothly he handled it, but not surprised at all.

The ambulance was still outside during intermission, and two men were consoling each other in a way that suggested their companion wasn't doing too well.   I keep thinking about them, and hope they get a chance to see the play again, from good seats, once he's feeling better.  I mean, how much does that suck?  A lot.

By the way, we are finally in the air now.  It took forever for everyone to get their bums parked in their seats, and then we needed to be de-iced.  Ah, the sweet smell of de-icing fluid!

In Act II some of the action took place outside in a snowstorm.  That was really pretty.  They blew "snow" all around from both sides, and it sparkled and swirled, lit against the black background.  Borkman, dressed all in black, stood to rest against a pillar at the right side of the stage, and the lighting on him made his hair look just like the snow.  That's another mental image that stays with me very clearly. 

At the very end, an "icy hand of iron" gripped Borkman's heart, and he laid still on the stage in a crumpled heap.  When I read that part of the play, I could only imagine it being played in a melodramatic way, but Alan really pulled it off.  As he laid there for the rest of the scene, I couldn't help but wonder what he must be experiencing, lying face down on the cool, smooth stage, with little bits of fake snow everywhere, and the vibrations of everything going on around him.  He later said, "It's Beckett all over again", referring to Samuel Beckett work he's done--I assume "Play".

When the play was over, I went outside to the stage door to see if I could meet him.  Being the weekend, it was fairly crowded with autograph seekers, but I had no plans to ask for an autograph.  A crowd of people, mostly women, waited outside for a while.  A few of the other actors came out, and stopped for a photo here and an autograph there, then got into the back of a waiting car.  Then at last Alan emerged, all smiles and looking fantastic in his shiny black jacket and a scarf.

I stood nearby and watched all the signing and picture taking.  I knew I would love to have some kind of proper interaction with him, and tell him that I flew all the way from CA to see him, and that it was totally worth it.  That kind of thing.  But he was in stage door mode, which seems to be a mixture of friendly and approachable, yet with all defenses up.  The atmosphere was pleasant, because he's got that aura about him, but the whole affair was clearly all about people getting a piece of the movie star, not about having a meaningful conversation.   He's amazingly gracious with all that celebrity stuff.  I imagine it can get a bit overwhelming, and I know that's not what being an actor is all about for him.   

I understand that these things really depend on how many people there are, and a smaller group is much better. 

Even though I didn't speak to him, it was really nice to see him up close and just be there. So I walked the mile back to my motel, feeling happy and looking forward to seeing the play again the next day, from the sixth row.

Sunday:

Then next day I took the subway to the "Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall" stop and had a look around.  It was really neat to have the freedom to go anywhere I want like that.  I don't have that at home.  I can see why people like New York.  Also, to digress a little, I've noticed that New Yorkers seem to be pretty nice, upbeat people.  As you walk around, you get the feeling that people are basically happy.  At least that's something that struck me wherever I went.

I walked onto the bridge and enjoyed the crisp air and the view.  I've read all about the making of the Brooklyn Bridge, by the historian David McCullough (who includes a lovely, detailed description of the engineer's death by tetanus from stepping on a rusty nail, for pleasant bedtime reading), but I didn't get much out of the visit, other than a nice walk.  A little too much sunlight in the eyes for my taste.

Then I walked down around City Hall and stuff like that, and stopped in a Starbucks to enjoy a tall nonfat chai and a snack.

Finding food was a challenge on this trip, because I need to stay away from gluten.  There's no end to the prezels, bagels, pitas, and pastries, but I can't eat any of that.  So mostly I ate raw almonds which I had the foresight to purchase before leaving.  I ended up getting some kind of chicken pita thing and just eating the chicken, which wasn't much, but that was alright. 

I then took the subway one stop to Wall Street.  I'm so glad I did.  I almost didn't bother, because who cares about the stock exchange and a bunch of banks?  It was very picturesque, though, and thoroughly enjoyable.  Once again, I was amazed at how bundled up people were.  It was warm enough for the snow and ice to be melting into slush, and yet everyone had those thick woolly scarves and hats.  What they do when it really gets cold is anyone's guess.

I walked amongst the fancy architecture, and especially liked one side street where snow was melting off the top of a tall building, with a stream of sunlight illuminating the falling drops against the black background.

At 3 o'clock I was back in the theater, this time just a few rows back from the stage.  When the show started, of course it was all familiar, but this time I could see their faces as clearly as the lighting would allow.  I also could understand all of Fiona Shaw's rapid speech, some of which had been lost on me the night before.

Also this time, Alan's voice didn't sound as husky.  I believe there had been a Saturday matinee, so the show I saw that first night would have been his second of the day.  This time everyone just sounded better.

When the show was over, I felt like I had had one of the best experiences of my life.  It was so totally worth all the effort and expense to see it.

The Artist Talk:

After the Sunday matinee, there was an hour break and then the Artist Talk began.  This, I must say, was a crushing disappointment.

I had been beyond excited about the fact that I had a front row seat for this.  I didn't really know what to expect, but front row has got to be good, right?

 I'm such a massive geek, so I actually sent Alan a card, with a photograph of a "John Lego Borkman" scene I made out of Lego, after reading the play.  Yep. I wrote that I was flying all the way from California to see him on stage, and was going to be right up front for the Artist Talk.  How wonderful!  So looking forward to it! 

So we go into the theater, full house, and they've got four seats arranged on stage in such a way that the person sitting in the left-most seat will be perpendicular to me, because I was at the end of a curved row.  So guess what?  I got a perfect view of Alan Rickman's left sideburn, but couldn't see his face at all.  WTF?! Similarly, he could look out into the audience all he wanted, and never see me.  I don't think he really looks at people in the audience directly anyway.  Dog knows I wouldn't.  But still.   So that was a big fat disappointment with knobs on.

Okay, but not only that...  The "moderator" was this pretentious git who posed a series of questions, each stupider than the next.

Here's an example of the type of question this moron asked:

"I have here a fascinating quote from Nietzsche (Chomsky, Proust, whatever):  'Inasmuch as the blah blah blah blah blah blah underlying metaphor of blah blah blah blah nineteenth century gender roles blah blah blah blah blah blah oedipal complex blah blah blah innovation of the charismatic posterior. '   Could you, as actors, tell us how this relates to your interpretation of this play?"

So the actors all sit there in bewildered silence for a moment, with a few nervous titters from the audience, trying to make some sense out of all that drivel and turn it into something they can work with.  Eventually one of them says something, and the moderator keeps interrupting to finish their sentence for them.

Someone's cell phone rang in the audience, and Lindsey Duncan spent the next five minutes glowering at them.  Sure, I probably would have done the same thing, but I'm not proud of it. I mean, it didn't exactly improve the experience.

Fiona Shaw was a bright spot in the whole thing.  She consistently came out with priceless gems, all of which basically said, "You're asking stupid questions", only in a veiled way that the moderator never cottoned on to.

At one point the moderator asked Alan, "What do you think your character died of?  We are told  it was an icy, iron hand, gripping his heart, so I assume it was a heart attack.  But what do you think killed him?  Was he killed by his own emptiness?  Blah Blah Blah." 

I know, some people love picking apart works of art or literature, but as far as I'm concerned, we all saw the same play, and all the answers you need are right there in the play itself.  Time and again, I see that people expect the actors to have some kind of magical insight into the character, beyond what is in the writing.  If there is ambiguity or mystery about how the guy died, then don't expect the actor to have some definitive answer.  Just let it be.


I don't remember what Alan said exactly, but I believe it was basically what I just said, more or less.  But the moderator kept interrupting him to complete his sentence with his own thoughts, and then asking the question again, until everyone seemed exasperated.  There was this moment of silence, and then Fiona said,

"He died of the plague." 

That got a huge laugh, because the audience recognized it for what it was.  She is definitely a cool lady.
 

Stupid Git moderator also asked Alan if his character was a madman, because surly no sane person could bear to be in near-isolation for even a week, let alone eight years.  Here I roll my eyes.  In my not-so-humble opinion, anyone who can't handle a week in their own company has a screw loose.  I mean come on!  Are you an infant or what?  This guy clearly needs a constant dose of reassurance of his own cleverness, judging from all the irrelevant quote mining.

I guess the main thing that made him so irritating is that he, like so many interviewers, kept the focus on himself.  The best thing they could have done is get rid of him and just say whatever the hell they want.  I'd be happy to listen to Alan Rickman and Fiona Shaw talking about Ibsen, acting in general, or even grocery shopping, because they are clearly interesting, witty people.  But the moderator ruined it.

To make matters worse, this was the same guy who did the Artist Talk for Creditors last year, and apparently ruined it then as well.  Who allowed him back, and why?

The last fifteen minutes was audience question time.  I suppose I could have used that opportunity to ask a question as an excuse to get Alan to notice me, which seems to be what most people's motivation was, but I had nothing to say other than the question in the previous paragraph.  The questions ranged from, "It's such an honor to be in your presence, Mr. Rickman.  I just watched the play like everyone else, but could you explain it to me?"  to "Can you give me advice about the theater business?"  to "Alan, next time you do a play, could you do it some place not so cold?  Har! Har!"


Alan mentioned banging his head against the pillar every night (this rough pillar he has to lean against), and I thought, yeah, this Artist Talk makes me want to bang my head against the pillar too.  Or better yet, bang the moderator's head against the pillar. Heh heh!

Oh my goodness.


When it all was over, I went to the stage door again, this time kind of thinking that I might just go ahead and ask him to sign the poster I got, even though the only one available was that ugly promo picture.  That Artist Talk had left such a bad taste in my mouth that I thought maybe this would make up for it, despite the fact that I really think autographs are silly.  I already knew I wouldn't actually get to talk to him more than two words, but if conditions were right for an autograph, that might lift my mood.

So I went out there and joined the crowd, which was even bigger than last night.  He came right out, stood in a mutually inconvenient spot for all the photo seekers, right in a puddle of slush in the street, smiled sweetly for a few seconds

while everyone (except me) pointed their cell phones at him, then he got in the back of a car (different from last night) and disappeared into the night, probably relieved to be going home.

Who can blame him?

I walked back to my hotel room, feeling the opposite of the previous night.  Very disappointed with how that whole thing went.  I went straight to bed.

The Trip Home:

The next morning, I woke up at 4:44, and felt much better.  Sleep had helped me put things in perspective and remember that I got the main thing that I wanted, which was to see Alan acting on stage, in real life.  That really was amazing and special, and worth the whole trip.  As a bonus, the play was actually fantastic in every way, even aside from him.  I got to see him up close, and he's very sweet and lovely, like I already knew.  On top of that, New York had been fun, the people had been very nice, and I'd had an all round wonderful time.  

I was wide awake, but it seemed odd to be prowling around at such an hour, so I went back to sleep, knowing that I wouldn't have to be packed and ready to check out until 11:00.

I woke up again at 10:30.  Aaahhh!!!!  Oh my god!  I had reserved a car service car to pick me up and take me to the airport at 11:00 as well.   It doesn't take all that long to pack, but still, it was a bit of pressure.

It all worked out though.  I was picked up on time, and delivered to the airport five hours before my flight.  Yeah, that's kind of weird, but I had to be out of my hotel room by 11:00, so if I wanted to do anything around town, I'd be hauling all of my luggage around.  And that wasn't going to happen.   Hanging out at the airport isn't all that bad, really.  That's when I sat down and wrote all of this, although, in transcribing it onto the computer, I've edited it a bit.

The flight home dragged on forever (not entirely unlike this blog ;)), and it was great to be home. 

Thank you so much to the family members who have given me various money gifts lately.  That was a big help in letting this trip happen, and it was very special for me.   I'm already starting to save for the next one, because I want to see him on stage again!  :)

So there it is.  My New York Trip.