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BREAK, WILL YA?
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GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY!
REMEMBER ME TO TELECHARGE!
of TheColumnists.com
After purchasing tickets to “Fiddler on the Roof”
and “Twelve Angry Men,” for a total of $402, I’ve
reluctantly decided that maybe Broadway deserves to die. In any
case, it is now suffering from a case of acute hyper-chutzpah.
Harsh words, especially for an ex-theater critic, but ever since
I became a former critic and am now forced to actually purchase
seats to Broadway shows--admittedly a galling act in itself-it’s
become increasingly apparent that attending a Broadway show is
often no longer worth the gamble. Arranging to see a hit musical
stopped being fun years ago and has become as pleasurable as--well,
let’s just say that a colonoscopy, by comparison, is a piece
of cake; at least I squirm much less.
Not that long ago, perhaps 10 years, my bi-annual visits to New
York were propelled by a passion for theater. I would cheerfully
book six or seven shows over a week’s time, and happily
pay for them--a lot of money, yes, but still within the bounds
of sanity. It was only an arm and a leg then; now they want my
brain, too.
I still love theater, just not on Broadway (and I am seriously
re-evaluating off-Broadway), where going to a show is not unlike
a visit to Las Vegas: you feel ripped off, manhandled, unappreciated
and, basically, bamboozled. Only Broadway’s ticketing policies
could make this onetime New Yorker feel like a rube. Few shows
have the charm to overcome the overall feeling of being played
for a sucker. I’ve begun to wonder if it’s possible
that the pharmaceutical companies are now running Broadway. That
would explain a lot.
Today, the entire process of booking a musical is so teeth-gnashingly
user-hostile that, even before I take my seat, I’m resenting
the show--not a good note for an overture to begin on. The price
of orchestra seats went berserk a few years ago, when “The
Producers’” producers’ explained why they were
charging $485 for premium tickets to “The Producers”--to
outwit the scalpers! That was about the funniest joke in the
show. Mel Brooks & Co. was reading over Max Bialystock’s
shoulder.
Just when I learned to pipe down and accept an $80 or $90 ticket
price for a show, Broadway decided that I hadn’t learned
my lesson, and so--to punish me for coming back for more theater--tacked
on a surcharge, and then a sur-surcharge and then a sur-sur-surcharge--all
for the privilege of spending $100 for a ticket.
This might all be amusing, or at least good film noir,
if you didn’t feel as if you’d been kicked in the teeth
for your pathetic effort to buy two seats for a musical. “Oh,
you want to see a hit show, do you? OK, buster - take that!…And
that!…And that!”
When I asked a Telecharge operator what the $6.50 service charge
was for, he merrily chirped, “That pays for me!” I
said, “You mean, they don’t pay you, or is this like
a tip?” I thought I might bargain him down to $4, but no
dice. A second $2.50 surcharge is labeled a “handling fee,”
to cover the high cost of sticking tickets in an envelope.
So far, there is no envelope charge or a handing-over fee to
make sure the tickets are actually given to me at the box office,
nor is there yet a ticket-taker fee to ensure that my ticket
is properly torn in two, nor a program-handling charge to hand
me a Playbill as I enter. In a way, we’re actually getting
off easy.
The final coup de gras, and my personal favorite surcharge--you
really have to admire the producers’ finesse here--is that,
once you’re on the floor writhing in agony, they want an
additional $1.50 “facility fee.” This is not, as I
first thought, a fee to permit you to use the restroom but, rather,
is allegedly to help defray the cost of running a theater for
the poor penniless landlord. This is a little like handing a
burglar an extra $1.50 on his way out the window, to put toward
a new gun.
I need not rehash all the ancient tedious issues about the high
cost of putting on a show, or the unions’ demands, or stars’
huge salaries (which often include, at no extra cost to the audience,
missing a few shows a week). All I can say is that if it’s
not possible to produce a show without mugging the audience to
get them into their seats, maybe the entire enterprise should
be declared bankrupt and started all over again in a barn. You
could probably buy a darn nice barn for the price of two seats
to “Fiddler on the Roof.”
(After you’ve caved in and bought tickets, they figure they’ve
got a live one and begin pitching magazine subscriptions. I declined
the generous offer, afraid that I might next be asked to purchase
a nice, slightly used bridge between Manhattan and Brooklyn.)
Lately, it’s occurred to me that maybe the Broadway community
is just trying to tell me something, and I’m so dense--such
a foolish, diehard playgoing chump--that it took me years to
finally get it: They don’t want me coming to their shows
anymore because I’m the wrong demographic or something.
OK, I give up. I’ll give up quietly, boys. You can stop
trying to squeeze more blood from this wrung-out turnip. I won’t
bother you anymore. Just one last thing: from now on, all producers
out there will need to send me $10 for reading this. Not to worry.
It’s my standard theatergoers’ revenge fee.
©2005 by Gerald Nachman. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted March 14, 2005.
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