DESTINATION Palace Theatre, London
INSPIRATION “Curb Your Enthusiasm’s” Jeff Garlin’s email sends me to a historical spot where he found magic—but getting in isn’t easy.
My head was full of thoughts about the great funnyman Jeff Garlin, of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” fame, as I made my way to the West End, to the Palace Theatre. I had tried and failed to get tickets to see “SPA- MALOT” at the Palace, but that wasn’t going to stop me from having my Jeff Garlin moment in the place where he had found his calling as a comedian. I was just going to have to do it without a ticket.
Time to get creative. Focus. It was time for Mission Jeff Garlin.
FROM Jeff Garlin
TO Angie Banicki
subject No Subject
Here is my answer lovely Angie. Please go to the Palace Theatre in London. I went about 15 years ago when I was all set to quit comedy. I was depressed and burnt out. Anyway I went to a show (OLIVER) at the palace theatre. During the show something happened to me. It was like a punch in the face. I realized that I was born to be a comedian. I actually started to cry.
I rode one of the famous red buses to the Palace Theatre in the West End. With its cobblestone central square and red brick façade, this place has been ground central for musical theatre in London all the way back to the 1880s. I had walked past the theatre at show time and seen it swarming with people. Now in mid-day, the square was nearly empty. I liked it this way— solid, stable, waiting in anticipation. You could feel it in the air surrounding the theater.
Out front, the box office was shut tight and marked CLOSED. This would require a more unorthodox entrance. I ever so sneakily sauntered over to the side door off the alley marked PRIVATE. It was very Oliver Twist, which seemed appropriate since that’s what Jeff had seen in the theatre. As I approached the door, I switched into go mode and cruised through. Nothing could stop me. Inside, I found myself in a line with actors, backstage help, and backups.
THE PALACE THEATRE
“The Palace Theatre is a west end theatre in the city of Westminster in London. Its red-brick façade dominates the west side of Cambridge Circus near the intersection of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road. Richard D’Oyly Carte, produce of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, commissioned the theatre in the late 1880s to be a home of the English grand opera. The theatre opened as the ‘Royal English Opera House’ with Arthur Sullivan’s ‘Ivanhoe.’ No expense was spared to give the show ‘every imaginable effect of scenic splendour.’ It ran for 160 performances, but when it finally closed, Carte has no New York to replace it, and the opera house had to close as well. It was, according to critic Herman Klein, ‘the strangest commingling of success and failure ever chronicled in the history of British lyric enterprise!’ Ultimately the palace would thrive, but Carte had no part of it. With a year of ‘Ivanhoe’ closing, he sold the theatre at a loss.” – Wikipedia
Everyone was in their heads, rehearsing lines, and prepping, not seeming to take notice of the outsider. Good. But when I got up to the interior ticket window, the woman sitting there caught my eyes. I immediately knew she knew. The jig was up. So I talked fast.
“Listen, I just need to get in the theater for a picture, I leave tomorrow and this is my only chance…”
She shook her head at me. Whatever I was, she wasn’t having a part of it.
“Honey, I’m not the one to help you. You need to try back in 30 minutes. Sorry.”
I checked my watch. It was 4 p.m. The show didn’t start until 6, so there was still time to make some moves. I tried to gather intel, but there was none here. On the plus side, everything felt very casual— therefore easily infiltrated.
I decided to check out the Coaches & Horses, a nearby watering hole for the theatre set. I quickly made friends with Joost, the skinny red-haired young bartender who was the opposite of the cliché for the profession—freckle-faced, almost shy, although he was a bartender to a T with his open ear and thoughtful advice. We didn’t get very far, though—4:30 already!
I ran back to the theater. I got to the door and my intuition screamed at me. This wasn’t going to happen—yet. Sure enough, I spoke to another woman who sent me away with a, “no.” Yet another underling. I needed someone with power.
At this point, I considered giving up. No one so far had been remotely accommodating. I could barely get anyone even to listen to my story. But when someone you aspire to be like tells you they discovered their reason for living in this very spot, you do everything in your power to get there too, right? How could you not?
I recommitted.
BIO >> JEFF GARLIN
Jeff Garlin has a special place in my Midwestern heart. A Chicagoan with a big, booming, contagious laugh, just like my great Uncle Joe. I mean, Joe was more of a “pull my thumb” kinda guy, but he had the same big funny heart. Jeff treated my family like family—he spent time with my brother JJ, the actor, at one of my BlackBerry events. He gave JJ advice. Once you’re in with one Banicki, you get us all. My favorite Jeff story is when I emailed a request to his publicist asking him to do an interview for a show I was working on for the Sundance Channel. I got a call within 10 minutes. “Ok, Angie. I’m in. I’ll do the show. What do you need?” Jeff didn’t even read the email before agreeing to it. Jeff isn’t only a stand-up guy, actor, and producer, he’s also written a book My Footprint: Carrying the Weight of the World is his hilarious account of his journey to lessen both his physical and carbon footprint. Finally, he’s a connector, introducing me and many other Hollywood seekers to Nancy Cooke de Herrera, who introduced the Beatles to the Maharishi and gives one-on-one trainings in transcendent al meditation in her Los Angeles home.
After killing more time with Joost, I went back. Now the square was filling up, since it was much closer to show time. This was it. I had to make it happen. The woman who I spoke to seemed to get that. She looked me up and down and said, “Okay, just stand right here. I’m gonna get someone. I don’t think we can actually bring you into the theatre but we’ll bring you into the front part.”
That wasn’t going to cut it, of course, but it was a step in the right direction. I’d figure it out.
She came back with one of the theatre managers—finally! I eye- balled him. There was nothing I could see to help me read how he’d react to my request. He was nondescript and unremarkable. His eyes and expression were neutral. I explained my story to him—my trip, Jeff Garlin, life changing moments, yadda yadda. My words hung in the air, as he stood there considering whether to give me a victorious third act.
We stared each other down, his poker face against my hopeful smile. “OK, I think I can help you.”
Cymbals strike and the big orchestra begins to play. In my head, anyway. It’s happening!
Now we were both big smiles. Despite what the woman had said about keeping me in the lobby, he took me straight into the theatre.
“Which seat?”
As I eased into the seat where Jeff had sat, so many years back, I felt like I could make anything happen. The manager, now completely immersed in the Angie show, offered to snap pictures. I was still mugging for the camera when the audience began filing in.
TRIPPING POINT
Fortune favors the sneaky, or maybe just those with a genuine drive to live like their heroes.
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