photo courtesy of Jennifer

Private Lives on Broadway

written by Noel Coward
directed by Howard Davies

Emma Fielding . . . .Sibyl
Alan Rickman . . . . Elyot
Adam Godely . . . .Victor
Lindsay Duncan . . . . Amanda
Alex Belcourt . . . . Louise

If you are attending PL, you might want to contact other fans who might be there on the same day. Check out the attendance list

Reviews

Reviewed by Fausta
22 April, 2002
Overall rating = 5 hands
Rickmanista rating = 5 hands

Private Lives, the classic battle-of-the-sexes comedy, opens with a startlingly beautiful Art-Noveau set that, while not adhering to Noel Coward's original stage layout, enhances the characters' interactions. The lighting, brilliantly executed, varies from noontime-bright to early evening, and at times underlines the script. For instance, when Elyot talks about "blue light on white snow", subtle blue shadows fall on the walls. By the end of the first act Mr. Rickman's Elyot manages to convince us along with Amanda that they were meant for each other after all.

The second act starts with the silk pajama-clad Elyot and Amanda sensuously lounging on cushions and ends vigorously in a fight where everything flies. Alan Rickman and Lindsay Duncan use the entire stage, involving at first the sofas, and increasing their use of space and props as they return to their old fighting. The timing of their lines, the pacing of the action and the choreography of the fight all envelop the audience with the force of their passion and their anger. Mr. Rickman's exceptional fluidity of movement is matched by Ms Duncan's grace and style. Their Elyot and Amanda are worthy heirs of William Powell's and Myrna Loy's Nick and Nora Charles.

The third act, which involves the entire cast and starts with the French maid's grand entrance, hilariously brings the story to its conclusion and on the day I attended culminated with a standing ovation.

While there seem to be a couple of glitches with the sound, no detail of this production is spared. Even the costumes set the characters apart. Elyot's continental-tailored double-breasted suits contrast with Victor's English tweeds; Amanda's couture-inspired gowns and suit play against Sibyl's pastel satins and crepe de chine, and, while these four are firmly styled in the 1930's, the maid's outfit dates back to the 1920's, even marking a class distinction.

Tears, laughs, pratfalls, subtlety, charm, spite, kisses, bites, love, and slapstick all have their turn in this most accomplished revival of a modern classic. Private Lives sparkles like the jewels on Lindsay Duncan's bracelets.

Rickman fans will enjoy, among many things, seeing him dance in the second act, and collapse on a floor cushion in the third act.

Not accidentally, the only two times (in a period spanning four decades of Broadway attendance) I've stood by the stage door waiting for autographs were for Fortune's Fool and Private Lives. Only for the best!

At The Stage Door

By Jennifer
24 April, 2002

During the weeks leading up to seeing Rickman on stage in Private Lives, I was consumed: what to wear, how to behave, what to say when I met him after the play. I just knew he was going to invite me (okay, us) backstage after flipping through Fausta and Claudia’s brilliant book of well wishes, and that fate might slip me what I so richly deserved.

I had thought of everything, every detail. I won’t bore you with these but I will say it didn’t matter one jot.

Fausta did manage to get his present passed onto him through a bouncer guarding the backstage door. He did come out, a full one and a half hours later, looking radiant and relaxed. We looked wilted and wobbly. He did Not do a double-take upon seeing me. In fact, I don’t think he really saw me at all, even though I madly twirled my umbrella (it was drizzling) like a bird during mating season and wore my bright red trench coat.

He looked right past me or through me, as I think he did with each of the dozen or so strangers, while camera bulbs flashed in his face. He was not at all petulant about acknowledging us, and hung around for a good five minutes signing autographs, but I didn’t approach him directly. There was nothing to say. When his gaze swept over me on the way to the black Lincoln limo shining with rain drops I knew I was destined to be a bystander, not the love of his life.

How did I feel about this? Knowing he didn’t give a fig about me? That my looks and my existence didn’t even register on his radar? Umm, I felt okay, actually.

Seeing him in person, on the street, not three feet away from my lips, after all these years of yearning, did not invoke the chemistry I expected. Although he is as handsome as he is on film, trim and tan and with that unmistakable voice, he is...simply a man. He could be any man. It just happens I’ve devoted quite a bit of air space in my head to this particular one. So while Alan Rickman’s professional characteristics may always be the masculine ideal for me, in the end those are of this ordinary man’s making. Just as the fantasies are of my choosing. I can’t tell you how clear everything became when this dawned on me.

I suppose I feel a sense of closure. I’ve always wanted to meet him and I did, kind of. Now I know. Who is Alan Rickman? He is an extraordinary actor. No more and never less.

I came home feeling a little less naive and a lot more comfortable with what we laughingly call real life. At the door, my husband greeted me with open arms and I knew for certain, once and for all, that he was the only one for me. It couldn’t have felt more right. And I’ve never felt more complete.

Shelly's Review

July 28, 2002

Overall Rating - 5 hands
Rickmaniac Rating - 5 hands

Let's begin this review (I use the word lightly) with a few questions about my qualifications to write it. Do I know anything about the craft of performing on stage? No. Am I knowledgeable about theater lighting? No. Music? No. Stage design or costuming? No. Am I an expert on--no, am I even slightly familiar with--Noel Coward's works? Not really. Well, OK, not at all. Do I attend the theater a lot? Nope, can't say that I do. So, now we've established that I am far from qualified to write a theater review. I've seen a grand total of (drum roll, please) . . . six New York theater productions in my lifetime. Out of that gargantuan number, the performance of Private Lives which I saw on July 28 ranks at the top of the list for me. (Although, the original run of Wit that I saw a few years ago was right up there, too.)

I honestly thought that I would never get the opportunity to see Alan Rickman perform live on stage. The chances of my ever making a trip to London to see him on stage were slim to none. Let's see, get husband to agree to take an expensive trip overseas in the first place, then time it when Rickman happens to be performing in a play, then manage to find someone to keep the kids . . . It wasn't looking good. No, I would just have to live vicariously, reading reviews and other fans' accounts of what it was like. Then, lo and behold, Private Lives actually comes to Broadway. It's too good to be true. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. Only half a continent to cross. No ocean in the way. There's no question in my mind - I will be going. After all, I have family in New York City, so I can claim that as the reason for my trip. Right? Wrong. My husband sees right through my little ruse. Why would I want to go to New York in the middle of the hot summer? We can wait and all go visiting next year, he says, in the spring when the weather is nicer, when we don't already have an expensive family vacation planned. The words "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity" don't seem to be swaying him at all. What's a girl to do? Whatever she has to. Several months of sweet-talking, begging, pleading and promising later, I finally met with success. Seconds after hubby and I reached an agreement, flight reservations were made and play tickets secured. All non-refundable, of course; wouldn't want anyone to have second thoughts.

But I digress. You want to know about Private Lives, not my private life. Sorry for the distraction. Private Lives exceeded my expectations in almost every way. Since I've made it pretty clear that I'm not much of a theater expert, I won't attempt a lot of technical analysis. I will say that it was one of the most enjoyable entertainment experiences I've ever had. I was totally caught up in the sights and sounds of the story of Elyot (Alan Rickman) and Amanda (Lindsay Duncan), a formerly married couple who have now been divorced five years. Both newly married to other people, they run into each other when they find that, coincidentally, they are honeymooning in France in adjacent hotel suites. I knew this play was a comedy, but I had no idea that it was going to be so incredibly funny. The couple's verbal sparring throughout the play was a delight to watch. The timing, the expressions, the interaction and chemistry between the two was near perfection. Emma Fielding and Adam Godley, in the roles of Sibyl and Victor, were equally impressive.

But, Rickman and Duncan together are the force of the play. Ms. Duncan is absolutely luminous, and makes Amanda sparkle with wit and grit, and Elyot is played with an ideal mix of sarcasm, charm and elegance by Mr. Rickman. Together, they convincingly bring to life Elyot and Amanda's tempestuous relationship. From their sentimental and emotional scene on the hotel balcony, to their constant bickering, to their very physical fight scene at the end of Act 2, we are carried along with them, laughing along the way. To me, they seem like a couple perfect for each other, who seemingly belong together, but are too much alike to ever make it last. The visual delights of this staging are an important part of the overall effect of the performance. The sets, especially the beautifully lit hotel balcony in Act 1, are simply breathtaking. The costumes are exceptionally elegant and perfectly evoke the time period of the 1930's.

What will Rickman fans especially love about this play? Everything. The material is solid and surprisingly timeless, Rickman is practically tailor-made for the role, and the chemistry he has with Lindsay Duncan is palpable. I just can't imagine it getting any better. He has great lines, he wears beautiful clothes, he sings, he dances, he romances, he speaks softly, he yells, he fights, he goes about barefoot in a silk dressing gown. Forgive me for sounding as if I were bowled over by it all, but . . . well, I was bowled over by it all. It really was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The Alan Rickman Weekend Review

by Nina C. Davis
May 27, 2002

Sun. afternoon, May 26, 2002, 2:30PM EDT. My girlfriend and I are outside the Richard Rodgers Theater waiting for the doors to open. Curtain is scheduled to go up at 3:00. I'm in a bit of culture shock. My girlfriend, a native garbed in the City Uniform -- i.e. head-to-toe black -- warned me that in the City, especially for a matinee, folks show up in jeans and sneakers. Too accustomed to such dramatic bounty I suppose. She was right. *I*, of course, wore no such thing. I'm Southern; we have standards to uphold. I went for "pretty" casual. And some color, a jacket that shimmers between black and wine. At last they let us in. I'm clutching my ticket like a sacred seal, praying he's not sick, that he doesn't have laryngitis, that he hasn't figured out some moon-eyed Southern woman is in the audience and has gone running out the back. Actually, I'm the sane one. I have four friends and fellow Rickmaniacs waiting back home; one of whom has sent with me a lapel button of hers so that something of her could be near him. I have dutifully carried it with me. She double-dog-dared me to wear it, but I chose not to. Not because I'm chicken, but because there was no way in hell I was piercing my jacket fabric.

We make our way up to the rear mezzanine, a fancy phase for upper balcony. The Rodgers is an old building. No elevators. No escalators. No concept of the condition called vertigo. As my friend points out, this IS New York. They don't build out; they build up. I can understand up. I don't understand near sheer-faced vertical. You don't need IMAX to feel like you're falling. Or a stair-master to get your workout. I pause briefly on the first landing before facing the last two flights. My friend isn't such a wuss. New Yorkers walk everywhere; she's been in dance comps; she has the stamina of a thoroughbred. An usher calls out, "C'mon ladies, show us what you're made of." I reply, "Not much." But I made it up those stairs with visions of Rickman dancing in my light head. We settle in on the first row, dead center of the stage. I fuss over the bouquet of a mum-related russet n' gold flower I bought for him, sending up another quick prayer that I get to give it to him. The flowers have held up well seeing as they're not in water. The main reason I chose something mum-ish. Hardy. Kind but not overly familiar. Masculine. Perfect. People around us get settled. The lights dim. The curtain rises . . .

For the next 2 1/2 hours we are transported to 1930's Europe, watching the inescapable love of Elyot and Amanda in all its ugliness, beauty, sadness and hope, wrapped in a quilt of Wilde-esque wit and aching poignancy. PRIVATE LIVES is smart, and all the actors -- all the London West End originals -- pull every layer of humanness out of their respective characters. But of course my mental light shone on Rickman. As wonderful as he is on film, truly dissolving physically and emotionally into his characters, he is that much more amazing to watch live. He is up for the Tony for best lead actor in a revival this coming Sunday. I haven't seen the other nominees, so in fairness I can't say the award should be his, but he certainly deserves the nomination. Fairness, however, has nothing to do with hopes and wishes, so I'll be rooting him on. Not surprisingly, Lindsay Duncan, his leading lady, is up for the Tony in her category. [Post-Tony update: Yea! for Duncan; {Sniff} for Rickman.--A.N.]

Before we know it, the second curtain call has been given and we're milling out of the theater. Well, the men are milling out. The women begin that eternal ritual of our sex: queuing for the loo. Which is down yet another flight of stairs.

Another thing about New Yorkers. They don't wait around. They hit it n' get it. The line to the powder room has barely disappeared when a voice calls out, "The theater is closing ladies." Sympathies to anyone with a lazy bladder. Out into the evening air we go at last. I cradle my precious bouquet and gingerly attach the unique crowning glory: a small, thin magnet I made as a nod to Rickman's most wondrous portrayal of Prof. Severus Snape. For those of you not familiar with (Harry) Potterania, Snape is Potions master of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry and house master of Slytherin, which has produced more dark wizards than any of the other three houses at Hogwarts. That does not deter fans of Snape, neither does his dislike of Harry (a feeling that's mutual). No, the wise women amongst us know our dear professor is merely a typically tragic n' tortured Byronic hero … who also has issues from his childhood rivalry with Harry's dad, but that's another story. We also know it is universally acknowledged that good girls are attracted to bad boys, or as a t-shirt once put it, "evil = sexy." My goal was to distill this sentiment into something that wouldn't make him think I was nuts, let alone that would fit on something the size of a 2"x 3" card. End of background material, but keep it in mind. It's crucial. There are about 60 people on either side of the barricaded path from stage door to waiting cars. I'm on the right side of the door, about three people back from the barricade. So I did what any semi-smart woman would in this situation. I made friends with the women in front of me. Turns out two of them, the ones next the barricade, are librarians from Dayton. Thank God for the sisterhood. They'll look out for me, make sure I get up to get an autograph and to give him my flowers. The two women in between are just as nice. We are all also fans of Snape. Needless to say, we had a good time waiting.

The first one out the stage door is Ms. Duncan at 5:50PM, or 20 minutes PC (post-curtain). She looks a bit startled to see us all there. Something I learned from one of the middle-row gals (who was trying to decided between getting her Snape doll or her picture of Rickman as Nottingham in Prince Of Thieves signed) is that people don't wait by the stage door in London. They actually post signs asking folks not to. She ignored them. It was another Rickman play. A stage hand saw her and said, "You must be American." She said, "Yes I am," and got to wait for him anyway. Alone. Something to which we should all aspire.

Ms. Duncan is all graciousness, and seems genuinely flattered by our cheers of "Brava." She signs briefly before leaving. The crowd is patient. The actors who stop to sign will make the U-curve from one side to the other. There is no shoving, no frantic waving of playbills. People pass up programs of those in the back so they can at least get an autograph.

At the 35-40 minute mark, the two co-stars come out to a warm applause. They do not stop. They know who the mostly-female crowd is waiting for.

One hour. The door opens. Cheers erupt from the crowd. No one has left and we are now rewarded. He too seems somewhat surprised we're still there, and yet also genuinely pleased. I think his hour is more than an attempt at crowd avoidance. He's in comfy clothes. He looks refreshed, as though he's had a cuppa or two and a nice conversation backstage, perhaps about how the day's performance went. We wait for him to make his way to our side. I know he'll sign for 5-10 minutes at most, so I'm anxious to grab my few moments and make the most of them. My girlfriend is playing photographer. I was admonished to bring back pictures. The Foursome again. He comes to our side. He's soft spoken, his eyes often downcast, but he's patient, even with the more effusive. He poses for pictures, signs, hands back playbills to the left of me, then in front of me . . .

Then past me. Oh no. The crowd has shifted. I’m at the front now, but not in good position. They don't backtrack. That's how they get to their cars in 5-10 minutes. My librarian cohorts are trying to let others up and aren't in a position to help. And then, blessed event. A Sharpie pen gets separated from its owner. Rickman's standing there, immediately to my right, ready to give the pen back, realizes there's no one there to give it to, and freezes like an adorably confused deer in headlights. This isn't how it's supposed to work. Pen, paper, sign, hand back paper, hand back pen. That's the flow, and the flow's been interrupted. My brain screams "NOW."

"Hello." He turns towards my voice and outstretched, held-up program and looks honestly relieved. The flow has been restored. There is a God. I managed to say that the play was wonderful. He thanked me and handed me back my program. I took the pen (the owner quickly retrieved it). I handed him the bouquet and received my second softly spoken word of gratitude. Now I was the deer in headlights. By then one of the librarians had come back. She must've realized my mesmerized state, for she called out "Don't forget to show him the card (i.e. magnet)." Yes, I had forgotten. He heard her too and turned the bouquet around. He smiled upon seeing the Slytherin crest (I believe I was the first in the crowd to bring up the HP connection), then looked puzzled. I knew he'd seen the motto. As any proper school motto should be, it was in Latin (thank God for library pages in high school). I leaned in, smiled, and unrolled my best lusty Southern drawl.

"It says 'We make evil look good'."

A grin spread across his face as this sweet, deep chuckle rolled up from his gut, punctuated by one silky word: "Yes." I received my third thanks, which had to waft up to me on cloud nine. I forgot to tell him it was a magnet. I can only hope he got to figure it out. It doesn't matter much to me now. I have that chuckle.

I hung around to take pictures for the Snape-doll girl. She got that doll signed. And bold thing that she is, she asked him for a hug and got one. I couldn't be jealous. He was still holding my bouquet, not hanging by his side in one hand, but cradled in front of him, both his hands clasped around it. I had my camera back and made sure I got that image preserved on film. I was being held by proxy, and that beat a quick hug any day. By then, we were all slap happy, giggling like school girls. I even got a hug of thanks from the Snape-doll girl. "Get some of whatever of him rubbed off on me."

Okay, so maybe we are nuts. But if this is what nuts gets you, it's a damn good thing to be.

Leah's Visit

November 25, 2002

We were kinda close (5th row). Private Lives was a great play and I really miss it. Veeeeery funny and I think the best parts were when he was describing a fountain and he made those lil plop plop noises and when he getting himself the roll with butter and jam LOL.

So the play ends and I'm just in awe. We got out to the stage door and wait.... and wait...and wait...Finally HE comes out, I forget all my vocabulary and the only words I remembered were Oh my gosh. So finally he comes over to me and I start stammering HI...hi..Hi Mr. Rickman and he says "Hello" So my mom comes up behind me, introduces herself and says"Mr Rickman this is my daughter Leah who I wrote to you about." He looks at me and says "Did you enjoy the photo and playbill?" and I’m like, he remembers me. So I said yes thank you very very much. He smiles and I open up my Harry potter book to the chapter 14, Snape's Grudge and of course he jokes with me and asks if I want him to sign the opposite page. Ha Ha silly Alan. So he signs the chapter, personalized it, made another lil X and I said thank you and he says you're welcome and he moves on to the next person. When he was done with that person I did something that my friends are still in awe that I did. I went up to him and asked"Mr Rickman?" and he said "Yes Leah?" and I said,”Can..I...can I give you a hug?" He smiles and says well of course you can give me a hug like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He PULLS me into this hug and we pose for a few pictures with my hand on his shoulder and his arm is around me. I said thank you and he says you're welcome, signs a few more autographs and walks off just like that.

I went back on September 1st to say goodbye to him. The final performance was great and I shed a few tears at the end. When he came out, he looked very tired but that’s ok I don’t blame him. So when he came to me I said “Hi Mr. Rickman, remember me?” He looks at me for a second and smiles “Yes “, he said “You’re Leah right?” “Yep”, I said. Then I added, “Did you get my thank you letter?” I had sent him a letter saying thank you and adding a picture of him and me. And he says “Yes I did”, he puts his hand on mine and says, “and thank you for coming back.” I said, “You’re welcome.” He signs my playbill and that’s that. But of course just as he was about to get into the car, I yell “BYE MR. RICKMAN” he looks at me, waves, and WINKS. Those were my meetings with Alan and they are ones I will never forget. Thank you for letting me share them.
Thank you, Leah

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