Last night was one of those nights in New York. Sultry, muggy and deliciously wonderful.
My wife and I got tickets to see the New York Shakespeare Festival's production of "Much Ado About Nothing," in the Delacorte Theater in Central Park. For my dime you should see Shakespeare whenever you're able. He's kind of like the Ray Charles of playwriting--a genius, an institution, the guy who wrote the book on writing the book.
The play was delightful, with a brilliant cast highlighted by the surpassing Lily Rabe playing the variably bewitching and shrewish Beatrice.
But for me, a life-long New Yorker, the most magical moment of the night came just after intermission when the final act began in complete darkness amid a simulated thunderstorm.
The theater was completely dark, except for the spill from the Belvedere Castle and if you gazed skyward you could see stars over Manhattan.
Stars over Manhattan.
Beautiful. Wistful. Magical.
Their lightyears'-away-twinkle fighting, I presume, for a parking space below.
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