“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.