In Shubert Alley, which runs between West Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets, Jeremy Irons, dressed in a tweed cap turned backward and three artfully arranged layers of European workwear, pointed to a patch of asphalt beneath the marquee of the Booth Theatre. "This is where I used to argue with the police that I should be allowed to park my motorcycle. But they made me put it in the damn car park up the street," he said.
"This play is about a woman with a dream that no one around her understands. A dream that the whole world is telling her is stupid and doesn't make any sense. And I feel that way."