Rosenblatt, a boyish forty-eight-year-old who spent the first twenty years of his career as a jobbing theatre director, seems to view these successes with a stunned, somewhat wary delight. A nimble soccer player—“a legend in his own lunchtime,” as the Brits say—he is swift of foot as well as of mind; we made it to the theatre with time to spare. We stood catty-corner to the crowd that had gathered, during the intermission, under the glow of the marquee and its image of Lithgow looking eerily similar to the rangy Dahl. As the audience began to flow back into the theatre for the second act, Rosenblatt remarked, “I have a poster on my wall, from years and years ago, which says ‘Zero Commercial Potential.’ ”