A few months ago, my New York producer friend Rachel contacted me about another assignment. A colleague of hers was searching for a play in a particular genre (I won't reveal it to protect the guilty), and there was a show running in Southern California that seemed to fit the parameters of the genre and that could potentially do very well on Broadway. She asked me to put on my talent scout hat, go see the play, and report back to her.
When the box office person hassled me about the comps that were supposed to be available for me, I knew it was a bad sign. "Do you realize that I have the power to destroy someone's Broadway dream right here and now?!" I wanted to scream. "Let me in the motherfucking theater!" After some explaining, they granted me entrance, albeit suspiciously.
Although the production was pretty well-conceived and designed, they play itself bored me out of my freaking mind. The producers and director attempted to resurrect an outdated script and to treat it seriously—but the play is so badly written that only approaching it with a postmodern wink could've possible worked. But even then, I'm not so sure.
I got on the phone with Rachel afterward.
RACHEL: How was it?
PRINCE: It bored me out of my freaking mind.
RACHEL: Oh my god.
PRINCE: As much as I miss you and want you to fly out to L.A. to scout the show, I cannot in good conscience let you waste a plane ticket and a trip for this. It's horrible. Stay in New York.
Look, I don't feel good about destroying a Broadway dream. But since somebody's got to do it, why not me?