After the Curtain Falls: Show Closures on Broadway
January is notoriously brutal for Broadway. The holidays end, ticket sales dip, and one by one, shows pack up their sets and say goodbye. Just this month, we’ve seen Back to the Future, Suffs, Stereophonic, and Our Town take their final bows. And it doesn’t stop there—Cult of Love, All In, Eureka Day, the new Romeo & Juliet, A Wonderful World: The Louis Armstrong Musical, English, and even the long-running Blue Man Group are all set to close in the coming weeks.
I’ll admit, I hadn’t even heard of some of these productions until they announced their closings. That might be part of the problem. For every headline-making smash, there are countless shows that struggle to find their footing or their audience. But here’s the kicker—even big names and stellar reviews can’t always guarantee longevity in an industry that relies as much on timing as it does on artistry.
Take the revival of Ragtime, for instance. I remember sitting in that theater in late 2009, utterly transfixed by the sheer power of the performances and the timeless relevance of the story. And yet, as much as I loved it, I couldn’t help but notice how many empty seats surrounded me. By January 2010, after just 65 performances, the revival closed far earlier than anyone expected. Despite its critical praise and immense talent, Ragtime simply couldn’t draw the ticket sales needed to sustain it.
It was heartbreaking, and it made me wonder—how could such an extraordinary musical be languishing in ho-hum ticket sales? Did the show itself fail? Was it the audience’s fault? Or is it just another reminder that success or survival are never guaranteed?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching shows like Ragtime close, it’s this: perseverance isn’t optional. It’s the price of admission to this industry. You don’t get to stay in the game without facing rejection, disappointment, and moments of doubt.
Charles Strouse, the composer behind the smash hit Annie, knows this all too well. After Annie became a sensation in 1977, he went on to compose the music for seven other shows between 1978 and 1991. Two of them closed on opening night, and three more shuttered within a week. During that time, Strouse poured years into creating a sequel to Annie. It went through multiple failed drafts and scripts before finally opening off-Broadway in 1993, where it achieved only moderate success. And yet, that sequel ran longer than most of his Broadway productions during that period.
What strikes me about Strouse’s story isn’t the number of flops—it’s the persistence. He kept showing up, kept writing, kept adapting. For every setback, there was another attempt. It’s a reminder that perseverance isn’t about waiting for the perfect opportunity—it’s about continuing to create, even when the world keeps saying no.
Because closures and setbacks don’t just happen to weak shows. They happen to ambitious ones. Innovative ones. Even the ones with everything going for them on paper. And when faced with such harsh realities, artists have to adapt—sometimes in ways that reshape their original vision entirely.
Strouse’s work on the Annie sequel is a perfect example. He didn’t just slap together a follow-up and hope for the best. He reworked it. Scrapped drafts. Collaborated with new actors. He kept evolving the piece until it could finally find its footing, even if it never reached the heights of the original. That’s what it takes—being willing to let go of preconceived ideas, embrace the messiness of the process, and trust that the work will find its way.
In my own experiences, I’ve seen how this willingness to adapt can breathe new life into creative projects. A writer whose work I was helping produce, didn’t want to change a particular element of his script, even though I and others were pushing him to consider the change. He eventually relented and worked with a director to hone that moment and others, resulting in an even better ending than we previously thought possible. So I recognize that it’s not easy, and it often means swallowing your pride, but it’s necessary. Because the alternative—stubbornly clinging to an unworkable vision—is a surefire way to stay stuck.
But perhaps the hardest pill to swallow as an artist is this: not everyone will understand or appreciate your work. Some will dismiss it outright. Others will point out every perceived flaw. And many will simply ignore it altogether. Theaters don’t fill up just because your show matters to you—or even because it’s good.
I saw this firsthand with Ragtime. As much as I loved that production, it didn’t matter if I thought it was one of the best things on Broadway at the time. The empty seats told a different story. And that’s the reality we all face as creators. Art isn’t about pleasing everyone. It’s about connecting with someone. Even if that someone is just a handful of people who see your work and feel changed by it.
But if you’re waiting for universal approval, you’re in the wrong business. And sometimes, risk doesn’t pay off in the way we hope. But that doesn’t make it any less worthwhile. Because both the joy and pain of Broadway—and of theater as a whole—is that nothing lasts forever. Shows close. Curtains fall. And all that’s left is the work we’ve done and the impact we’ve made.
And maybe that’s enough. It’s not about clinging to some idea of success—it’s about showing up, creating anyway, and knowing that the act of making art has value, even when the world doesn’t always see it. So yes, January may be a month of closures, but it’s also a reminder. For every ending, there’s the possibility of a new beginning. And as long as there are artists willing to create, the stage will never truly be empty.
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