Last night we went to see a play at the beautiful old Hayworth theater. It is on Wilshire close to MacArthur park. It is on a stretch of Wilshire that with the exception of the few theaters that have been lovingly restored, is not so nice after dark. During intermission, patrons are encouraged to go outside and enjoy the fresh air, probably because the lobby is so small, and there would be no way to accommodate a full house. I am sure we were not encouraged to leave so we could check that our cars weren't being broken into in the adjacent parking lot. But many of us did stand and stare at the sight of a couple of seriously wigged out guys darting back and forth in between the cars. There we were a task force of slacks and sensible footwear, frowning faces and arms crossed, and our we -can-see-what-you-young-men-are-up-to faces, seemed to scare them away. Clearly this is a tactic that is only effective when the numbers are 20 to 2 in your favor.
Back inside, fresh air be damned, we sat through the second act of a great play that was being tortured by a couple of actors who seemed to have given up trying. They mumbled their lines when they remembered them and clutched furniture as if aware that they were on a sinking ship and there was nothing they could do. They still had to get to the end of the play, even if they had finished with it, long before we came in. To make matters worse the mother and daughter who were next to me were translating just about every line that was being said. It was loud enough that everyone in the audience could hear them. It was loud enough that the actors on stage could hear them. Could they really not hear the actors? And were the actors really muttering so much that they had to be translated from English...to English?
I don't know, I was still hoping that there would be tires on our car when we left. And thankfully there were. At least on ours.