Shedding some light on the matinee

Gliding gently from the velvety darkness of the theater, soul transported by awe, imagination fired by a strange and wondrous spectacle, one encounters either: (A) the rhyming darkness of the late-night landscape, bestowing a mocha magic upon the familiar world, turning ordinary streets into ribbons of glistening moonlight and transforming rooftops into towers of misty enchantment or (B) icky daylight.

It all depends on whether one sees (A) an evening performance or (B) a matinee.

Ah, the matinee. That humble adjunct to the more familiar nighttime show, that funky sidekick to the post-sundown spectacle.

Matinees are among the most ambiguous of theatrical experiences -- which can encompass plays, musicals, movies. The actual show may be the same no matter when you see it, but the feel of seeing the show -- affected by the tenor of your arrival and exit -- changes dramatically when those steps are taken either in darkness or daylight.

Attendance at a recent matinee performance of “The Lion King” at Chicago’s Cadillac Palace Theatre swiftly demonstrates the visceral difference between afternoon and evening shows.

The musical, of course, is a wild and happy lark, composed of equal parts joy and energy and color and song. At its conclusion the audience jumps up, clapping and whooping. Everybody’s in a good mood, everybody’s part of one large, undifferentiated mass of happiness: kids, adults, conservatives, liberals, carnivores, herbivores.

Is “The Lion King” best enjoyed as a daytime guilty pleasure or an evening theatrical experience?

Live theater once again has executed its special magic: converting a huge room full of strangers into pals, most of whom are humming “Hakuna Matata.” And then, just past the lobby, lies ... daylight. Ordinary, unexceptional daylight.

Slaughtered, suddenly, are the mystery and enchantment of theater, the quasi-sacred bond that you shared just moments before with actors, dancers, musicians, fellow audience members and even ushers.

It’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re standing on a dirty, crowded sidewalk along with dozens of other cranky folks, squinting into the declining but still potent sun, wincing at the traffic noise.

“Hakuna Matata” is replaced by “Hey, watch where you’re goin’ there, bub.”

Yet the positive aspects of matinees also are compelling: There’s the subversive thrill of settling back in a theater seat at a time of day when, frankly, you ought to be at work. Indeed, a matinee is a chance to feel like a kid again -- and not a dutiful, well-behaved kid in a nice sweater and hard shoes but a reckless one. One who hangs out in dark places without adult supervision. One who probably got there on a skateboard.

And then there’s the flip side of the bright-daylight thing: the undeniable advantage of the fact that when you emerge from a matinee, you feel as if you have the whole day still spread out in front of you. You haven’t wasted time lolling about in the theater. You’re still ambitious. You’re still going places. You still have a shot at the CEO’s spot.

Like so many things in life, matinees symbolize much more than merely what time of day you actually attend an event. They epitomize a more relaxed form of life, a pampered disregard for the normal rules of order. And the popularity of matinees may indicate that entertainment is taking over an increasingly larger portion of our lives.

In days of old, after all, entertainment was the capstone of the day, the reward after sundown for all those tedious, back-torquing hours spent plowing or planting or sweeping floors or chopping wood. Nighttime was the period for rest and renewal.

But now, as matinees prove, entertainment has inched its way into the meaty part of the day. We’re willing to be amused at all hours. No portion of the day is roped off from our determination to have fun.

Still, though, evening performances do offer that certain something. That hard-to-define, oh-so-easy-to-recall hint of otherworldliness, of shadow-veiled climes and misty starlit enclaves. If you emerge from a theater after dark, the show seems to travel right along beside you, a silent but palpable companion, sliding silkily into darkness of myth.

After all, the song isn’t called “Some Enchanted Midafternoon.” And if memory serves, Neil Diamond didn’t belt, “Thank the Lord for the midmorning.”

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Julia Keller is cultural critic at the Chicago Tribune, a Tribune company.