Slightly overweight woman, with a limp cigarette hanging from her mouth, wearing ruby red lipstick, too much eyeliner and something resembling a cape, sweeps into a rehearsal space. She looks as if she must have been attractive in her day and, in fact, it’s hard to tell if her day was 10 years ago or 20. She has the presence of someone who once worked tirelessly at being other people and at doing so to large, packed houses.

She carries, in the crook of one arm, folders and librettos, papers nearly falling out everywhere and a mug of lukewarm black coffee in her hand while the other arm hangs limply at her side.

Upon surveying her students, wearing their uniform of black jazz pants and black shirts, as they practice dance steps, sing in that all-too-familiar modern Broadway over-pronounced, over-aspirated belty yelling sound and overact with scripts in their faces, she says, just audibly and through lips held tightly around her ever-diminishing cigarette,

“God, I hate musical theatre.”

Thoughts?