There is a major show that’s about to start previews this week, that frankly, doesn’t seem to have the amount of advertising out there that some of the others debuting this Spring do.

I’ve seen some outdoor pop up recently, but I haven’t gotten an email blast, or seen banner ads or flyer-guys for this one.

Why?

Probably because this show doesn’t have to do heavy pre-opening advertising. . . because it’s at Lincoln Center, and the first chunk of this run is going to be mostly filled up with subscribers.  It’s nice to be a successful non-profit.

But I still know I want to go.

The show I want to see this week is . . .

War Horse.

And you know what’s weird?  I’ve seen it already.

It’s rare that a show can get an audience back to see it again.  Especially at $125 a pop.

It’s especially rare for that show to be a play.  How many plays have you wanted to see again?

So what was it about the experience I had at The National Theater that makes me want to see War Horse again?

Sure, it was the spectacle of the “puppets” (which I think is the wrong word for what is on that stage), and the imaginative staging . . .

But what really got me was . . .

I cried.

Somewhere, right now, my step-brother wants to punch me in the arm for being a sissy, but I couldn’t help it.  The show reached deep inside and pulled the strings on my emotions like I was the puppet . . . and the next thing you know, I could have watered a small garden with what was coming out of my eyeballs.

Luckily, for my macho-ego, I wasn’t alone.  Just about the entire orchestra had sniffly noses and leaky eyes at the end of the performance I saw.

And these tears aren’t like the tears one feels at the end of relationship, or after the loss of a family member. These tears are cathartically enjoyable.  You’ve surrendered to the story.  And it feels good.

So good, that you’re willing to go back . . . and cry all over again.