Where Are We Now

Sven Ratzke; Photo by Hanneke Wetzer

Dutch-German performer Sven Ratzke is the best kind of David Bowie fan. When he sings his Ziggy Stardust songs, he closes his eyes, softens his face and tries to interpret the artist, not just mimic him. Ratzke's committed enough to don the skintight catsuit with the plunging v-neck and high-heeled black boots (costume design by Thierry Mugler and Armin van Zutphen). Fans of Bowie will enjoy both hits like "Heroes" and some lesser-known numbers such as "Sweet Thing/Candidate" at the U.S. premiere of Where Are We Now at La MaMa's Downstairs Theatre.

Ratzke is the cabaret version of Bowie. Pianist Christian Pabst plays beautifully, but the only rock you'll get is when he rhythmically knocks on the wood for "Let's Dance." Each song is presented after some banter where Ratzke mixes fact with fiction. Last night's show was amazing, he recounts early on, it was nine hours long with everyone rolling on the floor naked. The conversation, while often entertaining, becomes long-winded -- a wandering path of a story. 

The song list seems aimless at times, too, with no discernible order or theme. Ratzke cannily seems to pick songs that match his evocative voice, with most of the selections offering intimate versions of Bowie's softer side. Most impressive is Ratzke soulful encore of "Absolute Beginners," where he showcases Bowie's prowess as a storyteller with a nuanced, personal rendition. 

Directed by Dirk Groeneveld, the show's sparse set with bared brick walls and a simple divided curtain relies on lighting to heighten and slow the mood. This is not Ratzke's first Bowie outing, in 2016 he toured with Starman, including a run at Joe's Pub.

Through Dec. 21 at La MaMa Downstairs Theatre at 66 East 4 St. Two hours with one intermission. For more information, see http://lamama.org/where-are-we-now or http://sven-ratzke.com

(press seats)

Collective Mourning: David Bowie

David Bowie's death hasn't suddenly made me like Lazarus any more than I did when I saw it, but it sure has put me in touch with the power of collective mourning. Over the past week, I've listened to, watched, read about and thought about Bowie to an extent I can safely say I haven't before, ever, and probably won't again. Of course, I am hardly alone on this. After the surprising, sad announcement of his death from cancer at the weirdly young (if appropriately sexy) age of 69, Bowie has been the subject of myriad Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, hastily amassed comments from other famous people, encomia by arts journalists, and viral videos by people around the world who loved his music (or could, at least, strum some guitar chords and sing "Space Oddity.").

The outpouring of collective grief over celebrities who die is occasionally the subject of great concern, especially in the media age, many aspects of which seem to be cause for great concern by many people, most of the time, anyway. Among other bad things the Internet has done, apparently, is ruin our ability to mourn privately, appropriately, and without histrionics.

I tend to disagree with arguments about how the Internet is ruining us as a civilization; I certainly pissed away as much time as I do now long before the web was a thing. And I certainly don't see reason to get concerned about the ways we use it to mourn collectively. Maybe this is because so much of the work I do is solitary, and social media reminds me that I exist in the world even when I haven't looked up from whatever it is I'm doing in silence and solitude for hours at a time. I like being reminded at the click of a mouse, especially during dark times, that many, many other people are busily processing the same sociocultural information that I am. There are all sorts of ways to use the Internet for evil, but collective mourning, as I see it, just isn't one of them.

Anyway, mourning David Bowie--or any celebrity, really--is never just an internet thing, though there were an overwhelming slew of posts, comments, references, videos, parodies, and clips from television shows and movies--all of which seem to have made a lot of people feel connected in their surprised sadness. Beyond the Internet, too, it was also all Bowie all the time this past week: his music has emanated from countless bars and restaurants and open mics; his song lyrics and pictures were posted on any number of public spaces; the impact of his incredibly multifaceted career was the topic of countless conversations; and many performers opened or closed their concerts with tributes to him. 

And for good reason, I think. Bowie, perhaps more than any other celebrity to give up the ghost in recent years, was a great and kind unifier; for all his shifting personae and his increasingly well-guarded privacy, his work repeatedly reflected an understanding of how it feels to be an outsider seeking connections with other outsiders. It's why, I think, so many people loved him, followed him, felt a kinship with him, discovered themselves through him. He was, no matter what the guise, ultimately an unsure alien eager to be reassured and loved during his time on earth. Aren't we all? His carefully cultivated aura--that of an absolutely beautiful, impeccably stylish everyman who nonetheless just might stay up all night long being self-destructive, doubting himself or others, or worrying about the same sorts of stupid shit we all stay up all night long worrying about sometimes--is what unites us in sorrow and celebration. It's sad that he's moved on, especially at an age that seems remarkably young by contemporary standards. But as one Internet meme that has circulated during this most thorough and heartfelt collective mourning process reminds us, it's pretty cool that we got to live in the world with David Bowie at all.

Lazarus

About halfway through Lazarus, the self-important mess that is currently a hot ticket at New York Theatre Workshop, the dude next to me started noodling with his Apple watch. Now, normally, that sort thing fills me with sanctimonious rage: how DARE this troglodytic asshole distract me with his shiny electronic bauble? FUCK this guy with his bad theatergoing manners! But in this case, not only didn't I mind, I was momentarily mesmerized. It's a pretty cool gadget, really, and it was a lot more interesting than much of what was going on up on the stage pretty much each time he checked it (which was about every three minutes). What all is on there, aside from the time, I found myself wondering? And what is time, anyway? Does time exist anymore? Because, man, it sure would be reassuring to know that eventually, I'll be allowed out of this theater and will get to go home, which is not as beautifully designed, but also not nearly as boring.

Lazarus was probably too good to be true, really. Any project developed by the brilliant, highly accomplished musician David Bowie and the brilliant, highly accomplished director Ivo Van Hove would have held almost too much promise of exponential brilliance. Both specialize in detached, cooly efficient surfaces, beneath which roil blood, guts, and the contradictory tangle of the human psyche, poked through with lacerating barbs of moody alienation. Bowie's songs may be gorgeously produced, chock full of tight, chugging rhythms and the slickly smooth harmonies of female backup singers, but take a listen to his lyrics. Whether he's intoning them in his husky baritone or rising past his thinning tenor into primal scream territory, his songs inevitably imply that he's been up for weeks doing blow, losing touch with reality, making terrible, life-mangling mistakes, or just staring into the void, probably while doubting your love or worrying about fascism. Likewise, Van Hove's overlying vision might be sparsely efficient and outfitted with clean lines, beige tones, and cold lights, but his characters are about to beat or fuck the shit out of one another, maybe both, probably while being judged by the magnified faces on subtly shifting video projections.

The Elephant Man

photo: Joan Marcus

Unique questions arise when presenting differently-bodied characters in theatrical productions. Should one be painstakingly literal--either out of respect, or to offer the audience a chance to fully wrestle with its collective prejudices and preconceived notions--or should the artists let the mind's eye do at least some of the work? Recently, Samuel D. Hunter's The Whale (presented by Playwrights Horizons in 2012) and Donald Margulies' The Model Apartment (first produced in 1995, and revived to acclaim last fall; both by Primary Stages) used extraordinarily convincing body suits to present morbidly obese characters, played by Shuler Hensley and Diane Davis, respectively. The effect was primal and immediate: there was no hiding from plain fact of two people succumbing to their size. Oppositely, the recent Broadway premiere production of Violet, in which the title character has a disfiguring facial scar, used no make-up at all. The physical deformity was evoked solely through the actions of the actor (Sutton Foster) playing the role, and the reactions of those around her. Cases can be made for both the strongly literal and the evocatively figurative characterizations.

Bernard Pomerance's ever-popular The Elephant Man has always stringently shied away from using anything other than vocal or physical mannerisms in portraying John (real name: Joseph) Merrick, a real-life Victorian man whose horrible deformities gained him notoriety and a certain amount of celebrity in his own time. In fact, most productions have taken pains to cast conventionally attractive men in the role. The original production starred Philip Anglim, who had worked as a model prior to becoming an actor; Mark Hamill (at the height of his Star Wars fame) and David Bowie acted as replacements. A 2002 Broadway revival featured the dashing Billy Crudup. The current revival, in previews at the Booth Theatre after a successful Williamstown Theatre Festival engagement two summers ago, outdoes them all, with box office megastar and former People Sexiest Man Alive Bradley Cooper assuming the title role. And while this handsome but lifeless production does not make a case for the play as an enduring stage classic, Cooper's anchoring central performance is imbued with both skill and passion.