I was in London before Christmas, promoting my new book, Broadway
Babies Say Goodnight. Don’t worry, this isn’t a plug—
the book’s
not out on this side of the Atlantic. But, as the title suggests,
one of its themes is the decline of the New York theater, a
diagnosis my savvier TV and radio interviewers were eager to
dispute. Good heavens, they cried, almost to a man; Broadway babies
aren’t saying goodnight, they’re back with a vengeance! Why, this is
the best New York season in years! There are bona fide hits like
Titanic and The Lion King. There’s Triumph of Love and The
Life. Look at the reviews for Side Show. Dig the buzz on Ragtime.
Don’t forget Paul Simon’s Capeman—the first in an invigorating
infusion of work by big-time baby-boom rockers, such as Simon, Randy
Newman, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffett, all part of the golden
generation that has enriched every other aspect of American life.
And, if you’re the sort of recalcitrant old fuddy-duddy who prefers
Neil Simon to Paul, why even he’s back, belatedly recognizing that
decamping to off-Broadway was a mistake and that the main stem is
still where it’s at. There are Broadway’s own classics, lovingly
revived, such as The Diary of Anne Frank. There are raucous satirical
romps, like Jackie: An American Life. And, for better or worse,
America has even found its own Andrew Lloyd Webber in Frank Wildhorn,
composer of Jekyll and Hyde