My Epic Comedy of Errors

A young director lands the production of his dreams—and then can only sit back and watch as it turns into the disaster of a lifetime.

Illustrations by Jesse Lucas

To tell the truth, I knew we were in trouble long before opening night. Were I an animal sacrifice sort of guy—or if 2004 an animal sacrifice sort of time—I may have carved up some poor Manhattan rooftop pigeon and thrown its guts on the ground in hopes of preventing disaster. Perhaps this could have averted the second preview, which broke the show’s spirit like an egg on a kitchen floor. But I slew no birds, and by the time I powered up my computer to write a last-ditch inspirational e-mail, it was too late. We were, to put it delicately, fucked.

I’d fought for years to direct First You’re Born. It was a dream project, and it wasn’t supposed to end like it did. But then, no one ever expects to fail.

In the summer of 2001, I had rocketed out of my college’s theater program and into an apartment in New York, my head filled with the surefire belief that if I worked hard enough, I could join the ranks of the rare few who direct theater full time for a living. I …