So, “Motown: The Musical” opening:
Before curtain Jesse Jackson worked the crowd. Then looked to squeeze into his aisle, which was two ahead of me. Wrong seat. Wrong row. Rescued, an usher led the Rev away.
Behind me, barely seeing through my shellacked updo, Sting and Mrs. Sting. This gent, who knows from music, swayed and grooved to the music.
Smokey Robinson in a tux: “I knew Berry Gordy and Motown before stardom, before Motown, before Berry got famous. He was just a songwriter when we met. He was my manager.”
And big-time hotshot co-producer Berry Gordy, whose life was being relived on the Lunt-Fontanne stage, whose big-time hotshot musical was adapted from his book, who every human in those 1,472 seats wanted to glad-hand? At intermission, nobody could find him. Where was he? In the orchestra’s private can.
Aisle seat three rows back, Cuba Gooding Jr. with Vanessa Williams. “We open Tuesday [April 23] at the Stephen Sondheim in ‘The Trip to Bountiful’ with Cicely Tyson and Tom Wopat,” he said. To write his number, he needed a pen. Had none. Vanessa had none. Rushing to sit down, I, who go lipstickless but never without a pen, couldn’t find mine. “I’ll type it in your phone,” said Cuba. The crowd surged. The phone dropped. “Wow, you are some kind of reporter!” he said.
Jane Fonda, sitting directly in front of me: “I’m here filming ‘The Butler’ movie, so I’m catching the shows. This afternoon I saw Jesse Eisenberg’s ‘The Revisionist’ at the Cherry Lane, and it really requires this small intimate theater and shouldn’t come to Broadway. Vanessa Redgrave’s marvelous in it. Magnificent.”
My date, Charlene Nederlander told Jane: “We both went to Emma Williams, the same boarding school, in Troy.” Then, to me: “She was a freshman, I was a senior.”
Knowing Berry since both come from Detroit, James Nederlander Sr., in whose theater this was, said: “The advance is $16 million.” Jimmy Nederlander Jr., responsible for importing the production, said: “That’s the largest for any production before any opening ever.”
If I could’ve found Berry in the men’s room, I’d have congratulated him.
MR. & Mrs. William Jefferson Clinton are reportedly disthrilled with Hot Dog Weiner’s attention. Somehow, some way, each time frankfurter Weiner is mentioned as is wife Huma — whom they love, who’s their close, devoted, able aide and friend — somehow, some way, the report always backs into how Mrs. Clinton handled the fling Mr. Clinton flung. They would like it — and this spotlight — to go away.
KIM Kardashian’s appearance in court last week for that divorce hearing was the fastest thing ever done in her career. If you don’t count her marriage to whatsisname.
ANNE Hathaway hunting upstate property. Talented, good-looking, I think she’s great. She’s handled herself well. Why’s everyone rapping her? . . . Jessica Chastain, also abfab and without a day off since kindergarten, now doing scary ghostlike haunted house film “Crimson Peak” with Guillermo del Toro . . . Bernadette Peters, Robert Klein, Idina Menzel, Lucie Arnaz, Michael Douglas commemorating Marvin Hamlisch musically June 3.
THIS year’s Theatre World Award co-chairs Rosemary Harris, the legit’s longtime Brit treasure, and actress daughter Jennifer Ehle, sending letters to Broadwayites for money “to encourage future generations of new talent” . . . There’s more than tea in China. A New York jeweler says a Chinese lady paid $45 million for a necklace . . . Faye Dunaway asked an electronic store what’s an iPad versus an iPod.
NAOMI Watts, this year’s Oscar nominee: “I remember once having a director fall asleep on me at an audition. I was reading the scene, and halfway through I looked up — and the guy was nodding off. I completely broke apart.”
‘ENERGY Times” quotes a life coach: Jog three minutes at steady pace. Alternate each 20 seconds with butt kicks. Heel should touch your glutes. Tiptoe 60 seconds to strengthen the gastrocnemius (whateverthehell that is). Squat. Rise with forward arm swing every 60 seconds. Extend arms for 40 windmills. Then 25 straight leg front kicks. Next, shuffle right and left for three counts, touch the floor, repeat 16 times.
Daily. They crazy? I’d be dead. Besides, I’d need a wristwatch up my armpit.
No “Only in New York.” Too exhausted. I’ve spent too much energy squeezing my gastrocnemius and looking for my pen.