Dear Patrick Page...

(Also, Readers, Go See Hadestown in the Theaters, Stat)

Dear Mr. Page,

Yesterday, my husband, four kids, and I went to see Hadestown: The Musical at our local movie theater. My oldest daughter, who just finished 7th grade, studied the Broadway production at length in her drama class this year, and has been talking about it and singing the songs nonstop for the last six months. I figured I’d win a mom award when I discovered it would be playing in theaters for a short run and we could actually go see it. We live in a suburb of Seattle, and therefore the live show isn’t that easily accessible to us (although it will be coming here on tour next year).

It goes without saying that we were all blown away by the movie. I’ll tell everyone I know to run, don’t walk, to go see it.

I left the theater in tears, not only because of the show and the incredible performances and the absolute wonder and thoughtful questions that radiated from our family, but also because of something personal that hit me the moment you, Patrick Page, appeared on the screen.

You see, when I was a kid growing up in Salt Lake City, we didn’t have a lot of money, but we took one non-negotiable family vacation every summer. My dad, whose alter-ego was to be the only-rabbi-in-the-state-of-Utah in that era but in his personal life was the biggest classical music/musical/opera/theater buff in the history of the universe, would load us up and set off whistling on a 4-hour-drive to Cedar City, Utah in our Plymouth Voyager wood-paneled station wagon with suicide door in back, to spend a week attending productions, greenshows, lectures, and more at the Utah Shakespearean Festival. Usually we saw two plays a day for a week, interspersed with every lecture and pre/post show offering given. My dad would wake up at 5:30am on vacation just to go wander around the campus, have breakfast with the participants, and generally be THAT guy. His wonder became my wonder. His great passion for Shakespeare and live theater became mine. (Although we all yelled at him when he tried to wake us up that early.)

Over the years, my parents became good personal friends with the founder of the festival, Fred C. Adams. My dad’s name was Fred too, Fred Wenger, and the jokes between them were so corny about that that I can’t repeat them here. On some trips, they would go out to dinner with Fred, his wife, and various leading actors. One of those actors was our all-time favorite, a young upstart whom we revered and built our schedule around in order to see him as the lead in everything from Macbeth to Shylock to Death of a Salesman. That was, of course, you. You must have been about 28 years old and just getting started then, but my family, especially my dad, knew you’d be BIG.

Fast forward about forty years. My beloved dad died on election night, 2024, followed by my mom a year and a half later, just this past May 2026. It has been a transitional time in my life, to say the least. But there I was, sitting in the dark theater, watching you, a lifetime later, sing your heart out as Hades on the big screen after a historic and incredible career my family knew was ahead of you all those years ago. The hair on the back of my neck stood up every time you came on camera. Suddenly, my dad was sitting in the empty seat beside me, squeezing my hand and my mom’s on his other side with excitement and joy in the face of your iconic performance (in a boot with a ruptured Achilles, no less).

I’m writing to say thank you for a lifetime and career of incredible performances, but also for embodying what a dedicated artist can do for others without even knowing they’re doing it. For all artists who feel like they’re replaceable and only in service to the one show they’re in, it’s not true. One artist can make a difference in the life of an audience member. Patrick, you brought my parents and my childhood back by giving that one performance. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

—Miriam