Broadway's Righteous Demon

Let us pause for a bit of gossip, shall we?

It’s been all over the internet since it happened a week or two ago. I caught up with the news last night on an opera blog, of all places. Broadway star Patti LuPone, performing the climactic “Rose’s Turn” scene in Gypsy, stops the show to confront an audience member who has taken several flash photographs. “Who do you think you are?” she rants repeatedly, before resuming the number as the transgressor is ejected from the theater. (In an ironic twist, the moment was captured for posterity by another audience member concealing a sound recorder.)

Reading the online chatter, it’s fascinating how starkly opinion is split between those who see Patti LuPone as the avenging angel of audience etiquette and those who regard her as an unprofessional bitch. For my part, my sympathies tend to lean toward Ms. LuPone, as I consider the cardinal sin of flash photography in theatrical settings justifiable provocation for the lesser sin of breaking the forth wall.

Also, as a person who works behind the scenes in the performing arts, I have to wonder. If ushers and security are really doing their jobs, shouldn’t a performer be protected from ever having to take such extreme action? I’m going to indulge in my own pet sin of self-righteousness here for a second: Years ago when I spent a summer stint as an usher at an arts festival, we were trained to confiscate cameras on a strict no-tolerance policy. We used to try to outdo one another in our vigilance at nabbing shutterbugs before they became pests.

Finally, what is it with people’s need to generate digital evidence of everything they do? I love my camera as much as anyone, but I have to ask: Do I need my own photo or sound recording of Patti LuPone in full cry in order to prove that yes, I saw her in her much-lauded portrayal of Mama Rose? I can’t help but wonder that with all the media at our fingertips -- the ability to record, replay, and distribute practically anything we are witness to -- we lose the capacity to remember our own experiences and to evoke, unaided, those memories for ourselves and others. Could we put aside the digital devices and rely instead on skills that enable us to notice, listen, observe and later to describe and reflect on the experiences we’ve had? What a concept!

My late mother saw Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire in its original Broadway run 60-some years ago. Years later she could describe to me how Marlon Brando “talked like he had a mouth full of potatoes.” I treasure that connection to theatrical legend far more than I think I could prize a bad flash picture of Brando.