2008 Woodie Awards
Attention! "The Drowsy Chaperone" will wake you up
By: Tatiana Craine, Associate Arts Editor
Issue date: 3/28/08 Section: The Arts
I ironed my dress in an effort to make the polka dots on it actual circles, rather than wrinkly blobs. I sped in a car with my mother and her sister babbling about domesticities. I shuffled awkwardly out of the parking ramp… and then I bumped into Woody Allen.
Okay, total lie. However - there was a trio of men who were also bumbling awkwardly down the sidewalk, and one of them did remind me vaguely of Woody Allen, and all of them were definitely reminiscent of men who might have married their adoptive daughters. We looked lost, and they pointed towards the Ordway mentioning "The Drowsy Chaperone" was a great show.
I walked into the theater frazzled, exhausted, and a tad creeped out- in my mind, the world was an annoyance that just wouldn't stop. The lights went out suddenly, and a little voice popped into my head. He told me about how he hated that moment when the lights went out in the theater, how he always prayed the actors wouldn't obnoxiously invade the audience, how he wished they would just get on with the show. And I realized this voice was much like my own - yet not. This was the Man in Chair. Yes, the nameless Man in Chair, our humble, hilarious, and huggable narrator who prays before every show, "Dear Lord, please let it be good."
The stage lit up to show the Man in Chair, fussing with his immense collection of Broadway show records. He chatted with us, engaging us in the record he was about to put on - his favorite, from 1928, "The Drowsy Chaperone." What? You've never heard of it? You're missing out. Why don't you sit a spell and have a look-see.
The basic premise: an impossibly vain showgirl falls in love with the half-witted son of an oilman; they're about to get hitched, and hilarity ensues. It's really no more than that. And yet, the utter simplicity of the show makes it much more endearing and likeable.
The record spins clearly, and the Man in Chair narrates with his Mr. Rogers sweater hanging limply around his body. He fantasizes about the leading man in the show, tells us about each actor's real life, and fumes about the phone ringing - ruining the precious, magical moments of "The Drowsy Chaperone." Torn between adding his own thoughts to the record and letting it run in sweet, uninterrupted perfection, the Man in Chair decides upon the former. The Man in Chair's apartment becomes the setting for song and dance routines, a musing in his head until the stage slowly becomes a charming 1920s country estate. His interruptions to the numbers only add to the merriment as he talks about the nit-picky details that semi-seasoned musical lovers often voice (but that the rest of the world thinks, too). Why is she singing about a monkey on a pedestal? Is a scene with seven spit-takes in a row necessary?
Okay, total lie. However - there was a trio of men who were also bumbling awkwardly down the sidewalk, and one of them did remind me vaguely of Woody Allen, and all of them were definitely reminiscent of men who might have married their adoptive daughters. We looked lost, and they pointed towards the Ordway mentioning "The Drowsy Chaperone" was a great show.
I walked into the theater frazzled, exhausted, and a tad creeped out- in my mind, the world was an annoyance that just wouldn't stop. The lights went out suddenly, and a little voice popped into my head. He told me about how he hated that moment when the lights went out in the theater, how he always prayed the actors wouldn't obnoxiously invade the audience, how he wished they would just get on with the show. And I realized this voice was much like my own - yet not. This was the Man in Chair. Yes, the nameless Man in Chair, our humble, hilarious, and huggable narrator who prays before every show, "Dear Lord, please let it be good."
The stage lit up to show the Man in Chair, fussing with his immense collection of Broadway show records. He chatted with us, engaging us in the record he was about to put on - his favorite, from 1928, "The Drowsy Chaperone." What? You've never heard of it? You're missing out. Why don't you sit a spell and have a look-see.
The basic premise: an impossibly vain showgirl falls in love with the half-witted son of an oilman; they're about to get hitched, and hilarity ensues. It's really no more than that. And yet, the utter simplicity of the show makes it much more endearing and likeable.
The record spins clearly, and the Man in Chair narrates with his Mr. Rogers sweater hanging limply around his body. He fantasizes about the leading man in the show, tells us about each actor's real life, and fumes about the phone ringing - ruining the precious, magical moments of "The Drowsy Chaperone." Torn between adding his own thoughts to the record and letting it run in sweet, uninterrupted perfection, the Man in Chair decides upon the former. The Man in Chair's apartment becomes the setting for song and dance routines, a musing in his head until the stage slowly becomes a charming 1920s country estate. His interruptions to the numbers only add to the merriment as he talks about the nit-picky details that semi-seasoned musical lovers often voice (but that the rest of the world thinks, too). Why is she singing about a monkey on a pedestal? Is a scene with seven spit-takes in a row necessary?
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