R.I.P. Natasha Richardson

Every time a public figure dies, I do everything within my power to ensure that my feelings on the matter are genuine before jumping on the grief bandwagon. I do, a lot of the time, feel like the human race thrives on tragedy in small doses (kind of like a flu shot?) as it serves as a necessary reminder that as long as we are alive and healthy, we should really just stop complaining.

That said, Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to shed real tears, in the privacy of my own home, not for show. Having been blessed with the opportunity to see her in a Roundabout benefit reading of "A Little Night Music" in mid-January, her talent and grace are particularly fresh in my mind. And I can, technically, say that I saw her final Broadway performance.

A performance that moved me enough to make special note of it, EVEN among the work of fellow stage-gods Victor Garber, Stephen Pasquale, Vanessa Redgrave. But as I said to my parents the next morning, who had so kindly passed the hot tickets on to my friends and me, Natasha Richardson's portrayal of Desiree Armfeldt "made me feel as if I was hearing 'Send in the Clowns' for the first time." And to anyone who has even a fragment of knowledge about musical theatre, this is the highest kind of praise.


Aside from awakening us to the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of life, the sheer lack of logic in the workings of fate...this tragedy also calls to attention the smallness of not only the theatre community, but the Manhattan community. The idea that Ms. Richardson's family is grieving a mere 18 blocks from where I write this makes the whole thing seem even more disconcertingly real.


The point is not to dwell or be melodramatic. The point is to take a necessary pause and give this event the attention it deserves. And so I ask her to rest in peace, and to sing and sing and sing for all eternity.