Venus in Fur

I missed the Nina Arianda train when she was in the off-Broadway production. I missed the Nina Arianda train when she was in the Broadway production of Born Yesterday. I was a little annoyed by the hype and heard from a few detracters. Quite honestly, I forgot about the production all together.

To be fair, I missed much of the Hugh Dancy train as well. I didn't see Journey's End. I liked him very much in The Pride, but he was delightfully functional, not revolatory. I have, sadly, never seen him in another production in any media. Yet somehow I have infomation on who he dates.

None of this made me particularly excited to catch a Saturday matinee of Venus in Fur at the Lyceum.

Luckily, for me, I finally caught up and caught on.

Nina Arianda is simply a big bag of superlatives. She was so light and comically coy, but always so specific. It all felt so real that I just enjoyed spending time in her presence. Every breath, every turn, every line was perfection.

Hugh Dancy was no less delightful. He played coy corrupter and come-on king. His smarm was genuine and his vulnerability simultaneously laid bare and guarded. He makes a turn late in the show, that was as powerful a speech as I have seen. He commanded the stage. But he relented it as deftly.

They were a good match. I am not one for deconstructions of the play. The comedy was joyous, the psychological underpinning uncomfortable, and gender imbalances an endless teeter totter.

Walter Bobbie's direction was very non-Walter Bobbie. John Lee Beatty's scenic design was functional and created the right environment for the box set. The box set was limiting at times for those of us seated far audience right.

The time flew by. I didn't drift off once. And I was happy to be alive and in the presence of these actors every moment of the play. Venus in Fur is perfection and this time I am making sure that I am all aboard.

How I Learned to Drive

Early in previews, the Second Stage revival of Paula Vogel's How I Learned to Drive, directed by Kate Whoriskey, was already in good shape, well-paced, well-acted, and emotionally devastating. Elizabeth Reaser was a little tentative at first, but I have no doubt that by now she's excellent in the role. The amazing Norbert Leo Butz was, as always, superb. (I guess Butz couldn't play Belle in Beauty and the Beast, but I'm sure he could play pretty much anyone else.)

While I thought the production was quite good, I was considerably less impressed with the play itself. Here's why.
 
[spoilers abound] [really, nothing but spoilers] 

How I Learned to Drive seems initially to be examining how incest is not always a simple case of older-perpetrator-abuses-younger-victim. Teenaged Li'l Bit is flirtatious with her Uncle Peck, and he comes across as more of a supplicant than an abuser. And Peck is a sympathetic character, a World War II veteran who has seen horrible things he will not, cannot, discuss.

I bought all of this. I even found it intriguing, compelling. Life is not black and white. Older people are not always the ones with power. Otherwise nice people can do terrible things.

But, then, at the end of the play, which is told mostly in reverse-order flashbacks, we see the beginning of the story. Li'l Bit, only 11 years old, is on a long drive with Uncle Peck. He offers to let her drive. She is too small to reach the gas pedal, so he suggests that she sit on his lap; he'll control the speed while she steers. And then he seriously, flat-out molests her, grinding against her to orgasm while roughly feeling her up.

No, no, no. The relationship that Li'l Bit and Uncle Peck have through most of the play did not develop out of that beginning. I think it is possible that Li'l Bit would continue to spend time alone with Peck and would even want his attention and approval, would even almost flirt with him, particularly considering the weird sexualization of her entire family. However, there is zero reason to believe that Peck would develop the sort of boundaries and supplicating attitude that he has with her for the rest of the play. The trajectory of molestation isn't less and less; it's more and more. If he had grabbed her like that once, he would do so again. And again. And again.

If How I Learned to Drive were played in chronological order, it would fall to pieces. 

(tdf ticket; 6th row extreme audience left)

The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess

Photo by Michael J. Lutch

While watching The Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess, the newest incarnation of the famed opera, Audra McDonald’s performance in the title role continually reminded me of the first time I saw her—in another revival—1994’s Carousel. Like then her presence resonated with vitality and the richness of that voice lingered even after she left the stage.

And that’s the problem: despite some excellent staging and singing, whenever McDonald disappears, the show loses luster and all the flaws that critics, scholars and others discuss become magnified (see Elizabeth Wollman’s review). Just as McDonald’s vivacious Carrie Pipperidge white-washed the poignancy of Sally Murphy’s Julie Jordan, her portrayal of Bess with its tough fragility mesmerizes and that power is missed when she’s gone. Since nothing ever reaches her intensity, the rest of the production feels uneven.

Ultimately, Porgy and Bess never connects beyond an appreciation of the musicality of the piece. As Ben Brantley said recently in the New York Times, “The first requisite of any work of art—theater, opera, or novel—is that it create a universe that is complete and consistent unto and within itself.” Besides the flaws in characterization that critics often cite, the imbalance of the performances also interrupts the authenticity of the show, and while the three hours of theater entertains rarely does it really touch you. It becomes easy to remain uninvolved in the unfolding drama and, instead, to scientifically dissect the opera: from the dance moves that seem arbitrary at times to the singing, which, while performed competently, rarely consumes the soul.

Of course, there are some highs: David Alan Grier’s snarky Sporting Life conveys more with a quick charming smile than others do with sweeping operatic solos. NaTasha Yvette Williams also offers a sassy interpretation of Mariah, one of the backbone presences on Catfish Row. Joshua Henry displays a loving presence as Jake, a new father and easy-going family man.

Especially good is the lighting by Christopher Akerlind who colors the sparsely decorated stage—just a hint of a boardwalk, a courtyard, some rudimentary homes—in a beautiful buttery light during the early morning calls of the strawberry seller and the honey man, later darkening that same venue with the forbidding flickers of a fierce hurricane.

At any rate, Porgy and Bess offers enough to keep audiences interested apparently since the production’s run was recently extended to September 30th.

Porgy and Bess

Since it premiered in New York in 1935, Porgy and Bess has been dogged by nagging questions: Is this an opera, or a musical? Is this show respectful, or racist? More recently, there have been even more questions and controversies: Is this show worth reviving? If so, how? Should it be staged in its original--and thus, presumably, "authentic"--state, or can we tweak some of its more outdated aspects? Perhaps most importantly, what does Stephen Sondheim think about all of this?

Full disclosure: As much as I love him, I don't care what Sondheim thinks about Porgy and Bess. I like to think that Gershwin had benevolent, and not racist, intentions in researching, writing, and staging it. As to whether it's an opera or a musical, Porgy strikes me as being about as comfortably everything as its composer was. Gershwin was a master of Tin Pan Alley, the concert hall, and the after-hours jam session, so why should it be surprising that Porgy shows up in repertory at opera companies and occasionally gets revived on Broadway, or that many of its songs have become standards covered by singers in every genre you can think of? Gershwin was brilliant; his show has a gorgeous, memorable, hugely adaptable score; enough, already.

What surprises me, though, is that amid all the controversy about Porgy and Bess, there is so very little bitching about the book, which, when you get right down to it, is just not as good as the score. The music in Porgy absolutely soars, seguing seamlessly from one genre to another and back again. Church-house moans become piercing arias; work-songs become big, Broadway show-stoppers. The music is timeless. The book, however, is very much a product of the 1930s. It reflects the comparatively sketchy character development, lack of cohesiveness, and emphasis less on motivation than on song and dance that was typical of the burgeoning musical in its pre-Rodgers and Hammerstein days. Hence, Porgy is a benevolent sap; Bess is a broken, coke-snorting slut. They get together because they are both, in their own ways, desperate. Bess would like to change her ways; she slowly becomes accepted by the community and even gets a shot at child-rearing, which by 1930s standards is, I guess, supposed to be about as legitimizing and fulfilling as it can possibly get for a woman. Yet for all her attempts at decency, Bess is a total disaster. Porgy puts up with her, helps her, saves her, and defends her over and over and over again until the final curtain, which implies that nothing is ever going to change. The end.

Another full disclosure, here: I have very little patience for this type of premise, so really, this might be entirely my problem. Romeo and Juliet is my least-favorite Shakespeare play, I absolutely loathed Jules et Jim, and I haven't fallen for any "will-they-or-won't they" TV premise since, oh, the Maddie and David plot trajectory on "Moonlighting." And through the years, I've had many people react vociferously to my dislike of such pieces--especially Jules et Jim, which is apparently a masterpiece that I just need to view through different eyes, or something. Perhaps this, then, is the test: If you love Jules, you might totally go wild for Porgy. If you are as tepid as I am about that sort of thing, maybe think about catching another show, instead.

The current production of Porgy and Bess aims to update the book, at least a little bit: some of the libretto was rewritten as dialogue by Suzan Lori Parks, and Diane Paulus worked with the cast to add depth to the characters and to make the show more appealing to new, young audiences. Porgy no longer sits pathetically in a goat cart, but instead hobbles around, just as pathetically, on a mangled leg. While the intentions may have been good, and while I am certainly happy to have seen the show, Porgy and Bess still leaves me cold: despite the changes to the book, the characters still strike me as about as one-dimensional as they always have been. Not only is there Unruly and Wild Bess and Endlessly Patient, Almost Irritatingly Virtuous Porgy, but there is also the Brutish, Dangerous, Magnetic Ex Boyfriend; the Tisking, Devout Matriarchs of Catfish Row; and the Sneering, Godless Drug Dealer. What motivates any of them? Where did they come from, what do they think, and why do they make the choices that they make? Dunno. Is there actually any heat, any real passion, between Porgy and Bess? Or is this a connection that has been made entirely as the result of convenience? If there is, in fact, true attraction, I just can't see it. And if this is all about convenience, then who the hell cares?

I do not think that my reservations are the fault of this particular production, which was rock-solid in a number of ways. The look of the show is warm, earthy, and inviting; the sound is, typically, gorgeous. My theater-going companion did not like some of the performers and hated the choreography, but I did not agree with her; I thought the various ingredients were all top-notch. The actors, too, did a fine job with what they have to work with. Audra McDonald is typically bionic, the supporting cast is strong, and on the night I saw the show, Norm Lewis struggled admirably through the first act with an almost completely blown-out voice; he was replaced in act II by Nathaniel Stampley, who was in great voice and made the transition gracefully. And David Alan Grier, who tore the roof off as Sporting Life, is the newest addition to my list of people I would pay to watch read the phone book.

But still, and for all the talent, Porgy and Bess is just not my cup of tea. Its score has blood, gore, and guts that somehow never extend to its characters.

Merrily We Roll Along--Encores

I saw the Lincoln Center reunion performance of Merrily We Roll Along in 2002. It was a joy to be in the room, to hear the score sung live. But the book and concept (going backward in time) did neither the cast nor the audience any favors. For all its faults, for all the confusion, there were those magnificent songs. And then, there was Ann Morrison. Every utterance layered, every note perfection. When she sang, I couldn’t help but wonder about her trajectory, her story in reverse, which moment, which turn kept her from being a star. It was one of those unforgettable performances, probably all the richer because she was old enough in 2002 to infuse it with the ache and regret she could only imagine and "act" in the original production.

Merrily We Roll Along is significant in musical theatre history. It’s failure marked the end of Sondheim’s unparalleled collaboration with Hal Prince. They wouldn’t work together again for over two decades. That break-up led to a long and often successful collaboration with James Lapine, who directs the Encores production currently running at City Center.

It is a bold approach to a concert mounting of a Sondheim musical to cast someone who can’t actually sing the music. Far bolder to do it twice. To make those choices for two of the three leads takes a director with balls, deftness, or deafness. James Lapine seems dead-set on fixing some of Merrily's historical flaws, namely a book that meanders two step forward and two decades back. By and large, he’s made welcome changes, using a series of projections, for instance, to great effect to provide linear references for a decidedly non-linear show. Unfortunately, he’s created problems no Sondheim musical should have—musical instability.

Celia Keenan-Bolger, who I adored in The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, is delightful as Mary Flynn. She gets every joke, every jab. To watch her reverse trajectory from bitterness and cirrhosis to insecurity and hope is both delightful and devastating. Unfortunately, every time she sings, the show falls apart. She can’t hit the notes (low or high), her voice is thin and trapped in her nose, and her words are bizarrely over-articulated and unsupported. Perhaps her voice is strained from the intense and brief rehearsal period. Having enjoyed her so much previously, I am happy to give her a pass on a future performance, but not in this role. She’s half thrill, half thud.

Lin-Manuel Miranda can actually sing most of the music, he just doesn’t have a very pleasant voice; and he harmonizes like a fist-full of nails in a clothes dryer. He is similarly well-cast from an acting standpoint. His Benjamin Button aging routine is shockingly real with as much credit going to his physical inhabitation of the character as hair and make-up. He isn’t ultimately as delightful as Keenan-Bolger, nor is he as disastrous.

In the leading role Colin Donnell acquits himself best. His acting isn’t as strong as his co-stars. He plays Franklin Shepard as either unpleasant or unaware, not much else. The pompousness that I hated so much in his performance in Anything Goes, serves him better here. Not sure I would have loved his voice (it gets a little loungey at times) had his Mary and Charlie been stronger, but we both deserve the chance to find out.

The stand-out in the cast is Elizabeth Stanley as Gussie Carnegie. She sings, moves, acts, charms, and reviles with near perfection. In some ways, she is so good she undermines the gimmick of the show. Merrily is designed to shine a spotlight on those moments we all make that we don’t realize at the time will change our lives irrevocably. For the other characters, the looking back is clouded by heaviness, regret, and tragedy. Her character is so well played that her rewind just looks like a life—could have gone left, could have gone right, but ultimately went just fine. It is an interesting counterpoint. This isn’t to say that her character’s stagelife ends in a bed of roses. She just isn’t standing at a crossroads lamenting the road she didn’t take—and neither are we.

Merrily is a beautiful, heart-breaking score with a good half dozen of the finest stand alone songs ever written for the stage. To hear them supported by a great Broadway orchestra is a gift. It is unfortunate that they work so hard, only to be undermined by the voices. It is unfortunate that Lapine used the revival score, excluding the song The Hills of Tomorrow, which adds such depth and immediacy to the story. It is unfortunate that Lapine let drown what is inherently perfect about Merrily in his quest to salvage what was sunk. For all the sense this production makes, it never soars because it doesn’t sing.

A Man of No Importance

Sean Patrick Murtagh and
Charlie Owens
Photo: Bella Muccari

Seeing Off-Off-Broadway and community productions is a bit of a crap shoot. Quality ranges from superb to “what were they thinking?” Performances range from Tony worthy to “don’t quit your day job.” (Of course, these things are true on Broadway as well.) Financial limitations can elicit amazing theatrical creativity or really shabby production values. 

Over time, however, you learn which theatre troupes you can rely on. The Gallery Players in Brooklyn is one of those troupes. The people at the Gallery Players, a volunteer-run non-profit that utilizes both Equity and non-Equity talent, know how to make the most of what they have in honor of the shows they present. When I see a revival at the Gallery, I may briefly regret missing the original stars or the fancy scenery or the larger orchestra, but those regrets fade away in the enjoyment of the Gallery’s creative, solid, intimate presentations. These productions express  the feelings, the humor, the music, and the truth of the original shows. This is no small achievement.

The current production, A Man of No Importance, smartly directed by Hans Friedrichs, is flawed but lovely. It is the story of Alfie, a shy, innocent Irishman in the 1960s who collects fares on a bus and quietly loves the bus driver. Alfie also loves the arts, and he directs local productions of Oscar Wilde plays that are presented with dubious quality but great enthusiasm.

With book by Terrence McNally, music by Stephen Flaherty, and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens, the show is a joy to watch and to listen to, even though its story doesn’t stand up to much scrutiny. Could someone who has spent his life reading the works of Oscar Wilde really be as innocent of humanity’s foibles as Alfie? Would his friends and neighbors really respond to him the way they do? The show wants, I think, to be about real life, but it’s more of a fairy tale.

Any production of A Man of No Importance pivots on the performance of its Alfie, played here by Charlie Owens. Owens is perhaps too good looking for the part; I found it hard to believe that any number of gay men wouldn’t have volunteered to gently relieve him of his innocence years ago. Owens’ performance is not subtle enough to navigate the complexities (inconsistencies?) of the role, but he is a likeable presence. Renee Claire Bergeron as his sister nicely mines the humor and frustrations of her character. The cast in general is strong, and I thank them all for their attention to enunciating the dialogue and lyrics; the only thing that is more of a pleasure than to hear unmiked voices is to be able to understand what they are saying!

The six-person orchestra (ably led by musical director Julianne Merrill) is the right size for the space, and it is nicely supplemented on some numbers by cast members playing instruments as well.

 A Man of No Importance is playing through February 19^th. It’s a real treat.

(press ticket; third row center-ish)

Godspell

When I was in grade-school--I don't remember which grade, specifically--my classmates and I were taken by yellow bus on a field-trip to see the matinee performance of a local college production of Godspell. While most of my memories of the experience have long since melted into the haze of early childhood, I can remember a few things about it: The costumes were colorful. There was a lot of movement. The woman who sang "Turn Back, O Man" flung herself into the laps of various unsuspecting male spectators as she wended her way up the aisle to the stage, which made a lot of people in the audience laugh.

What I remember with even more clarity, however, was the ride home in the yellow bus: The score had worked its way under my skin, and as we wove back to my suburban grade-school, I pressed my face against the bus window, looking dreamily out at the perpetually overcast Pittsburgh landscape, and singing "Day by Day" to myself, probably fairly tunelessly, over and over and over again. In short: I remember seeing this particular production only vaguely; I can still feel it to this day.

When it comes to Godspell, I am hardly alone, of course. Godspell is one of those productions that evokes comforting, hazy childhood memories in a lot of people from my generation. The musical, which presented parables taken from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, was something of a monster-hit through the 1970s, which only seems ironic in that the musical is in no way a "monster" the way we conceive of spectacles nowadays. Otherwise, its reception history makes perfect sense. The show harnessed the Christian revivalism of the 1970s, and unlike its contemporary, Jesus Christ Superstar (also a childhood favorite for lots of us), was remarkably free of the culture of cynicism that pervaded the times. Teachings from the New Testament, which were presented vaudeville-style in broadly schticky sketches, were updated by means of innovative staging, tons of topical humor and a contemporary setting. In the original production of Godspell, which began Off Off Broadway at La MaMa in 1971 before moving Off Broadway to the Cherry Lane later that year, Jesus's followers are a group of young, contemporary lost souls, and Jesus is a kind, lovable clown in a Superman t-shirt. I suppose it helps to know something about the teachings of Christianity in seeing the show, but then again, it may not. As a suburban Jewish kid, I had no idea about the religious stuff; I just liked the songs, the schtick, and the colorful costumes.

Godspell is easily adaptable to any number of settings: there is no need for lots of scenery or props; emphasis is simply on bodies in motion. An ensemble cast reenacts the parables, engages in lots of slapstick, and sings its guts out, revival-style. The cast members also hug each other a lot. Jesus here is no robe-clad, ancient savior, but a loving, hip good buddy: the nicest, most awesome, most magnetic dude these lost souls have ever met. When he dies at the end, his new hippie friends are sad, but then again, they have internalized his teachings and resolved to live by them anyway, because he has helped them all immeasurably.

It is no wonder, then, that this show, with its joyful, wide-eyed embrace of Christianity, took off as wildly as it did: after its lengthy run in New York (where, despite very mixed reviews it lasted at the Cherry Lane for 2124 performances before moving up to Broadway for another 567 before closing), the show toured nationally, and also spawned countless local productions. When I was a kid, not only did colleges across the country stage Godspell, but so did community centers, professional and amateur regional troupes, and, of course, churches, churches, churches. I made it to college knowing pretty little about Christianity and never having read a word from the New Testament, but I knew every single lyric from every single song from Godspell.

I admit that my interest in seeing the current production--which was received by critics about as iffily as the first run was--had mostly to do with the nostalgia trip. I've seen the show performed a few times since my childhood, and have always appreciated its endlessly variable topical humor, its kinetic energy, and its catchy score. My friend and neighbor, who confessed a similar relationship to the show, suggested that we see it with our children, so she took hers (ages 13 and 8) and I took my older daughter (almost 9). My daughter is now about the age that I was when I first saw the show.

I know, I know, the current revival has been reviewed already, and not always terribly well. I don't feel that I have much to add on that front, so, in short: I agree that the new prologue and the new song in act II don't add much to the show. I agree that this production lays on the topical humor so thickly that it can sometimes suck the energy from the show. There was so much rapping, so many imitations of current celebrities, and so many Republican primary jokes that some of the sketches dragged unnecessarily. On the other hand, I had absolutely no problem with the trampolines that the cast bounced on during "We Beseech Thee".

In general, then, I found the show to be quite enjoyable. Some of this has to do with my feelings about the show, sure, but also, this production was done well by a cast that was good to excellent, and that genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves. They made me enjoy myself, too.

But even more, I enjoyed Godspell this time around because I got to see it with my daughter. And while she doesn't always connect with the show she's watching, this time around, she proved an absolutely terrific audience member. Like I was, she is being raised Jewish, and is just beginning to develop a sense of what that means and how that relates to her overall identity. So seeing this show was an experiment in comparative religions for her; her questions and comments, whispered into my ear during the show, reflected a real attempt to tease out the differences between Judaism and Christianity: "Wait! They're singing in Hebrew!" "Hey! Why did they call Jesus a rabbi?!" "We drink wine in Judaism too!" Finally, near the somber, comparatively talky and heavily liturgical end of the show, a frustrated sigh: "Mommy, Judaism is so much easier to understand!" This last comment was easily her funniest, but was also most reflective of her own experiences: she is learning about all religions through the lens of her own. She worked hard, during the show, to figure out where she fits, not only as an audience member, but as a spiritual person.

She was not alone. There were clearly plenty of other kids who were busily watching the show and relating it to their own developing senses of the world. During intermission, I overheard another mother telling her small son how proud and happy that she was that he "recognized so many of the stories!" Clearly, this little boy is learning all about the parables in Sunday school, just as my little girl is learning to recite the Hebrew blessings in hers.

The long and the short of it is that it's a rare and wonderful experience to be able to relive a happy childhood memory while simultaneously watching your own kid formulating ones of her own. I enjoyed Godspell a lot. I suspect that, like a lot of people in my generation who are taking their offspring to this particular show, I enjoyed watching my child watching Godspell even more.

Russian Transport

Sarah Steele, Janeane Garofalo
Photo: Monique Carboni

At the beginning of Erika Sheffer's intriguing new play Russian Transport, we meet a Russian family who has been living in Brooklyn since the older child, now 18 or so, was a baby. The parents have retained many Russian beliefs and values; the children are totally American. The mother (Janeane Garofalo) is gruff and domineering, even mean, but also quite funny at times. The father (Daniel Oreskes) is gentler, but he is distracted by money problems. The son, Alex (the excellent Raviv Ullman), is impatient, particularly with his sister, Mira, telling her flat-out that he thinks she is ugly. (Mira is played by Sarah Steele, who also plays a handful of other young women; she does an impressive job with all of them.)

In some ways, this could be the beginning of a perverse sitcom, but Sheffer has something a lot more serious in mind. What is the price of loyalty? How far would you go for a family member? Where do you draw the line? These are not sitcom questions.

The plot takes off when the mother's brother, the attractive, sexy, and somewhat menacing Boris, comes for a vist. He is supportive of Mira's desire to go to Florence (her mother is not); he offers Alex (suspiciously) high-paying work. His machinations cause rifts between family members.

The play could fall apart without a good Boris; luckily, Morgan Spector is completely convincing in his ability to charm, manipulate, and frighten people, sometimes switching modes on a dime. (Spector has everything that Chris Rock lacked in The Motherfucker With the Hat. With Spector in Rock's role, the show would have been significantly better.)

Sheffer's writing can be quite funny, and her characters are believable. The plot is compelling, and the story moves right along. I think, however, that the play would be better balanced if a glimmer of affection was shown between the two teenagers and if the mother displayed a bit of real softness.

Scott Elliott's direction could do more to support Sheffer's work. Due to accents and timing, the exposition can be difficult to follow. More importantly, perhaps the most significant scene in the show is a mess. A moment that the audience should feel as a slap in the face instead leads to "Huh, wait a second, does that mean that . . .?" The dialogue is there; the staging gets in the way.

Overall, Russian Transport is quite good. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Sheffer's work.

(press ticket; sixth row, audience right-ish)

Petula Clark at Feinstein's

Let's play a word-association game. I say, "Petula Clark." 

And you say?

My guess is that you say--no, sing--"Downtown." Or perhaps, "Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darling." On the other hand, perhaps you get all Norma Desmond and say or sing, "Just One Look." Or something from Blood Brothers. Whatever your frame of reference, the happier you are to think of Petula Clark, the more you should check her out at Feinstein's at the Regency this week.

Clark's set wanders through her past, from pop to the West End, making sure to hit all the best-known moments. Her voice is pretty much shot, but she uses it judiciously, interspersing stories and even poems to give it a rest from singing, saving the big notes for songs that demand them. (If you can't do Norma Desmond big, why do her at all?) She's no Barbara Cook or Marilyn Maye (who is?), but she's extremely likeable, and while her songs aren't all well-sung or well-interpreted, they are all heart-felt.

While it was clear that dyed-in-the-wool Clark fans were in ecstasy throughout the set, for me it had definite ups and downs. The less successful pieces included "Someone to Watch Over Me," "The Man I Love," and "Miss Otis Regrets," all of which suffered from her reduced vocal range bumping into her not-super-duper interpretative skills. And, unfortunately, although Clark works hard to include the entire audience, her band has electric guitars and bass, and drums, and if you sit extreme audience right, it can be impossible to hear her when they start rocking.

There were quite successful moments as well, however.  The highlight in terms of singing was Clark's lovely, simple, in-French version of "La Vie En Rose," accompanied by Clark herself on piano. And the highlight in terms of overall experience was "Downtown." (The part of me that is still 8 years old was thrilled to pieces to be seeing Petula Clark in person! Singing "Downtown"! And asking us to sing along!) And the highlight in terms of Clark's wry humor was her updating of "Downtown" to reflect the loss of the cool clubs and the invasion of the chain stores.

If you're a Petula Clark fan, you'll have a great time.

(press ticket, extreme audience right)

Wit

Wit is a difficult play. The lead character isn’t particularly likeable on the page, but the audience can’t merely feel sorry for her. The metaphors and deconstructions of 17^th Century poetry are a tricky set up that can take you to places both sentimental and pretentious, simultaneously. The Brecht meets cancer formula flips you two birds and dares you to care.

Playwright, Margaret Edson, litters the page with landmines; but the well-navigated path can lead to a thrilling experience that moves you and makes you think.

I first saw a production at the San Jose Repertory Theatre a few years ago. It was powerful, devastating, personally deconstructing.

The experience of the Lynne Meadow-directed production at Manhattan Theatre Club is too many landmines and the dreaded sandtrap—it’s just plain boring. Cynthia Nixon seemed uncomfortable in the lead role and was all too aware that her character is cold, impersonal, and unpleasant. She works hard to please, begs us to like her, but descends pretty quickly into over-articulated shrieking. She performs. She plays angry, hostile, mean, desperate, and lonely—all with an apologetic tone—even before the character has come to realize she has anything to apologize for. She is actually best (and, yes, she is devastating) in the moments when she has no lines to speak, no sins to confess, and just focuses on the war raging inside her.

I often, admittedly cynically, wonder when so many secondary characters are played ineffectively if they’ve been cast with the intent of helping the star shine. Otherwise, it’s just bad direction. The supporting cast here is mostly mediocre. Suzanne Bertish, however, shines brighter in five minutes on stage than all the lights of Broadway. Her final scene in the play is sublime, gut-twisting, perfection.

If you didn’t see Kathleen Chalfant or Judith Light in the original, you probably owe it to yourself to see the play. While this production doesn’t shine the best light on Wit, there is enough to reflect, to see that none of us can fully deconstruct death, no matter how you punctuate it.

3 Shows With a Black Thread

I didn’t go looking for shows about people of color, didn’t have an agenda in grouping these three together. I simply happened to see them about the same time and, since all had been running a while, decided to review them at once.

Stick Fly

The message in Stick Fly is pretty simple—rich people can be assholes regardless of race; and just because George and Weezie moved on up doesn’t mean they brought anybody else along for the ride— the have nots have been caste aside, left behind, and without a place at the table. The only way into the dining room is through the bedroom. It suggests race has evolved to a white versus black conversation, but economic disparity gets stuck in your throat.

It is a more intriguing idea than it is a play, mostly because nothing very surprising happens. Dialogue is a lot less riveting when you are able to see it coming, pick a side, and write a rebuttal in your head. The best to be said about Lydia R. Diamond’s play is that it exists. She’s done little more than take the Huxtables on vacation and make them hateful. The plot is more edgy but not much more insightful than a sitcom episode. Kenny Leon doesn’t add much as far as mining between the lines for drama.

The star of the show is David Gallo, the set designer. He has created a world that tells you both who and where these people are. Actually, he tells you more about the fictional inhabitants than those cast to inhabit the fiction.

Ruben Santiago-Hudson as the family patriarch who married into money, carried the burden of head-of-household while feeling a guest who could be disinvited at any moment, plays the role as little more than a philandering asshole. Mikhi Phifer, trying to fill his father’s boxer shorts, is a philandering asshole. Dule Hill, breaking the mold, is a philosophizing asshole. The female cast really mixes it up. Tracie Thoms, poor by divorce and discarded by a rich and noteable father, is shriekingly annoying. Rosie Benton, engaging in helping the poor as emotional porn and cleansing conscience through do-gooding, is annoying at inside-voice decibles. Condola Rashad (the daughter of real-life Mrs. Huxtable), is broodingly annoying for three quarters of the play, then unloads for the pivotal twist that comes a couple of hours too late in the evening. She has the chops, delivers the goods, and it might have made for a stronger play had the maid played a bigger role.

Kudos to Alicia Keys for producing. Putting more African American actors to work and putting more African American characters at the center of that work makes theatre better—moving on up to the front of the stage is only a good thing for all of us, on both sides of the proscenium. I just wish there was a stronger play waiting once we all got there.

The Road to Mecca

Photo by Walter McBride

Athol Fugard gives us an opposite view of the character of color in the apartheid-era play, The Road to Mecca—none make the stage and barely make mention. The story is actually only set in the time of apartheid, it isn’t really about that. It isn’t really about much at all. There may be something in there, but it is too convoluted to care.

There isn’t much story, and there is even less drama. It was a thrill to see Rosemary Harris on stage; but neither the role nor the performance is worthy of her legend. Carla Gugino delivers some spark but not much fire. Jim Dale arrives late and leaves early and neither much matter—not his fault. The play sets him up to be the desperately-needed crux of the story, but this lame drama needs a crutch before it is ready for a crux.

The worst I can say about this play is that it exists. It is just boring. Who cares? There’s ten minutes of drama draped in an evening of blather. I am no better for having met these people. No closer to Mecca having traveled their Road. If you need to have your life shortened by a couple of hours, this is the euthanasia for you.

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater

Yes, the show has closed for this winter, but it will be back at the end of the year; and it is never too early to make it a priority. I make it a point to see Alvin Ailey at City Center every year. A year without Revelations is no revelation. This year, I caught it twice.

The first time was less than perfect. The seats were far right, and while I like to move around from year to year for perspective, something gets lost at the extremes. My favorite way to see the show is in the first couple of rows. The tickets are $25, the view is thrilling, the intimacy is eye-opening because you can see the incredible work, talent, and control on an individual basis. You trade shape and scale for individual perfection. That perfection is especially clear when watching the solo number, I Wanna Be Ready, which was performed in rotation this year by two guest artists, Clifton Brown and Matthew Rushing, both long-standing, stand-out members of the company. They couldn’t be more different (two master classes, Brown’s in precision and Rushing’s in personality). If these two dancers are not on your list of not-to-be-missed performers, add them, remember them, and see them.

You can never go wrong with an all-Ailey evening. Someone else bought my ticket on the first visit, so it wasn’t all-Ailey and what could go wrong did. The first number, some assault choreographed by Geoffrey Holder, was barely bearable. It was followed by something forgettable, choreographed by Judith Jamison. Even Revelations was diminished by some ill-advised, “special” event that included members of Ailey II and some children from Ailey Elementary or some such. It was too many people adding little. I’m not a big fan of other people’s children to begin with and certainly wouldn’t knowingly attend their annual recital.

I couldn’t let that be my experience for the year, so I returned, this time sitting in the balcony. It couldn’t have been a more different experience. The evening started with Anointed, choreographed by Christopher L. Huggins. What a thrilling beginning. The final movement of the dance is as emotional and moving as anything I have ever seen. The second, a hip-hop number, Home, choreographed by Rennie Harris and inspired by photos and essays submitted for the Fight HIV Your Way campaign was excellent, although I wish I hadn’t known in advance about the supposed subject matter. I expected more of a connection. It turned out to be a lovely hip-hop number. I just missed the inspiration. Finally, Revelations renewed my faith. Fix Me Jesus was absolute perfection.

Revelations is a quintessentially African American story, but it’s emotions and arc and connection are universal and for me, simply essential.

Menders

Raushanah Simmons,
Ingrid Nordstrom
  Photo: Justin Hoche

Something there is that doesn't love a wall. So begins Robert Frost's well-loved poem "Mending Wall," and so also begins Erin Browne's flawed but compelling new play, Menders, currently being presented by the fabulous Flux Theatre Ensemble. Menders takes place in a future world where a giant wall separates safety and "us" from all that is ugly, wrong, and "them." At least that's what Corey and Ames have been brought up to believe.

Corey and Ames are trainee wall menders. Both are just recently out of school. Ames is nervous, but Corey is confident, gung-ho, and absolutely certain that their side of the wall is the right side. Their trainer is the burnt-out and disappointed Drew, who passes the time telling Corey and Ames stories that seem magical to the young trainees. Their world has been so circumscribed that the tale of a winged woman doesn't seem all that much more exotic than a tale of two women falling in love.

But somewhere along the way, Corey is jailed. We--and she--never find out what her crime is, and the play occurs in flashback as she tells the audience--her jury--everything that has happened since she first became a mender.

Playwright Browne cares about the world. She cares about politics and feminism and self-expression and governmental repression. She sees vividly how today's world could turn into tomorrow's dystopia. In an interview with blogger Zach Calhoon, Browne explains that the play grew out of a "melange" of ideas and that "Robert Frost's idyllic and concrete world of everyday things guided all of those ideas into the first draft of Menders." However, her play goes well past Frost's poem--in fact, the frequent use of Frost's words is distracting and misleading. The people on the two sides of Frost's poem are civil neighbors; they are not "us" and "them." Frost's poem is small and neat; Browne's play is large and messy (messy isn't a criticism here--the wealth of ideas is one of the play's greatest strengths). However, this part of the poem does resonate in the play: "Before I built a wall I'd ask to know/What I was walling in or walling out." Corey doesn't mean to ask that question, but she becomes unable not to.

Browne's play doesn't totally work at a plot and detail level. Corey is perhaps a bit too gung-ho. The stories that Drew tells don't offer enough to justify the time they are given. The characters' growth and changing relationships sometimes seem mistimed. What's actually on each side of the wall is not as clear as it might be. But the play's energy, ideas, and big heart more than make up for its weaknesses. 

Heather Cohn's direction is imaginative and clear and well-paced. Asa Wember's sound design is quietly unsettling, providing just the right emotional effect. Some of Trevor James Martin's video projections work better than others. In some cases, they come across as visual noise; in others, they are just right; and in a few, they are (appropriately) chilling.

As always with Flux productions, the cast is excellent. Sol Marina Crespo handles Corey's development and the play's fractured chronology very well. Matt Archambault as Drew provides exactly the right mix of smooth charm, exhaustion, and manipulativeness. Isaiah Tanenbaum does a lovely job depicting Ames' awakening. And Raushanah Simmons and Ingrid Nordstrom are wonderful as wooer and wooee, though Simmons may be a little too beautiful for the part--it's hard to understand why anyone would say no to her.

Overall, Menders is well worth seeing. 

(press ticket; third row on the aisle)

The Mountaintop

Katori Hall's The Mountaintop, which was a surprise hit in London and which has been running on Broadway since the autumn, hasn't really fallen off my radar since it began previews. The subject interests me, sure, but so too do the performers, both of whom I admire and have not seen perform live before. So when the opportunity to see the show, which is closing tomorrow, arose late last week, I took it. I didn't much like the play, but I'm still glad I saw it.

Jackson and Bassett didn't disappoint--they are both fine actors, and, alone together on the stage for 90 minutes, they work hard, command attention, and look exceptionally fabulous in the process. While I am not entirely sure they meshed as well as they might have, I think that inevitably spoke to flaws in the writing itself, and not so much to their interpretations of the characters. Jackson plays Martin Luther King, Jr., who has just returned to the Lorraine Motel after his "Mountaintop" speech--the last one he gives before being assassinated, and the one which seems to foreshadow his own death. He is tired, has a hacking cough and a lot of work to do, it's pouring rain outside, and Coretta forgot to pack his toothbrush. While awaiting the return of his colleague, the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, with a pack of much-craved Pall Malls, he takes an offstage leak, paces, checks his room for bugs, and nearly jumps out of his skin every time the thunder claps. Soon, he calls down to room service for a pot of coffee, which is delivered by Angela Bassett's character, Camae, a new hotel maid with a foul mouth, irresistible good looks, and way more knowledge about the Civil Rights movement and King's private life than makes much sense. She Is Not Who She Seems, which is a major plot device here, and one that kind of doesn't work at all.

That said, I think some of my negative reaction to the play is what some might argue gives it strength: I am not one who is terribly interested in, comforted by, or intrigued by the teeny trivialities of great figures. We are all flawed, so why should it be such a big deal to learn that our heroes are, too? Thus, the fact that King, at least as depicted by Hall, smoked too much, cheated on his wife, occasionally needed to pee, and had smelly feet doesn't really grab me. On the other hand, I understand the desire to humanize King, as well as to be reassured that he felt no pain at his death and that he has been embraced in Heaven. And whether you care or not about the smelly feet, Jackson's take on King is graceful, understated, and sharp.

Bassett's character is in many ways even more of an uphill battle than Jackson's. We know who King was as a public figure, which I am sure has its own challenges for the actor. But we do not know Camae--she is fictional, and her presence propels the plot forward. I'm still not sure of exactly who she is--the play is clearly more interested in having her play off King than it is in filling its audience in on the finer details of her character. Bassett does well with the part, but then again, if she's filled in the blanks for herself about the character, it's not terribly clear during the play. For all her joking, cursing, flirting, and admonishing, she's sort of a cipher.

I was also disappointed about the show's lack of stance. On anything. Is this play about religion and the divine? Is it about the intricacies of black politics and the Civil Rights movement through the 1960s? Is it about King's legacy? Is it about his private life and his flaws? The show throws a lot of stuff at the audience, who murmers in recognition at all the names, incidents, and references that get flung about. But ultimately the play teaches nothing, and doesn't encourage spectators to ponder anything new.

There were some high points, however. The final sequence, in which the entire set spins up to reveal a swirling black hole of projected images, is pretty damned cool, as is the lightening-fast monologue Camae delivers during it. And a sequence in which Camae dons King's suitjacket and imitates his public persona is hilarious. I imagine The Mountaintop will make the rounds after it closes on Broadway; I would hope Hall revisits it to address at least some of its weaknesses.

Once

Steve Kazee and Cristin Milioti
Photo: Joan Marcus

I am very grateful that I saw Once (based on the movie of the same name) at the New York Theatre Workshop rather than on Broadway. (Thank you Mark and Rodney.) I am sure the show will still be lovely in its new home, but it is unlikely to retain all of its small-theatre delicacy, intimacy, and soul. On the other hand, on Broadway, Once can run indefinitely. And that is a very good thing.

The Irish guy (who is never named) is at the end of his rope, deeply depressed and ready to give up his music. The Czech girl (who is a woman, but, hey, called "girl" in the program) also has reason to be depressed, but giving up is seriously against her world view. She convinces him to keep on trying. They fall in love (duh).

But Once is not about plot. It is about belonging and family and faith and miracles and humor. More importantly, it is about music.

To get one of the show's few faults out of the way: The songs (by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova) don't match the plot or characters as well as they might (should?). The lyrics are generic and not really theatrical. But the music is often beautiful and always entertaining and it is played with exuberance by the 13-person cast of actor-musicians and musician-actors.

Steve Kazee plays the guy. He is attractive and charming and sings well. Cristin Milioti is the girl. She takes a potentially annoying, potentially cartoon character and turns her into flesh and blood--and her singing voice is heart-touchingly emotional. The rest of the cast members are more or less wonderful (one or two are much more musicians than actors): David Abeles, Claire Candela, Will Connolly, Elizabeth A. Davis, David Patrick Kelly, Anne L. Nathan, Lucas Papaelias, Andy Taylor, Erikka Walsh, Paul Whitty, and J. Michael Zygo.

The direction by John Tiffany (Black Watch) and movement by Steven Hoggett give the show a physical flow that both reveals the characters' emotions and adds beauty to even the scene changes. The movement reminded me of Bill T. Jones' work on Spring Awakening in that it uses somewhat bizarre gestures to evocatively express people's inner workings and longings.

The thing I loved the most about Once--a facet I fear won't make the trip to Broadway intact--is the sense of being there. Parts feel like the best party you've ever gone to. Other parts invite you right into the characters' hearts.

But don't let me dissuade you from seeing Once on Broadway--it is a wonderful show.

(full-price ticket; first row center)

Follies (CD Review)

There are two components to a review of the recording of a musical: the discussion of the musical itself and the discussion of its presentation on the CD. Since four of us on this blog have reviewed the current production of Follies a total of six times (see links below), this post will focus on the CD itself.

And an excellent CD it is.

Its main claim to fame is that it is two discs, totaling almost 100 minutes (my estimate), with previously unrecorded chunks of dialogue. Producer Tommy Krasker explains in the CD booklet that the aim was "to do an expansive recording that not only conveyed the glories of the score, but captured the experience of the show itself." To the extent that a purely audio version could do so, this CD achieves Krasker's goal. While I suspect the CD will be more evocative for people who are already familiar with Follies, even a newcomer will get some of the flavor of the book. (I don't think that this CD expresses the full flavor of the Follies score, but my complaint is with the production rather than with the recording per se.)

Recreating dialogue for a recording is a particular skill, I think, and not everyone has it. Jan Maxwell, for example, sounds very good: clear and in character and completely believable. Ron Raines sounds stiff and unconvincing. Bernadette Peter's performance is calmer than the weepy one she often gives on stage, but her delivery of some of the lines remains downright embarrassing. Danny Burstein comes across fine. Elaine Paige is so hampered by trying to have an American accent that her dialogue comes out murky and marble-mouthed, and her timing is mediocre. (Polly Bergen's performance in the Roundabout Production was so much richer and funnier and sadder and realer that Paige seems like a cardboard cutout in comparison.)

The CD booklet is beautiful, with the complete lyrics and many pictures. It also includes an interesting essay on the show by Patrick Pacheco, Krasker's "Note From the Album Producer," and a synopsis by Sean Patrick Flahaven, which is somewhat overwritten ("To eyes unfocused by nostalgia and alcohol, it might appear that no time at all has passed . . .") but useful.

If you are a Sondheim completist, you must have this CD. And if you loved this production and its performances, you will find this CD to be a treasure.

• Wendy’s second review.
• Rodney’s second review. 
• Sandra’s review. 
• Liz’s review. 
• Wendy’s first review (Kennedy Center). 
• Rodney’s first review (Kennedy Center). 
• Patrick’s review of Encores! version. 
• David’s review of Encores! version.

Parsons Dance

Ian Spring, and Melissa Ullom in
David Parson's Round My World

Photo: Krista Bonura

Let's cut to the chase: David Parsons' piece Caught is stunning, impressive, and magical. I see it at least once a year, and it never fails to delight me. A thrilling athletic solo, it is far more successful than any CGI in convincing you that a man can fly. It's part of every performance at Parsons Dance; if you haven't seen it, give yourself a treat and go. (Parsons Dance is at the Joyce through January 22.)

And the rest of the evening isn't shabby either.

Parsons Dance is currently premiering Parsons' Round My World, an entertaining, often beautiful piece set to music by Zoe Keating. As you can see from the picture above, Parsons means "round" literally, and the shape is threaded liberally throughout, in formations, poses, and gestures. The first movement pulsates; the second features insane lifts that are sometimes more interesting as mechanical contraptions than dance; the third utilizes arms and pelvises to create a sort of Rube Goldberg cascade of movement; and the forth consists of flowing waves of changing shapes. While Round My World is a pleasure to watch, the whole is not greater than the sum of its parts. It comes across as a very thorough exercise--do everything you can with roundness--rather than a fully realized dance.

This is a complaint I have with Parsons' work not infrequently--and with that of Paul Taylor, for whom Parsons danced for years, and who was definitely a major influence. Both men have endless amounts of creativity. There isn't a part of the body they haven't mined for all its gestural potential. They are never boring. Many of their pieces are visually and emotionally whole, and wonderful--but many others just don't add up.

This problem reappears with Swing Shift, Parsons' 2002 piece to music by Kenji Bunch. Again, Parsons' imagination and skill can't be faulted, and there is much that is lovely, but the choreography is almost semaphoric in its use of the dancers' bodies, with little flow between defined almost-tableaus.

The evening also features Katarzyna Skarpetowska's piece A Stray's Lullaby, to music arranged and performed by Kenji Bunch in a Tom Waits' growl. Skarpetowska's choreography ably presents the challenges and aspirations of a quartet of lost people in a grim city. These characters' tensions and despair resonate in their every muscle, and the choreography offers a unique spastic grace.

Unfortunately, the program update I received did not specify who danced which piece. But since the Parsons Dance dancers are so often amazing, I'm glad to simply list them all: Eric Bourne, Sarah Braverman, Steven Vaughn, Melissa Ullom, Christina Ilisije, Jason MacDonald, Ian Spring, Elena D’Amario, and apprentice Christopher Bloom.

(press ticket; last row orchestra)

Scott Siegel's Broadway Ballyhoo: A Show Tune Hootenanny!

Nancy Anderson

When it comes to Scott Siegel's Broadway Ballyhoo: A Show Tune Hootenanny, currently playing late Thursday nights at Feinstein's, there's good news and there's bad news. 

The good news is that it exists. The seemingly indefatigable Scott Siegel presents a different handful of Broadway and cabaret performers each Thursday, accompanied by the protean, energetic, and wonderful Jesse Kissel on piano. Appearing thus far have been Alice Ripley, Nancy Anderson, Kevin Early, Kyle Scatliffe, Steve Ross, and many others. Feinstein's is a nice room, the cover and minimum aren't too bad (for more info, click here), and the performers chat and tell stories as well as sing. It's a nice set-up.

The bad news is that the show is highly overmiked. People who regularly perform live should not need mikes in this small-ish, albeit odd-shapped room. Kevin Early certainly doesn't need a mike. Hell, he could be heard a mile away sans mike; with one, particularly as over-amped as he was last Thursday, his singing was ear-injuringly painful. It should have been a pleasure to listen to him; instead, it was an ordeal. 

The "it-depends-on-you" news is that you get to pick evenings that feature performers you love. I went specifically to see Alice Ripley, who unfortunately took ill late that afternoon. Of the other performers, Kevin Early was good but, again, way too loud. Nancy Anderson is a little cutesy for my taste. And Carol J. Buford overacts and over-sings to an impressively awful extent; I didn't believe a word she expressed. (Or, should that be EXPRESSED?) Scott Siegel emceed with his usual rumpled charm. 


Keep an eye out for announcements of each week's performers. It's a great opportunity to see favorites sing two or three songs. And if you find the miking as horrible as I do, please tell Scott. 


(press ticket, audience left)
 

Sandra's Faves of 2011

My New Year's resolution is to see more theater. I just joined Show Showdown last spring, and, as a result, only saw about 16 shows last year. That does not qualify me to do a "Best of" list, but I do have a few favorites I'd like to gush over.

Favorite Revival: The Normal Heart
The Normal Heart--I never saw the original so I can't compare this year's incarnation with the 1985 version. Still, this remarkable show still resonates 25 years later. Audible crying in the audience is heard throughout the conclusion (yes, I shed tears, too) and feels like a communal mourning to all the lives lost to AIDS. Joe Mantello plays Ned Weeks with magnetic earnestness and caps the performances of a truly wonderful cast, including Ellen Barkin, Lee Pace, John Benjamin Hickey, Mark Harelik and Jim Parsons.

Favorite Play: Tape
I'm cheating here because this was also a revival but Stephen Belber’s Tape moved me like no other show in 2011. This Off-Broadway production showed the after effect of high school through sharp observation and gun-fire paced dialogue. Especially good was Don DiPaolo as the lovable loser, Vince.

Favorite Musical: Follies
Oops...another cheat since this is also a revival (Do you see a pattern here? I never saw the wunderkind Book of Mormon so perhaps that's what should be here. But of all the new musicals I viewed (Catch Me If You Can, Wonderland, etc.) not one surpassed Follies in musicality, compelling characters, or plot. Sondheim's show offers songs infused with insight that betray their character's hopes and fears in such a intimate way that even this flawed production levels a hefty emotional impact that lingers far after the initial viewing.


Favorite Actress: Nina Arianda The prom queen of last year's theater season has to be Nina Arianda, who played Vanda in Venus in Fur, as a remarkable combination of the ultimate ditz turned cunning avenger. Not every actress could don dominatrix wear, sputter out curse-infused blue streaks of dialogue, and still seem realistic as an upper class Victorian socialite.


Favorite Set: Stick Fly Yes, when everyone talks about Stick Fly they mention the uniqueness of the playwright's characters and some of the stunning performances of the cast, but I want to highlight the scenic design for a moment. What a phenomenal set! Lovingly detailed by David Gallo (who also did The Mountaintop), the stage becomes a weekend getaway that reveals several rooms in the house through a clever bookcase cutaway that exposes the kitchen and a slight porch. The intimacy of the set acts almost like another character, revealing family details with photo magnets on the refrigerator, fine works of art on the walls and whimsical stone animals out in the garden.