Disaster!

Seth Rudetsky is arguably one of the most talented people in New York and definitely one of the funniest. His latest production is Disaster!, co-written with Jack Plotnick, and it is over two hours of comic joy.

Seth Rudetsky

The premise is simple: Disaster! is a musical spoof of disaster films, using songs from the 1970s. It features a lot of the jokes you might predict, but with twists that make them funnier, plus jokes and situations and visuals that are surprising and wonderful. Under Denis Jones's insanely creative direction, the small space bursts with action and fun and inspired silliness. And the helicopter rescue is a delight.

Impressively, the songs aren't shoehorned in. As a matter of fact, one or two are weaved in so well that they seem written for the show. As just one example, Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff" becomes an effective opening number with a surprising range of interpretations.

And the songs are beautifully sung by the amazing cast. An extra bonus is that the performers enunciate like the musical theatre pros they are. Last night was the first time I ever understood all the words to "Alone Again, Naturally" and "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight."

The charming Zak Resnick plays the lead, a sexually successful waiter who is secretly nursing a broken heart. Carrie Manolakos is his staunchly feminst ex-fiancee; she is woman, hear her roar. Rudetsky plays the dour scientist, and he's perfect in the role, mining the humor and springing out a long and surprising high note when needed. Lacretta Nicole is hysterical as the down-on-her-luck diva; Felicia Finley is amazing as the almost-as-dumb-as-she-seems pop singer; Anika Larsen shines as the nun-slash-compulsive-gambler; and Annie Golden is delightful and impressive, as Annie Golden always is. Others in the wonderful cast include Paul Castree, Kevin Loreque, Clif Thorn, Saum Eskandani, Clark Oliver (great fun as twins), Tom Riis Farrell, Jennifer Know, Linsay Nicole Chambers (those of you who know her from Submissions Only will get an extra kick out of seeing her actually smile), and Sherz Aletaha.

Unfortunately, as of this writing, Disaster! has only one more performance: March 25th at 9:00 at the Triad. Catch it if you possibly can!

And, to the producer I was chatting with yesterday, yes, Disaster! could have a larger audience. And it should!

(reviewer ticket; audience left, five-ish rows-ish from stage)

Must You Go? My Life With Harold Pinter (book review)

In 1975, Antonia Fraser, biographer of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Henry VIII's six wives, and Harold Pinter, renowned playwright, fell madly in love, pretty much at first sight. Over the next decade or so, they disentangled themselves from their respective spouses and eventually married. They remained besotted with each other until the day Pinter died, some 33 years later.

Fraser's memoir of her time with Pinter is based on her diaries, and it includes some surprising glimpses into his complicated psyche, along with some intriguing anecdotes about life in the theatre. However, it is haphazardly put together, with no footnotes, index, bios, or cast of characters. People show up with little intro, and disappear with little notice. The new writing she has added to tie the diary entries together is interesting but insufficient.

I am a major fan of Fraser's. I think her bios are superb. But this collection of memories is the sort of book one should self-publish and share with loved ones. Selling it at $28.95 a pop is ridiculous.

(library book)

Venus in Fur

Hot damn; I still love Nina Arianda's performance as much as when I first encountered Venus in Fur two years ago at CSC, but unfortunately, I've yet to see anyone who could match up to her -- even as a submissive! At the performance I caught, Arianda's Vanda was up against Hugh Dancy's understudy, Mark Alhadeff, who can't handle a live wire like Arianda. While her wattage fluctuates throughout the night, his remains static; only occasionally is there enough friction to actually spark some tension between the two. When he says that "There can be nothing more sensuous than pain, nothing more pleasurable than degradation," they're just words, but when she quips that "You don't have to tell me about sadomasochism, I'm in the theater," every word lands a punch. And while it's true that she's meant to be the more extroverted, energetic of the two, from the moment she runs into the theater with an umbrella, squealing her apologies and stripping to her lingerie, Alhadeff must do more than play a lethargic opposite; at some point, mustn't he feel the thrill that the audience receives from Arianda's deft command? As she often instructs, he must be appear ambiguous, not ambivalent. 

[Read on]

(Press; twelfth row, left side)

The Maids

Forget Venus in Fur; the real power play walking the boards this year is Red Bull's revival of Jean Genet's savage 1947 drama, The Maids. Claire (Jeanine Serralles) and Solange (Ana Reeder) are sisters in the employ of Madame (J. Smith-Cameron), social prisoners who give their lives meaning by acting out, each night, a spiteful exaggeration of their oblivious mistress, all so that the other sister may pretend to kill her. Penned in by propriety, however, they are unable to exact their true revenge, and each time it seems that they may at last free themselves -- if only in a dream -- the alarm rings, snapping them back to their grim reality.

[Read on]

(press ticket, East Entry)

Painting Churches

Kathleen Chalfant, John Cunningham
(photo: Carol Rosegg)

It's hard to know how to respond to Tina Howe's 1984 Pulitzer-Prize-nominated play Painting Churches in 2012. It's not the play's fault that the past three decades of theatre have been stuffed full of adult children coming home and fighting with their parents. (Recent example: Other Desert Cities, which resembles Painting Churches in some significant ways, right down to the petulant daughter who learns, gasp, that her parents aren't quite what she thinks.)

Painting Churches's plot is simple and familiar: artistic, unappreciated adult child visits. Fights are fought; old wounds are reopened; a form of reconciliation occurs.

To work to full advantage, Painting Churches requires a balanced triangle, with mother, father, and child having strengths and flaws, legitimate grudges and sympathetic blind spots. In this production, however, due to the casting and awkward direction by Carl Forsman, the parents come across as difficult but likeable while the daughter comes across as a loud, overgrown, whining baby.

John Cunningham does nicely as the father sinking into dementia, but he also has the most consistent--and most consistently sympathetic--character. Kathleen Chalfant does well with the quiet moments but seems less comfortable being "quirky." Both Cunningham and Chalfant mostly come across as real people, but Kate Turnball, in the least sympathetic role, declaims and emotes and suffers and acts. Forsman has done her no favors in allowing her to (or asking her to?) completely unbalance the triangle. In addition, the threesome is not physically convincing as a family.

The set is handsome. The costumes are effective. The lighting is odd (but I think they were having tech troubles the night I went). The musical choices are a bit heavy-handed.

And the title is flatout odd. The family's last name is Church, and the daughter, an artist, wants to paint her parents. Painting Churches. Get it? But why?

(press ticket; fourth row on the aisle)

An Iliad

The Poet is exhausted, and why shouldn't he be? He has been telling tales of man's inhumanity to man for years, maybe centuries. If a poet can have post-traumatic stress disorder, he does. Or perhaps it would be better termed intra-traumatic stress disorder, since the trauma never ends. He's a bard of war, and there has always been a war and it seems there will always be a war. And each time he tells his stories, he relives them, poetic flashbacks that break his heart and stir his blood, even though he knows that rage is a disease.

He also knows that we have heard many tales of war--so many, in fact, that we have probably distanced ourselves from the horror. He cuts through the distance. He tells us that the men at Troy are not from Coronea, Haleartus, Plataea, and Lower Thebes, but rather

. . . from every small town in Ohio, from farmlands, from fishing villages…the boys of Nebraska and South Dakota …the twangy boys of Memphis…the boys of San Diego, Palo Alto, Berkeley, Antelope Valley…You can imagine, you can imagine, you know, um…there are soldiers from Kansas. There are soldiers from Lawrence, Kansas. There are soldiers from Springfield, Illinois. Evanston, Illinois; Chicago, Illinois; Buffalo, New York; Cooperstown, New York; Brooklyn; Queens; Staten Island; uh, the Bronx; South Bronx.

And he asks us, "Do you see?" Because he wants very much for us to see, to understand, so he won't have to keep singing of dead boys and mutilated bodies and rape and infants with bashed skulls. Again, he reminds us:

. . . and uhhh the battlefield was just littered with bodies and when you look at it you think, “Oh, well these are a bunch of bodies” but they’re not just bodies cuz this is this is Jamie and this is Matthew and this is Brennan and this is Paul, this is Scottie he was 19, he was 21, he was 18, Brennan was meant to go to Oxford – he had gotten a scholarship because of his writing – his father was a postman he would have been the first child in his whole family ever to go to University -- but he didn’t..

And again he asks, "Do you see?"

"Every time I sing this song," he says, "I hope it’s the last time." But he's not really hopeful. There have been too many wars, too much destruction, too many cases of rage poisoning. Too many people poisoned by pride as well. Too many people in too deep to pull back.

Yes, The Poet doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to tell the story again. His memory is going. He's profoundly burnt out. But he's a poet and an old pro, and even while he wants to teach us, shock us, he also wants to enthrall us. And he does.

Director Lisa Peterson and actor Denis O’Hare have done a magnificent job streamlining The Iliad (based on Robert Fagles's translation) and making it speak to the 21st century. It's a bit too long, and it can be hard to keep track of who's on whose side and why, but these are small complaints in light of the brilliance of what they've accomplished.

And, of course, it takes a village to raise a one-man show. Director Lisa Peterson, bassist Brian Ellingsen, scenic designer Rachel Hauck, costume designer Marina Draghici, lighting designer Scott Zielinski, and composer-sound designer Mark Bennett all contribute enormously.

So now we get down to the performers alternating as The Poet: Denis O'Hare and Stephen Spinella. Both are excellent; both give performances of olympian stamina and memory. But Denis O'Hare brings more depth to the story. Spinella comes across as an actor who wants to be loved and wants to impress us. O'Hare comes across as The Poet, burned out, heartbroken, wanting only to make us see.

(press ticket, third row center)

Hurt Village

I don't doubt the accuracy of the picture Katori Hall paints of the former Memphis project she's titled her play Hurt Village after. Though many of her characters come across as stereotypes, I don't believe them any less: there's a reason stereotypes exist, whether that's fair or not, and the ensemble embodies them well. But there's a reason theater is a different medium than photography or painting: it's a three-dimensional, living art form, and must do more than simply show a moment in time. It must breathe life into its characters long enough for us to care about them, not just their social circumstances, otherwise it's just a rawer sort of propaganda. It's a little telling that I felt more uncomfortable at the talk-back following Hurt Village than I did during the production itself -- uncomfortable with how shocked the audience was that parts of America look and sound like this. (In that sense, however, Hurt Village is a success.)

But while Hurt Village may have achieved its goal to shock people -- a shallow goal, if you ask me (look at the difference between the gruel of Thomas Bradshaw and the manna of Young Jean Lee) -- it misses out on opportunities to nurture empathy and provoke outrage. The script jumps around far too much, settling on all of the things that it is not rather than any one thing that it is: it is not a coming-of-age story for Cookie (Joaquina Kalukango), a thirteen-year-old girl who has said fuck the village and decided to raise herself; it is not a tale of the neglected soldier Buggy (Corey Hawkins), whose dishonorable discharge after ten years of service has all but forced him to once again start dealing drugs with his buddy Cornbread (Nicholas Christopher); it is not about the inadequacies of the welfare state, in which Big Mama (Tonya Pinkins) discovers that despite the government's choice to evict her from a one-bedroom project where she works night shifts and lives with her unemployed daughter-in-law Crank (Marsha Stephanie Blake) and granddaughter Cookie, she makes roughly $400 too much to qualify for Section 8 housing, and therefore may end up on the street. There's no real resolution or development to any of these characters or situations, just an emphasis (well-enhanced by set designer David Gallo and the raw direction of Patricia McGregor) on how awful all of this is.

[Read on]

Judy Kuhn at Feinstein's

This is a golden age of musical leading ladies. Donna Murphy. Audra McDonald. Marin Mazzie. Tonya Pinkins. Christine Ebersole.  Bebe Neuwirth. Laura Benanti. Patti LuPone. Victoria Clark. Kelli O'Hara. Alice Ripley. Kristin Chenoweth. To name a few!

Although she hasn't had their careers or received similar amounts of attention, Judy Kuhn belongs on that list. Her voice is splendid and her acting is subtle and smart. And in her cabaret act, currently at Feinstein's, her talent soars. You want gorgeous singing? Listen to Kuhn's versions of Sondheim's "Happiness" and "In Buddy's Eyes" or her sinuous take on Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love." You want heartfelt, complex acting? Watch Kuhn provide a woman's entire being in Billy Barnes's "Something Cool" and a heartbreaking demonstration of, well, heartbreak in Randy Newman's "Losing You." How about sexy fun? Try Kuhn's delightful takes on "I Love the Way You're Breaking My Heart" (Louis Alter and Milton Drake) or Oscar Brown Jr.'s "Forbidden Fruit."

And what about her range? She's comfortable, excellent, in pop, jazz, Broadway, folk, American Songbook, art songs, novelty songs. You name it, she can sing it and express it and live it.

Kuhn is also smart enough to work with a truly amazing band. Percussionist Greg Joseph, playing cajon and djembe rather than a traditional drum kit, does a remarkable job of providing intricate, enticing rhythms that are both necessary and subtle. Peter Sachon's cello playing adds emotional depth and smooth radiance. Musical director Dan Lipton on the piano has a sure hand (sure hands, I suppose) in both his elegant playing and his impeccable direction. Any of these musicians would be a treat as a soloist; making up a seamless foursome with Kuhn, they are even greater than the sum of their very impressive parts.

After the show, I chatted with a couple at the next table. They said that they were from Atlanta and that New Yorkers are incredibly fortunate to be able to go to such high-quality performances. Who could argue?

(By the way, Feinstein's is working to be more accessible, and Kuhn's shows have $30 non-premium tickets--which are really more like $40 tickets with the insane fees and taxes--with a $25 minimum.)

(Press tickets, extreme audience right)

Once

Even after a show runs for 2 months off-Broadway, you might expect it to take a little time to find its legs in the new space of a Broadway house. As of its third preview Once has found its wings. The cast is just as thrilling as it was at New York Theater Workshop, but they’ve made a small adjustment—well, not so small actually. Each has managed to retain the intimacy of their performances in a 200 seater while filling a space with five times the capacity.

There is no need to wait to see it. Disregard the opening date. This show has opened. And it is worth every penny.

I saw the show twice off-Broadway, from the first and third rows, and felt achingly close to the drama. From one of the worst seats in the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre, I was orbiting around the bubble surrounding this unexpected love story, which made it feel all the more dangerous, waiting for the bubble to burst.

Steve Kazee has an effortless charm that seems to only be contained by the amount of space around him. Cristin Milioti is simply perfect. I could single out every other member of the cast for excellence. So, to be completely fair, David Abeles, Will Connolly, Elizabeth A. Davis, David Patrick Kelly, Anne L. Nathan, Lucas Papaelias, Ripley Sobo, Andy Taylor, McKayla Twiggs (who was off the night I saw it, so I can’t vouch for her), Erikka Walsh, Paul Whitty, and J. Michael Zygo are excellent.

I attended with a friend who was seeing the show for the ninth time and another seeing it for the first. They both had the same reaction: barely containable joy.

Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová have created a score that is a beautiful as it is moving. Enda Walsh adds a book that is a master class in simplicity. Finally, John Tiffany directs with surgical precision and a glass blower’s artistry, creating a gorgeous show that is exactly what it should be.

How I Learned to Drive

Photograph: Joan Marcus

Li'l Bit--one of the two central characters in How I Learned to Drive, Paula Vogel's funny, smart, deeply disturbing memory play currently in revival at Second Stage--comes of age in rural Maryland during the 1960s and early 1970s, at a time when the country stopped making much sense. This is fine, really, because Li'l Bit's immediate world doesn't make much sense, either. She is enormously intelligent, but seems only to be noticed and appreciated--by friends, acquaintances, and family members alike--for her particularly large breasts. Her mother and grandparents, with whom she lives, are uneducated and crass, and if her mother is not a full-fledged drunk, she has, at the very least, a complicated relationship with alcohol. Li'l Bit's entire family has serious boundary issues, especially when it comes to gender and sexuality; all of their nicknames for one another have something to do with genitalia, and nothing is considered off-limits during conversations at the dinner table. Li'l Bit's grandfather is an ignorant misogynist; her grandmother has internalized the most traditional of gender roles; and her mother is a little too forthright in offering Li'l Bit a more contemporary perspective. Li'l Bit has no father. Complicating matters is that her sister's husband, Uncle Peck--the only person who really seems to understand, connect with, and attempt to protect her as she grows up--can't keep his hands off her breasts. Many members of her family are aware of this, but they choose to keep their mouths shut, anyway.

How I Learned to Drive explores a number of dense, interconnected themes in following its angry, damaged narrator through a series of hazy childhood and adolescent reminiscences: the shifting mores of an embattled, rapidly changing country; family bonds and family dysfunction; gender roles; alcoholism and addiction; and the ways in which close relationships can simultaneously heal and destroy, weaken and empower. To say that I liked the play is something of an understatement: I felt positively cold about the play upon leaving the theater late last week, but it's wormed its way under my skin, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Like my fellow blogger Wendy, whose review of How I Learned to Drive appears here, I am not fully convinced about the structure of the show. But I think I'm getting close. I don't think Peck ever stops molesting his niece, and the jumbled way in which Vogel delivers bits and pieces of Li'l Bit's past works effectively in keeping the audience engaged and perpetually uncomfortable. Also, I am enormously compelled by the idea that one addiction can take the place of another. In How I Learned to Drive, Peck neatly substitutes alcohol for Li'l Bit; in turn, Li'l Bit learns to manipulate Peck in ways that suit her needs, all the while remaining his victim. One of the more fascinating aspects of the play is the clear-eyed way it depicts two people who are perfectly capable of simultaneously destroying and sustaining one another in a relationship that is at once disturbingly parasitic and yet weirdly understandable for its rules, structure, and mutual negotiations. This makes perfect sense to me: relationships are never as clear-cut as all that; there is often only a razor-thin line between a relationship that is healthy and one that is rotten to the core.

The cast is strong, but the show very clearly belongs to Norbert Leo Butz, whose portrayal of Peck, the benevolent, manipulative pederast, is superb. Much has been written about the lengthy, increasingly unsettling monologue during which Peck teaches a nephew how to fish for pompano; that, too, was a high point for me. But so was a much smaller, shorter scene, during which Li'l Bit, at age 13, strikes a bargain with her uncomfortably inebriated Uncle Peck: if he stops drinking, she will agree to visit with him, alone but in public, once a week. Butz's reaction to Reaser's suggestion is so deeply, movingly appreciated, so choked with conflicting emotions, that Peck's entire damaged, disturbed psyche flashed vividly before my eyes. The scene, simple as it was, took my breath away.

The ensemble, too, as Li'l Bit's friends, family members and various acquaintances, was uniformly strong. I was initially bothered by the fact that so many of the supporting characters are portrayed so two-dimensionally, while Peck is depicted in such sharp relief. But then again, I think that's precisely Vogel's point: Hazy memories play funny tricks on a person after a while.

I wish I could rave about Reaser. Don't get me wrong: she did a fine job as Li'l Bit, and her icy distance through the show can certainly be (and has been) interpreted as a strength. Li'l Bit was molested as a child, so why should the actor playing her as a grownup be warm, fuzzy, and approachable? Reaser is not, but her studied distance, which didn't let up through the show, did not always work for me. I am not sure if this was the function of the character or the woman playing her, but I was left feeling like I understood Peck far more than I did Li'l Bit, even though this was her show, her past, her conflicted, complicated youth.

That being said, I suppose leaving the theater wanting to know more about the characters you've just spent an evening with is not necessarily the worst criticism you can fling at the production of a play you just can't get away from.

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.