Murgatroyd and I went to see the musical Annie last night. She was dressed in the white silk dress with the sculpted roses all over it and a new faux fur shrug--the most elegant nine-year old that ever was. "Mom said I'm going to the theater," she said, saying theater with perfect articulation.Murgatroyd is a song and dance girlie girl. She can sing every word of Annie with all the expression and moves of the Annie of the movie. She has the script memorized.
I used to read the cartoon.
So when the curtain rises on Miss. Hannigan's unfortunate orphans in Act I, both Mira and I bristled when we realized that the twenty-five-year-old-looking-girl with the long hair (second picture) was, indeed, Orphan Annie. "She's too old. Her hair is wrong." We whispered to each other in the dark. Who, I wondered silently, made that cataclysmic wig choice.
It isn't until Christmas Eve in the last act that Annie comes down the stairs as the ubiquitous Orphan Annie (first picture). Murgatroyd and I sighed the sigh of relief.
That being said, it was a lively production with great singing and dancing, terrific character acting and a charming mutt playing Sandy from the Animal Shelter. The audience cooed everytime Sandy was on stage. And we oohed and aahed when the giant Christmas tree was wheeled into Daddy Warbucks's opulent 5th Avenue living room.
Best of all was being with Murgatroyd, who rested her head against my shoulder several times during the evening, turning me into a safe and stable haven. Bliss.
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