Yesterday I wore a dress to the theatre. Also a necklace. I felt sort of shamefully proud, like I was finally appareling myself like an adult. I knew I should enjoy this sensation. Because it’s going to be months before it happens again.
On Thursday my acquaintance and fellow theatre critic Elisabeth Vincentelli published a complaint in the New York Post: “For the love of God,” read the headline. “Stop dressing like crap.” I don’t think Elisabeth was referring to me personally (Crocs have never graced my feet), but she chastised a theatre audience clad in cargo shorts and Jazzercise wear. This resonated with me. And not only because I kind of miss Jazzercise.
I’ve written before about a mild dissatisfaction – with New York theatregoers, with myself – about not dressing for the event. I recall the excitement of going to the theatre as a little girl and the anticipation I felt while I’d pull on a velvet dress and my party shoes. Maybe the theatre was a more distinguished pastime in the 1980s. But I remember 1980s theatre (Starlight Express, anyone?), so that’s probably not it. Likely Elisabeth is right and there’s been a general casual Friday-ing of western culture, in the US particularly.
But whether we dress up for the theatre does have something to do with the status of theatre as an art form and the place that it occupies in the culture. I don’t know much about how the audiences of antiquity dressed. I’d like to know more. Did the Greeks put on their fanciest chlamys before they trekked out to the Acropolis? I suppose nobles probably dolled themselves up for an afternoon at the Globe, but I’m not sure too many of the groundlings risked offending sumptuary laws. Probably most people wore the clothes they usually wore.
In the past century, however, attending the legitimate theatre became a status symbol. You went to the theatre in part to show that you were the sort of person who went to the theatre and to be able to participate in a larger conversation. Theatre had a certain glamour and if you couldn’t match it, you couldn’t disregard it. It was a place to see (that’s what the word means, after all), but also a place to be seen. I remember feeling a bit of that social expectation in college, dressing up before going to see friends’ shows because you never knew who you’d run into; your last crush or your next one might be across the aisle.
I don’t believe that theatre – at least, the theatre I see – carries that status today. It’s expensive, yes, but it doesn’t seem to hold the same cachet. You can go to a cocktail party without having seen a thing on Broadway and acquit yourself just fine. You do see well-dressed people, of course. But if it isn’t opening night, they mostly look like people who haven’t had a chance to change out of posh work clothes. Or they look like tourists. And I don’t agree that nice clothes equate with nice manners. I’ve seen some finely garbed women texting all through an overture. Dapper clothing might even contribute to feelings of entitlement rather than best etiquette.
As Elisabeth points out, there are fewer and fewer places where we’re expected to gussy up. As long as you don’t wear a bikini to work or a concert T-shirt to a funeral, you’re mostly OK. (And really, it probably depends on the funeral.) We’ve become so accustomed to consuming our entertainment at home, in whatever state of undress we prefer, that showing up for the theatre with pants on probably seems like effort enough. And I’m sure many people think that after paying what they have for an orchestra seat, pants ought to be optional.
Mostly I’m in favour of dressing down. It seems democratising to me. Less elitist. It makes theatre seem like the kind of thing anyone and everyone can go do, which is what I devoutly wish. (Well, that and cheaper, better wine at the concession stands.) And as someone who has precious little time for grooming, it means I have to make less of an effort, too. But I’m sometimes nostalgic for that old sense of occasion. There’s also a sneaking, abashed feeling that if the performers are going to give it their all, which they often do, I can at least manage a clean skirt. But often I can’t.
When did I stop dressing for the theatre? Probably when going became my five-nights-a-week job and not something I did occasionally and for my own delectation. Over the years I’ve adopted a kind of uniform: jeans or leggings, a dark sweater, low-heeled shoes, sometimes some lipstick. It’s comfortable, it’s not wildly offensive, it’s not constricting. (Which is a concern, as a couple of years ago I developed an occupational ache called moviegoer’s knee. I now try to stretch out as much as the aisle permits.) I definitely hit a sartorial low when I returned to work five weeks after my daughter was born and realized my shirt was stained with breast milk. This happened more than once. I’ve since improved, but I’m never going to win any best-dressed prizes. Even among theatre critics. This is a low bar.
Yes, I think it might be nice if we made an effort. If we acknowledged the theatre as a place of shared life, of shared engagement, and we tried to bring our best selves there. But honestly if we turn off our phones and we don’t chat once the lights go down and no one else steps on my toes as he or she squeezes past, I really couldn’t care less what we wear.
