"There will be no touching, grabbing or squeezing Mr. Radcliffe. Do you understand?"
When someone says this to you, the first thing you think is:
How did I end up in a situation where I need to be instructed not to squeeze Daniel Radcliffe?
And the second thing you think is:
They're being awfully precise .
Are "grabbing" and "squeezing" specific problems around here? What about high-fiving? Is high-fiving, okay?
And the third thing you think is:
Look, everybody, it's John Larroquette!
* * *
Let me take a few steps back .
I'm not exactly sure how I ended up at the stage door outside of New York City's Al Hirschfeld Theatre. I mean, I know how I got to New York City — I was there for book stuff.
And I know how I got to the theater. I couldn't be in the same city as Daniel Radcliffe and not try to see him on Broadway. (I've got Harry Potter withdrawal like whoa.)
But standing outside the stage door, in a mob of manic people — many, if not most, of them from other countries — that I blame on my friend Dave Whitaker.
I mention Dave by name because he's one of those people whom everyone seems to know. If I ever end up on Mount Everest, I fully expect one of the Sherpas to say, "Dave Whitaker? Great guy. The stories I could tell."
Dave used to live in Omaha, and now he lives in New York, and he's one of those people who very politely, quietly leads you into trouble. (Maybe mischief is a better word .)
One minute you're just standing there chatting in a subway station, and the next, you've jumped the turnstile — without realizing it — and have narrowly avoided a fistfight on a crowded rush-hour train.
Both of these things happened on the way to the theater. Dave just giggled.
We got through the show, "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying," without incident. Five-second review: Daniel Radcliffe is a complete charmball. He sings! He dances! He hams! He's much smaller than you ever expected! The musical itself crossed my eyes, but I fully support Entertainment Weekly magazine's decision last week to name Radcliffe one of its
Entertainers of the Year.
After the show, Dave and I went outside to meet another old Omaha friend.
The spot where we were waiting wasn't too far from the stage door, so . . .
Suddenly we were standing by the stage door — Whitaker factor, I'm telling you — in a crowd of people that was quickly turning into a mob. There were police officers. There were barricades. There was pushing.
What I should have said here was, "Dave, let's go get cupcakes. This city is full of amazing cupcakes. And we don't even have to push for them."
But the crazier that the situation around us became, the more important it felt to see Daniel Radcliffe. Or
anybody famous.
Every cast member who came through the door caused a flurry of excitement in the crowd. "It's that guy!" we'd say. "The guy! The one who danced! Get his autograph!"
It was like walking into Nebraska Furniture Mart the day after Thanksgiving and ending up in line to buy a $10 toaster oven. You don't even want it, but you get caught up in the excitement. It must be a good deal — there are a hundred people waiting.
Into that toaster-oven frenzy walked Tony Award-winning actor John Larroquette. The mob went half wild. Everyone wanted his autograph. Everyone had their phone up, taking pictures. There was a frenzied murmur: "It's the guy from 'Night Court' — what was his name?" "Dan Fielding!" "It's Dan!"
I felt so sorry for John Larroquette in that moment. If he were in this musical with anyone other than Daniel Radcliffe — perhaps one of the biggest movie stars in the world — Larroquette could sign a few autographs then go home to his family. Instead, he has to be Radcliffe's appetizer eight times a week, twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays. He has to sign dozens of autographs from people who call him "that guy from 'Night Court.'" The man is a
Tony winner.
About the time that Larroquette slipped away, the security guard started managing our expectations for the main event. Not only would there be no squeezing or grabbing — Mr. Radcliffe wouldn't be stopping
at all.
This announcement caused major distress. Lots of tears. Half the crowd shouted, "But it's my birthday," and the other half yelled, "But I came all the way from New Zealand."
And the security guard acted like he'd heard it all before. "If Mr. Radcliffe stops to talk to you, he'd have to stop for everyone. He'd be here all night, every night." The guard was pleading with us: "He has his own life, you know. You've got to let him
live his life."
I think this is the point where I teared up. Poor Daniel Radcliffe. He's been dealing with nutty people — people like me and Dave, who may have still been waving his Playbill in the air — since he was 11 years old.
How would it feel to go through life always having to send someone ahead of you to announce "no squeezing or grabbing"?
What if you grew up like that? What would it be like to never have a normal interaction with a stranger?
If you met a stranger one-on-one, that person would be thinking, "Ohmygodit'sHarryPotter!!" And any time you were in a crowd, that crowd could turn into a mob. You'd be the ingredient in bombs that make them explosive.
My allegiances shifted right there. I didn't want Daniel Radcliffe's autograph anymore. (And I wasn't going to get it — because a whole family from South America had pushed in front of me.) I was there to hold back the tide.
The security guard gave us one more warning before he came out; basically, "Remember, crazies, we had an agreement. Don't make me embarrass you in front of Mr. Radcliffe."
And then, there he was: Harry Potter.
I mean, not Harry Potter, obviously. But that's hard for your brain to accept when you've been watching Harry Potter movies for 10 years.
It was difficult to see the actor's face. He was wearing a hat, and he really is quite small; I could only see him by crouching down and peeking between people's arms. But when I did see his face, it struck me as too familiar to be real.
Of course he stopped and signed autographs, and posed for photos, and was more charming than any human being should ever be expected to be toward a bunch of hopped-up strangers .
I'll bet he's that nice every night.
If you ever find yourself standing outside the stage door of the Al Hirschfeld Theatre, being instructed not to squeeze the stars, the fourth thing you find yourself thinking is:
It's pretty great not to be famous.
Contact the writer:
402-444-1149 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 402-444-1149 end_of_the_skype_highlighting, rainbow.rowell@owh.com
twitter.com/rainbowrowell
http://www.omaha.com/article/20111218/LIVING/712189943/1199
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