Legendary

For all my lamenting, life isn't entirely disappointing.  There are, and have been, many experiences where I find myself pinching an arm to ensure I am not actually dreaming.  I've had the good fortune of seeing many legends on stage: Bob Dylan in concert three times before the age of 25, Prince in what he claims to be his final tour, and U2.  Most recently it was Al Pacino in The Merchant of Venice on Broadway.

The tickets had been purchased by my father, who had originally intended to bring his girlfriend at the time.  When they were unable to fly out here from Minnesota to attend the performance, he was kind enough to email the tickets to me.

My stomach fluttered with anticipatory delight.  I would be seeing the legendary AL PACINO perform in life!  On a stage in front of my very eyes! I could hardly wait.


As my darling boyfriend was unable to attend due to work, I set about procuring a worthy companion.  It was a bit of a last minute invite, yet I was still shocked when no one responded to my texts or emails, until finally, my friend Will called.  He had been in a movie when I texted, but was thrilled I had thought to invite him, and when should we meet??

The show as a whole was very well done, and very entertaining.  The actors were adept at speaking the Shakespearean language in a way that made it easily understood.  But Mr. Pacino as Shylock stood out from them all.  It is a rare actor who can take such a contemptible character and give him a depth of humanity that leads one to feel compassion as well.  It was one of those situations where one says, "Well yes, he does seem a bit monsterish, I can see why his daughter wishes to run away!" but a moment later feels compelled to argue for him, "But look at how they speak of the Jews, and Shylock in particular! No one deserves such bigotry. And the affection for his daughter is plain to see, he can't be all bad."

Mr. Pacino gave a heart wrenching performance, his final moments on stage stick in my mind as though a personal memory of witnessing an unjust persecution and being powerless to stop it.

Of course, I just had to see him at the Stage Door afterwards.  Not only is it a tradition of mine, but come on, it's Al Pacino!

Usually I am one of the first to the Stage Door, securing for myself the best possible location.  This time, however, I made the rookie mistake of not locating the Stage Door before heading into the theatre.  This meant that when coming out, precious time was wasted searching for it.  By the time Will and I arrived, a large group had already formed that we were forced to stand behind.  Luckily Will is quite tall, so I knew we would at least get some good photos.  But I was on a mission:

"Tell Al his performance in the movie version was perhaps his best cinematic performance ever," was my father's only request.  And by God, I would honor it!  Of course my current placement posed a bit of a hindrance, but I'd figure something out.

As a crowd we wait with baited breath for Mr. Pacino to appear.  Every time the Stage Door opens, there is a collective "is it him? is it?? no, not yet", and back to waiting.  We stare at the door like pups tied to a street sign, waiting for their owner to emerge again from Starbucks. Anxiously we await, the energy growing slightly more frenzied with every open and close of the door.

Finally, The Man In Charge Of The Door moves the barrier to allow more room.  "Hurrah!" I think to myself, "Now is my chance to get a spot in front!"

Obviously, I am not the only one to have this thought.  The crowd single-mindedly surges forward, the rear-momentum causing the front of the mob to crush against the barrier even though they have stopped moving.  At this, the face of The Man In Charge Of The Door contorts into a terrifying rage as he threatens to whisk Mr. Pacino straight into his car from the door, or worse, make him take a different exit out of the building unless we STOP. PUSHING!

He makes his threat over and over, "IF I SEE ANYONE PUSHING HE DOES NOT COME OUT!"  Eyeing each of us, one by one, shame washing over me when his eyes meet mine, even though I had merely been carried by the crowd (I don't push for celebs, even if they are Al Pacino.  I still maintain a little civility.  Ok, maybe I pushed a little).  Finally he resumes his post at the door, and the dog-like concentration continues.  Door opens, our tails wag...it's not him, ears droop.  Open, wag, no, droop, until finally, as I am looking back towards Will (who elected to stay in the rear of the crowd and rely on his height to see) I feel a collective intake of breath which quickly explodes into a roar of delight.  I turn back to the Stage Door, and there He is.


I am surprised at his small-stature.  Dwarfed by his goose-down coat, he is a frail looking man who still managed to exude the energy of a twenty-something as he jumps onto the step of his waiting chariot (Suburban) to wave madly at the large crowd of fans gathered across the street.  Wild wisps of hair peek out from under his skullcap, yet despite his aged face, there is no doubt that this is Tony Montana.  It is fitting that he is currently "In Production" with the film "King Lear" as the title character.  Here on the crowded sidewalk of 44th street, Mr. Pacino is King.

He makes his way first down one side of us, my side, signing posters and Playbills, posing for pictures, all the while a mad grin on his face, a twinkle in his eye.  He moves to the other side and repeats, stopping for a moment with one fan to listen to what he has to say.  I know then, that had I made my way to the front, I would most assuredly have been able to relay my father's message, and no doubt Mr. Pacino would be appreciative of the compliment.  Instead, I observe it all, making my mind a video camera so I can at least replay it in as great a detail as possible.  And of course, I keep my Playbill at the ready, should the opportunity to have it signed present itself.  If only these people ahead of me who already got autographs would leave...

Mr. Pacino returns to my side, and we swell with the pride of a mother whose baby has just learned to poop in the potty.  I watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to come closer.  He kisses a young girl on the cheek eliciting the loudest cheers yet, and then, there he is, directly in front of my section.  I hold my Playbill out, but he's reaching for others.  I pull it back as he moves a little to the right, then back to the left and then, he's looking at me, dead in the eyes.


Making eye contact with Al Pacino was pretty rad.  I felt a jolt run through me, and I was momentarily suspended from action, holding my Playbill to my chest rather than shoving it towards him.  Much was said with just our eyes, however:

 "Do you have something for me to sign? I don't know if I'll be able to reach it; you see how much is being thrust towards me right now, and my people are calling me to the car."

"I understand Mr. Pacino.  You were fantastic tonight.  And my Dad wanted me to tell you, your performance as Shylock in the film version was to him your best cinematic performance of all."

"Your Dad's alright by me.  Tell him thanks, now I gotta fly!"

And with another wave to the crowd across the street, he hopped into his jet black Suburban and sped off down the street, hanging out the window and waving still....our King had taken his leave.