On a recent trip to New York, I was depressed to note further deterioration in that cursed element of Broadway theatre, the "entry round" – the enthusiastic and often lengthy applause at the moment when theatregoers recognise a famous actor.
David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross, the 1983 play about real estate agents, is deliberately written to begin in mid-conversation, enhancing the audience's sense of eavesdropping. In the current Broadway revival, the first character we meet, Shelly Levene, duly starts halfway through a speech, but then has to stop and resume because viewers wish to show their enthusiasm for the fact that he's being played by Al Pacino.
Subsequently, the carefully exact rhythms of Mamet's dialogue are regularly interrupted by the desire of ticket-buyers to honour many of the star's intonations and gestures.
At least Pacino only has to stop talking on such occasions. In another production of the new season – Craig Wright's Grace at the Cort theatre – another film star, Paul Rudd, is incongruously forced to pause in the act of shooting two characters dead, the action of the play's opening tableau. And in another show, The Heiress, the director's pacing in the opening scene is rendered redundant by no fewer than three bursts of applause: one each for Jessica Chastain, David Strathairn and Dan Stevens.
Such reactions remain very rare in the UK. Indeed, in London productions featuring Judi Dench or Ian McKellen, it's possible to calculate precisely how many American tourists are in the house by counting the number who put their hands together for the celebrity entrance, and are then silenced by disapproving shushing from Brits.
The entry round can be attributed to various special factors in New York theatre: the adoration of cinematic faces – a movie star on stage has become a must-have factor, particularly during the recession – and the sense of event that attends a Broadway production because of the escalating cost of tickets. At the moment, too, there's an added reason to applaud: the audience's sense of self-congratulation at making it to the theatre through the ongoing travel disruption caused by Superstorm Sandy.
The playwright Edward Albee is one of the many theatre professionals who have deplored the popularity of the practice in the US: in one of my interviews with him, he pointed out that, while it might be tacky but logical to applaud a star when they walked in to a restaurant, it was both vulgar and illogical on stage, where the whole point of the process is that they are walking on as someone else.
However, Broadway audiences seem to be becoming even keener on signalling their recognition of the person the performer is trying not to be. The script of Cyrano de Bergerac calls for the actor playing the title character to undergo significant alterations through makeup and costume, but as soon as Douglas Hodge comes on in the latest New York staging, the customers can't resist showing that they know it's Dougie under there.
And it's clearly it's not just visiting British theatregoers like me who are irritated by the practice. A suspicious number of Broadway productions now seem to start with the lead actors speaking offstage or in the dark, or coming on masked by a large group of other actors –presumably to make it harder for the audience to play spot-the-star. In last year's Broadway revival of John Guare's The House of Blue Leaves, the director seemed to have been so concerned about Ben Stiller stopping the show before it had started that he began the production with Stiller's character sitting with his back to the audience in low light. This strategy, however, proved futile: the front stalls immediately recognised the movie star's rear silhouette and awarded it sustained clapping and, in some parts of the audience, a standing ovation.
More worryingly, at Glengarry Glen Ross there was evidence of another disruptive phenomenon. A group of people sitting near me had clearly come only to see Pacino, and then become grumpy at his absence from the second and third scenes of the first act. Their response to this was to chat loudly and use their mobile phones silently but flashingly until he came back on.
Superstar casting may be useful insurance for producers but, as the new Broadway season shows, it all but guarantees nuisance to regular theatregoers.
