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.

Irons was reminiscing about his Broadway début, in Tom Stoppard’s “The Real Thing” forty-one years ago. The production was mounted in the Plymouth, next door to the Booth, which is now the Schoenfeld Theatre. “That was my dressing room,” Irons said, pointing to a small window high above the stage door. Pointing to an even smaller window, he said, “That was my loo.” Moti

See Full Page