My love of theatre will always be one of my favourite things in my life. It inspires, moves and challenges me, and consistently makes my life brighter thanks to the whole host of friends I’ve made, and performers it’s introduced me to. It can also be a bittersweet passion to have, as you learn very quickly how fast the industry grows and changes: shows close and new ones take their place, casts change and the magic of that show changes with them, and so on.

In light of all that, I believe that being a theatre fan carries with it its own very specific kind of sadness when these things happen, in a way that’s almost like grief, as odd an exaggeration as that may sound to some. We grieve because certain shows become a massive part of our lives, sometimes in a very short while: we miss the buzz of being part of the rapturous applause in that particular auditorium, the chills we get hearing a certain song, the way we can sometimes come to know the script just as well as the cast, and love giving the cast our thanks at Stage Door if they are able.

Now, certain shows have left my life before, and come back into it further down the line in the form of UK tours, and I’m sure they’ll continue to do so. It’s always sad, but I think the potential of knowing they could come back helps dull the pain a bit, because certain shows will always draw attention and get bums on seats. Sometimes though, shows that you find immensely special come along, and it hurts like hell to say goodbye to them; as I learned this past weekend.

I’d been in London to celebrate my 29th birthday; and as I am partial to, we made a weekend of the theatre. My Sunday was spent at the Menier Chocolate Factory, bidding farewell to The Bridges of Madison County.

I remember vividly my reaction the first time this show came into my life; thanks to the recommendation of some of my American friends, who persuaded me to buy the cast recording. I took my ipod to bed that night not really knowing what to expect, and by some ridiculously early hour of the morning, was lying there with tears streaming down my face. Everything about it moved me, I love the story, the beautifully simple yet intensely powerful lyrics, the blend of styles in the music. It also officially introduced me to the leading lady whom I lovingly refer to as my Broadway Goddess Kelli O’Hara, and one of the two Broadway leading men who will have my heart forever: Steven Pasquale, and for that just in itself I’m incredibly grateful. My love for the show such as it was back then inspired me to see the film version and read the novel. That was 3 years ago now, the whole time listening to the cast recording regularly and knowing I’d likely never get to see it, being unable to travel abroad easily. When the show closed on Broadway after a very short time, my hope was dwindling down to even less…

Then of course, the Menier Chocolate Factory came through announcing the UK premiere! I can’t remember a time where I’ve felt like I needed to see a show so acutely, and knowing that the venue only has a single wheelchair space does nothing to ease that pressure or the creeping fear you get when you realise you might miss out.

But see the show I did – three times in the end; and each bought with it a whole realm of emotions. The first time, I know that I was just incredibly happy to be there, and feeling totally overwhelmed; getting to know these characters better than a cast recording allows you to, hearing the songs in context, seeing the story unfold for yourself; there’s nothing else quite like it!

I thought I knew this story quite well, but it surprised me with its humour and proved just as moving in person as it does when I listen. I think sitting where I do in the Menier really helped hammer the joy I get from the show home: sitting up front, looking an incredible cast right in their  eyes (and knowing that they can see you, from a smile during the opening number and again at curtain call) is not something I get to experience in the vast majority of theatres, at least in the UK! I sobbed at the end, but also whooped myself hoarse and clapped my hands sore; I’m still devastated that I’ll never get to experience this show for the very first time ever again.

I didn’t stay after the show that first time; instead I wrote the company a letter of thanks, enclosing my programme to ask for autographs…

 

My 2nd visit to the show was an entirely spontaneous decision, and I’m so glad I made it; I fell in love all over again, noticing little details I hadn’t the first time.People often ask those of us who become devoted to a show why we go so often, and “don’t you get bored?” My answer, and I suspect this is true of all theatre fans is: because it makes us feel happy, alive in ways that’re difficult to explain; and emphatically no, because each show you’ll see is always subtly different and exciting in a multitude of ways, despite the same songs and script.

Just prior to this visit, I’d contacted the Menier to see that my programme had arrived as it had been roughly a fortnight since sending it. Sadly, it never arrived – but the staff aranged for a new one, signed by the cast. I was also incredibly lucky to meet all but three of the cast that night, all at the same time!

But of course, no matter how great the show is, and how much you wish it didn’t have to end, the inevitable goodbye always comes, and being brutally honest; sometimes, as is my case with this show: it really fucking hurts.

All the sadness I’d kept at bay about my inevitable last visit kept breaking through at really random moments throughout the show; even those parts that weren’t supposed to be sad. I vividly remember shedding a few tears during a number that had never made me cry before. The fact that it was going to be the last time I hear that song, laugh or cry at that particular scene, have my breath catch at the way a line is delivered, hit me like a ton of bricks.

And yet, I wouldn’t have chosen anywhere else I wanted to spend the 2nd set of celebrations for my birthday. The show was in the best shape I’d seen it, and I wouldn’t have wanted to miss my farewell for the world; the cast are some of the most talented, loving and generous souls to have blessed my theatre-going life. I’m going to be sad for a while, and it probably won’t feel quite the same going into the Menier now.  The sadness sucks, and I’m still trying to learn the art of letting go. In a way though, it’s a great lesson because it’s reminded me how grateful I am to have something in my life that brings me such joy, be it this show or another, and that makes it all worthwhile.