“I DON’T know why you people have to go to the movies,” the man had barked. “You won’t get anything out of it anyway.” 
The
 “you people” was the blind in general and Vicky Winslow (pictured) in particular. 
The man at the cinema some time ago hadn’t cared for her way of 
watching: with her ears, and a friend’s whispered puffs of description.
On
 a recent evening at a Broadway theater, she had a different approach. 
She was swathed in a brooch-fastened cape, sitting above her trusty 
German shepherd, Jet, ready to take in “The Lion King” — and etching a 
mental picture of Simba and his savanna with the help of a single 
foam-wrapped earpiece that made a noisy whisper buddy unnecessary.
It
 was several minutes before 8, and the audience was chattering and 
waiting. But for Ms. Winslow, 51, the show had already begun. Her ear 
was filling with advance word of what others would learn only later: the
 color of Zazu’s feathers, the bounce in Simba’s dreadlocks. It was 
important to stock up on character descriptions now, to permit a focus 
on plot later. She savored each description the way some people sip 
wine, holding it for a time, swirling it in consideration.
The
 voice’s description of Simba’s golden belt made her laugh. When it 
mentioned a wooden lion head in the theater, she said, “Oh, I’d like to 
see that!”
The
 theater can feel forbidding and overwhelming even to those with five 
senses. But in recent years an experiment on Broadway started testing 
whether theater’s thrills can be extended to patrons who see with their 
ears. A service called D-Scriptive translates the visual language of 
raised eyebrows, waist-high leg kicks and soft kisses into the language 
of sound. An evening with Ms. Winslow suggested that a show digested 
this way isn’t without its pleasures. 
Fostering
 that pleasure takes technological trickery. Because every live 
performance is slightly different, playing a single audio track wouldn’t
 work: before long, the action would outrun or lag the description on 
the tape. D-Scriptive solved the problem by dicing up its narration — 
into more than 600 audio files in the case of “The Lion King.” An 
individual file, or cluster of them, is assigned to a particular cue 
given by the theater’s stage manager. After an actor utters a certain 
line, for example, the manager speaks the next cue into the microphone, 
which in turn tips off D-Scriptive’s computer to broadcast the 
corresponding bit of explanation to its patrons’ earpieces: “On the left
 are two giraffes and a cheetah”; “Rafiki holds the cub up to the bright
 light once more.”
D-Scriptive,
 initiated in 2006 with “Wicked,” is now available at six shows on 
Broadway, with more in the pipeline. Theatergoers used the service 2,717
 times last year, 541 of those for “The Lion King,” according to Carl 
Anthony Tramon, director of special services for Sound Associates, the 
company behind D-Scriptive. Leased by the theaters, the service is free 
for users.
The
 first time Ms. Winslow tried the system, to take in “Jersey Boys,” she 
was hooked. “The details that they gave were things that no one else — 
not even people who know me and describe things to me — would think to 
tell me,” she said. And, she noted, causing a disturbance on Broadway is
 even worse than at the cinema: “Remember, unlike the movies, you’ve 
paid an awful lot for your seat and you can’t just go look for another 
one.”
A few seats down from her, Kirk Brouwer, 15, a sophomore at St. Joseph 
Regional High School in Montvale, N.J., had his own reasons for loving 
the service. He had his first eye surgery at one week old and has had 
300 or so operations since then; today his left eye has no vision and 
his right eye has 20/100 vision with glasses (enough to gaze into his 
cellphone from up close and to pursue his passion for shooting and 
editing videos). It used to be that whenever he went to a show with his 
family, he said, his three younger brothers would discuss it on the ride
 home and he would remain silent. Sitting beside his mother on this 
night, he said the descriptions helped him socially by giving him 
something to toss into conversations with family and friends. For his 
mother, Eileen, it was a short break from her usual habit of describing 
every last thing around them, “to be sure Kirk doesn’t miss any details 
in life,” she said.
As
 “The Lion King” began, Mr. Brouwer and Ms. Winslow were already full of
 information. The challenge facing them was to hold these descriptions 
in their heads, listening to D-Scriptive’s account of the action in one 
ear and following the music and dialogue heard by everyone with the 
other ear.
If
 the sighted theatergoer has the luxury of being in the moment during a 
show, the partly or fully blind patron must enjoy it differently. The 
descriptions preload in the brain before the show begins, the 
progressive narration of dance kicks and kisses tends to come several 
seconds before the actual deeds, and the dialogue arrives last. 
Assembling a mental picture of a scene often requires that information 
heard at several different moments be merged. 
Sometimes
 Ms. Winslow laughed in sync with the crowd; sometimes the D-Scriptive 
failed to relay a funny bit and the crowd laughed without her; sometimes
 the audio description was funnier than the visual action, and she 
laughed all by herself. She was more sensitive to wordplay than most, 
chuckling alone when Pumbaa the warthog spoke of a sandwich “with a side
 of flies.” That’s easy enough compared to what she used to do as a 
social worker in a homeless shelter, using her ears to sense when tears 
had rimmed a client’s eyes and a tissue box needed extending.
“There
 are some things that eyesight would give me,” said Ms. Winslow, who was
 born blind. “But I hear things that other people don’t because they’re 
not focused on hearing.”
There
 was too much to hear at times. The words and images beamed through the 
earpiece sometimes came at her like digital machine-gun fire. A song 
about not being able to wait to be king was especially overloaded, with 
seemingly every dance step and twirl itemized. So it goes when a 
thronging boulevard of a performance must be jammed into the single lane
 of auditory perception.
Ms. Winslow, though, has ways of coping. “My mind sort of censors for what I’m interested in,” she said.
It
 was another story with her immediate neighbor to the right — me. Just 
as the houselights went down, she leaned over and issued a gentle order:
 “Close your eyes.” It was an invitation to try to know something of her
 experience that night, and for that I had also secured one of the 
devices.
At
 first, I found myself cheating without intending to, keeping eyes 
closed during run-of-the-mill descriptions but opening them when 
something sounded especially beautiful. Later I lasted through full 
scenes in the way that Ms. Winslow had asked. To try to process it all 
was to understand that a Broadway show is, in the end, a giant 
information ball, a dense nugget made of millions of disparate kinds of 
facts. Seeking to turn them all into verbal facts is a heroic intention 
that can never be fully realized.
At
 one point actors in hyena costumes entered the theater from the back of
 the house and walked right past Ms. Winslow. She perked up as she felt 
their presence, with the earpiece revealing what they were. Her guide 
dog didn’t need to be warned about hyenas. Jet, ordinarily possessed of a
 New Yorker’s seen-everything cool, leapt up, snapped to attention and 
seemed to place himself on war paws — because, well, hyenas.
Ms.
 Winslow wouldn’t mind if services like D-Scriptive popped up for other 
arts. “I don’t do ballet, because that would be pointless,” she said. 
But she loves the opera and loves the movies, which is what she can 
afford mostly, being out of a job and the economy being what it is 
nowadays.
“I sometimes feel like asking for half of my money back, because I miss a lot,” she said.
She
 has heard of apps that seek to do for films what D-Scriptive does for 
Broadway shows. She’s skeptical. “I’ll believe it when I do it,” she 
said.