It comes around intermittently every few years; a show on Broadway that reminds us why theatre beats every other medium hands down and almost justifies the cost of the tickets. So it was last night, walking down 45th Street in New York past foyers sparse with patrons, to something as close to a mob scene as a person with one eye on their phone for the babysitter can get.
Beneath the marquee, which featured a blown-up image of the actor Jodie Comer, women posed with each other for photos. It was like a revival tent meeting for affluent middle-age lesbians, young women attending alone, a handful of gay men and, I would hazard, approximately 27 enlightened straight ones. “Our people have gone mad for this,” said the friend I was with, and we repaired to our seats feeling vaguely hysterical.
