The Heidi Chronicles

Tracee Chimo, Jason Biggs, Elisabeth Moss, and Bryce Pinkham.
Photo: Joan Marcus

Peggy Olson, the barrier-breaking copy chief on AMC’s Mad Men, is surely kin to Heidi Holland, second-wave feminist art historian and central figure of Wendy Wasserstein’s Pulitzer-Prize winning 1989 dramedy The Heidi Chronicles. Thus it seems only fitting that, for the first New York revival of Wasserstein’s still-vibrant character study, Heidi should be played by Elisabeth Moss, television’s Peggy. I’m sure this will have double-consciousness effect on many in the audience.

The Heidi Chronicles begins in 1989, at Columbia University, where Heidi is now a professor. There’s a gradual erasure: in the middle of a lecture on neglected women artists of the 18^th and 19^th-century, Heidi begins to recede into her own past. We meet her at seventeen, in her hometown of Chicago, at the dance where she meets her lifelong friend Peter Patrone (Bryce Pinkham). We see her as a “Get Clean for Gene” kid in Manchester, New Hampshire, where she meets another significant man: her once and future lover, Scoop Rosenbaum (Jason Biggs). The seventies find Heidi at a consciousness-raising women’s group at the University of Michigan; protesting the lack of female representation at the University of Chicago; and coming to terms with her fractured personal life. Along with Scoop (radical journalist-cum-lifestyle magazine founder) and Peter (chief pediatrician at New York hospital), Heidi hits her professional stride in the eighties, becoming (or, perhaps more accurately, being thrust into the role of) an avatar of yuppie-boomer status.

Given these events, it’s perhaps understandable that some questioned whether this play would pack the punch it did twenty-five years ago, when it was firmly identifiable as a comment on current culture. Those fears of datedness, however, were completely unfounded. The Heidi Chronicles is as fresh, alive, and necessary as ever. Like the works of the female artists Heidi champions, this is not merely a museum piece; it is a living testament to the life, achievements, and struggles of a modern woman. And Pam MacKinnon’s smashing production hits its stride early and fires on all cylinders.

A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder

When it opened in November, A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder got some of the best reviews of the season. Which is especially nice because it is a small, old-fashioned musical with no shit blowing other shit up, and no big names associated with it (unless you count Hugh Jackman's wife, who is one of the producers). It is not based on a well-known film, television show or book, and its original score is not even remotely based in contemporary pop song (it pays propers to Gilbert and Sullivan).

I say "especially nice" not because I am particularly partial to small shows in which no shit gets blown up by other shit, but because we are repeatedly being told that there is no longer room on Broadway for small, solid, non-branded, original shows that seem to come out of nowhere. So every time one opens--to raves, no less!--I can't help but cheer for the little guy.

That being said, this little guy has struggled pretty hard since it opened and got raved about in the press. Gentleman's Guide flew under the radar for months, (usually) grossing just enough to stay open. Apparently, through much of the run, there was no small amount of anxiety among performers who couldn't help but notice that they were playing to an awful lot of half-empty houses.

This has all changed in recent weeks. When the Tony nominations came out in April, Gentleman's Guide had been chugging along so quietly and so modestly for so long that there was real surprise about the fact that it got the most nods (ten) of any musical to open all year. Less surprising was the almost immediate box office bump: not 24 hours after the nominations were announced, tickets for the musical, previously abundant on all the discount sites, were suddenly hot and hard to come by. Within a week, Gentleman's Guide was reporting its highest grosses, ever. I know this because I'd assumed I'd just waltz in to see it a week or so before the Tony broadcast this Sunday. Oops.