I had been a Sondheim fanatic since my early teens, and while I was in my first year at Yale Drama School (as a Set and Costume designer), the original production of Assassins premiered at Playwrights Horizons in New York City, on December 18, 1990.Alas, the tickets were impossible to get and, for the most part, available to subscribers only.
I had gotten my BFA from New York University the year before (also in Set Design) and my home studio had been Playwrights Horizons. I tried finagling a ticket, but to no avail. I was told my best option would be to wait in the cancellation line each day, and that it would probably take several attempts to get one of the coveted returned tickets.
That was out of the question. I was at school in New Haven with a heavy class-load six days of the week. Eventually, I gave up on ever getting a ticket. The limited run at Playwrights Horizons was winding down and I was stuck in New Haven.
In mid-February, my first-year costume design teacher, Jane Greenwood, took the class on a field trip to meet Ray Diffen, a respected British costume designer, who at the time was also the head of the Metropolitan Opera's costume and wardrobe department. Ray would give us a personal tour of the Costume Shop and other backstage areas of the Met.
We traveled by train to NYC very early on the morning of February 15th. The weather was abysmal—brutally cold, lots of snow and ice. As I recall, we had to be at the Met by about 9:00 AM because there was a dress rehearsal onstage that afternoon. Our tour needed to be complete before the rehearsal began.
It was a blast! It was my first time backstage at the Met. We met Ray Diffen and just before 11:00 AM the tour was winding down. My fellow Yalies and I were talking with some of the costume shop folk, looking at what they were building, lamenting the horrible weather outside, and one of the guys in the Met costume shop mentioned that his crazy boyfriend was standing in the cancellation line for Assassins.
My mind-reeled! Maybe I'd get to see the show after all! I asked Jane Greenwood what our other class obligations were for the day and mentioned my deep desire to snag a ticket for Assassins and she said something like, "Go for it!"
I ran for the subway and was standing outside Playwrights Horizons by 11:15. There were about eight to ten people in line ahead of me—all fellow Sondheim buffs. We stood there for seven-and-a half hours, freezing, talking Sondheim, and the state of the theatre, shivering, and a few times sending one of us on a coffee-hot chocolate run to Kraft Coffee Shop down the street. This was my one chance to see the show. Not only would I not be back in New York very soon, but Assassins was closing the next night.
Staff at the theatre said they usually had about six cancellations. Damn! I might be too far back in the line! But they expected more cancellations than usual because of the terrible weather. They offered the cancelled tickets to the wait-line as they became available. The line slowly shortened.
At 7:45 they came out with the two final cancellations—one ticket for me, one for the man standing behind me. The rest of the still-long line was turned away.
I took a moment and called my boyfriend in New Haven and told him I'd gotten into the show and would be home very late.
I was so happy to see it, feeling like I’d joined the club of folks who had seen other Sondheim rarities… Anyone Can Whistle, The Frogs, Merrily We Roll Along . . . etc. That privileged Sondheim-fan status became even more privileged when Assassins failed to move to a full-Broadway production.
I enjoyed the show, but it was more of a collage than the narrative I'd expected. The band was very small: Paul Ford on piano, Paul Gemignani on percussion, and Michael Starobin on synthesizer. If you're stuck with a three-piece band, that trio is hard to beat.
One moment that really stood out, aside from the shocking line in the first song, "Come here and kill a President," was "The Ballad of Booth" performed by Patrick Cassidy and Victor Garber. Garber's use of the "n" word at the end of the song was very powerful. I'd loved Garber since seeing his Anthony in Sweeney Todd (my first Broadway show) and then seeing his Franklin Shepard in the Arena Stage revival of Merrily We Roll Along (one of my favorite shows).
I also really liked "The Day I saved Roosevelt," with its sideways quotations from Sousa's El Capitan march, itself from Sousa's wonderful operetta El Capitan, and the John Hinckley/Squeaky Fromme duet "Unworthy of your Love."
The scene that most vividly came to life, though, wasn't a musical one, but the crazy fried chicken scene between Sarah Jane Moore (Debra Monk) and Squeaky Fromme (Annie Golden).
At the end of the curtain call, someone, Victor Garber as I recall, mentioned that the cast and creative team had signed Playbills to raise money for Equity Fights AIDS. They were for sale in the lobby for $25! Luckily, I had just enough cash in my wallet.
The Playbill was fantastic! Boldly signed by composer/lyricist Sondheim and book writer John Wiedman at center, surrounded by signatures of the cast: Patrick Cassidy, Victor Garber/ Eddie Korbich, Jace Alexander, Jonathan Hadary, Joy Franz. Greg German, Debra Monk, William Parry, Marcus Olsen, Lyn Crescent, Terrance Mann, and Annie Golden (who signed it twice!), all boldly signed in silver ink.
The holy-grail Playbill tucked safely in my leather jacket, I trudged the few blocks to Port Authority terminal, took the shuttle over to Grand Central, and hopped on a late-night train home to New Haven. I froze and starved most of the day, but I'd seen the penultimate performance of Assassins.
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Final note, my husband, who kindly proofed this post for me, says that he was the one who told me to go get in line in the blizzard! Which, now that he mentions it, seems accurate. But I still remember the man in the costume shop saying his boyfriend was already down there and rolling his eyes at what us Sondheim buffs would put ourselves through!
Copyright © 2026 David Maxine. All rights reserved.
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