How Does 'City Of Girls' Portray 1940s New York Theater Life?

'City of Girls' dives headfirst into the glittering chaos of 1940s New York theater life with a vibrancy that feels like stepping into a smoky backstage party. The novel paints the Lily Playhouse, a rundown but charming theater, as a character itself—full of frayed velvet curtains, creaky floorboards, and the kind of people who treat life like an endless dress rehearsal. The atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the constant hum of ambition. You can almost hear the clatter of typewriters as playwrights scramble to finish scripts and the off-key warm-ups of chorus girls who’ve had one too many martinis. The author doesn’t romanticize the grind; instead, she shows the sweat behind the sequins—the 18-hour days, the panicked rewrites, and the way a single bad review could send the whole cast into a tailspin. But it’s the camaraderie that steals the show. The theater becomes a makeshift family for misfits, where a drag queen might mend your costume while doling out life advice, and a washed-up starlet shares her last cigarette with a wide-eyed ingénue. It’s messy, imperfect, and utterly alive.

The book also nails the era’s unapologetic decadence. Post-war New York was a playground where rules bent like ballet dancers, and the novel leans into that. There’s a delicious tension between the glossy, Hollywood-ready productions and the raunchy midnight burlesque shows that paid the bills. The characters—especially the women—are refreshingly bold. They’re the kind of people who’ll steal a scene (or a lover) without blinking, and the novel celebrates their audacity. One standout detail is how it handles sexuality. In a time when society clung to rigid norms, the theater was a Secret Haven for queer love and libertine flings. A subplot about a scandalous affair isn’t just salacious gossip; it’s a quiet rebellion against the era’s repression. And the costumes! Descriptions of bias-cut gowns and feathered headdresses are so vivid you can practically feel the scratch of tulle. What makes it all work is how the story balances glamour with grit. The characters might be performing under spotlights, but their struggles—financial instability, wartime anxiety, the fear of fading into obscurity—are deeply human. The theater isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a microcosm of a city (and a generation) learning to thrive in the chaos.