Her questions and comments began shortly after Simba was presented to Pride Rock. The budding theater critic behind me spent the entire show questioning her dad about why things were happening, her wide brown eyes growing wide, golden ringlets bouncing as she watched the stage. Behind me, a man with his 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Directly in front of me, a family with two young children. Behind me, two tweens chatted with their mother about what to expect.įolks my age grew up with the tales of Zazu, Timon, and Pumbaa, with the characters’ voices literally narrating the soundtrack to our childhoods. In the row directly ahead of me, what looked like a college-aged brother and sister bickered in front of their parents about a memory from years ago as the production readied backstage. I, on the other hand, was prepared for the overwhelming number of “little humans.’’ What I found more fascinating than the stream of kids walking in, some clad in perfectly pressed dresses or slacks, was the fact that there were plenty of older families and young couples in the audience. As we walked into the theatre, he jokingly remarked on the number of little humans surrounding us compared to the last show we had scene together (granted, it was “Phantom of the Opera’’ - not a particularly kid-friendly show).
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