Why "Smash" Matters

Hey, fellow theater geeks. Do you remember a time, not so long ago, when "Smash" was a brilliant, highly anticipated idea? OMG, a show that finally shows the whole world how cool and edgy and fascinating contemporary Broadway is! Stephen Spielberg conceived it! Theresa Rebeck is the show runner! Marc effing Shaiman is composing all the music! And it has tons of seasoned, super famous (for Broadway, anyway) people in it! It's gonna be like "Glee," but not even a third as horrible!

All that excitement dissipated when, several episodes into the first season, hopeful spectators began to realize that "Smash" was something of a big, hairy, idiotic mess--albeit one with jazz hands. News began to emerge of significant behind-the-scenes problems that seemed, at least at first, easily blamed on Rebeck, who was fired. Blogs about the awesome awfulness (or awful awesomeness) of the show popped up on line. Critics and spectators alike began to bitch about some of the stupider plot-lines: the evil, sexually nebulous Ellis, whom no one trusted, but who nonetheless just kind of got to hang around, getting up in everyone's business and messing shit up all the time anyway; Tom's taste for the most socially and/or politically conservative gay men in New York City, if not the world; the curious inability of a single member of a seasoned Broadway creative team to figure out how to cast the lead role in a big-budget musical; Julia's stupid romantic issues, her bizarrely grating teenage son, and her dizzyingly stupid wardrobe.The attempt to force musical numbers into situations that didn't always justify them quickly became an issue; it didn't help that the show seemed hellbent on appealing to Broadway aficionados and middle-Americans as if they were in completely different, rigidly polarized camps. You got your big production number here; you got your middle-of-the-road country tune in a spruced-up cowboy-themed bar there. Ivy changed personalities weekly; Katharine rolled her eyes back while singing to express emotion just about every time she opened her damn mouth. Don't get me started about the Bollywood-themed dream sequence. Or about the whole casting-couch vibe that seemed to drive Derek through the first season. Hopes for a really great series about Broadway dissipated; "Smash" was a brilliant idea that, in execution, became a sub-par soap opera.

And thus, like just about everyone I know who watches it, I resolved to keep up with the show, but with an enormous grain of salt sitting, boulder-like, on my shoulders. I admit it: I have a vaguely disgruntled, comfortably resigned love-hate relationship with "Smash."

What frustrates me most about the series is that buried under its poorly-paced, soap-inspired shenanigans, its disappointing reliance on sexual stereotypes, and the condescending way it courts most contemporary music tastes are occasional glimmers of brilliance, or, at the very least, of spot-on moments that absolutely nail the way that the commercial theater industry functions--socially, economically, aesthetically--in the slyest, smartest, subtlest of ways. These are, for the most part, the reasons that I can't stop watching. They give me too much hope.

Hence: while approximately four out of five of the musical numbers broadcast last season were less interesting than the Scrabble game I typically have going on my iPad while I'm watching, the fifth was not only engaging, but even memorable. This is, after all, Marc Shaiman we're talking about. "Smash" might be struggling, but Shaiman knows his shit. Some of the story arcs were promising; some even delivered. Take all the Ellis shit out of the mix and Uma Thurman's stint on the show was pretty enjoyable. She, too, after all, knows what she's doing. Sean Hayes is holding his own this season. And the scenes in the rehearsal studio are often engaging, especially when the company is actually rehearsing and staying relatively free of melodramatic bullshit.

My favorite moment of the entire first season was the scene in which Ivy fell apart on stage during a big production number in the middle of the fictional hit musical Heaven on Earth. Not because I believed, even for a second, that this professional, driven chorine had suddenly become a pill-popping disaster who would willingly or unwillingly sabotage a show she was performing in. Because that part, like so much of "Smash," was stupid and made no sense. No. What I loved about the scene was the fact that it featured Norbert Leo Butz, basically doing what he did in Catch Me If You Can while dressed in white and shimmying manically up and down a silvery staircase. Everything about that cameo--like everything about Butz in the flesh--was inspired, brilliant, extraordinary. If you don't know why, I can't begin to explain it to you, except to assure you that while "Smash" is a mess, someone who works on it knows the Broadway landscape well enough to lampoon it very, very well.

"Smash" was spared the indignity of being canceled after its first season, likely because of the fancy people behind it. The hope remained during the hiatus...and then quickly plummeted again, as season two started out even worse than the first one. New characters who make less sense than the ones who got canned did! Astoundingly wooden exposition, and dialogue that sounds like it was written by stoned monkeys! Plotlines that continue to lead nowhere before simply going away! Serious confusion among all involved about how a dramaturg differs from a script doctor! A completely random cameo by Jon Robin Baitz!

And yet I can't stop watching. I continue to see glimmers of real potential in the strangest and subtlest of ways. And lo and behold, the show is starting, somehow, to feel like it's getting better.

Sure, the whole Jennifer Hudson sequence kind of led to nothing, and sure, no one seemed clear on how to highlight her voice in ways that didn't make her sound like she was strangling. But the musicals she was connected with? The gospel-driven, all-black musical that she was starring in when her story arc began? Her desire to appear in The Wiz? Breezy commentary, perhaps, but that arc pointed directly to how segregated Broadway musicals continue to be in 21st-century New York.  And while I have yet to figure out why Jimmy is such a huge bag of dicks, why Kyle is still around now that it's been revealed that he's a talentless schmuck, and why Katharine and her new BFF can stand to even be around these dudes, I kind of like their story arc anyway--I have a soft spot for rock musicals, and let's face it, these guys are making music that sounds like something the offspring of Tom Kitt and Jonathan Larson would compose. And while no one on the series seems clear on what, exactly, a dramaturg does, and even though you know Peter and Julia are totally going to do it and then have a doomed romance (yawn), I nevertheless think that the very idea of an evil dramaturg is, however inadvertently, one of the funniest goddamn things I've pondered in a long time.

The fact that the series is no longer focusing entirely on the development of one show is only a good thing, as is the use of music, which seems wholly less forced this season. Some of the characters seem more grounded, or more compelling, than they were when they were playing to stereotype. Jack is worlds more interesting when he is on the defensive than he ever was when he was in control. And his less-rocky, newly tentative relationship with Ivy is suddenly sort of believable.

In short: There's ample hope that this series is on its way to clicking into gear. For once. Finally. Maybe.

A love-hate relationship is nothing to scoff at, if you think about it. Especially since, at least in this case, so many spectators share it. I'm hardly alone in wrestling with "Smash." The frustrations that arise as a result of watching it imply that for all its flaws--and there are so very, very many of them--"Smash" nevertheless matters. It resonates. It could improve, and we want it to, and we would be thrilled if it did.

Some years ago, before record stores died en masse, a fellow musical theater fan joked that buying a show-tune CD is a little bit like buying pornography: "you go ahead and grab, like, a Prince CD, so you can say 'I'm kind of cool--and that's for my mother.'" That's changing--even rapidly--as Broadway becomes more sophisticated, more tech- and marketing-savvy, more committed to reshaping the old-fashioned, stereotypically corny American musical into an entertainment form more befitting the 21st century. But still, the tang of awkward outdatedness haunts the form. This residue is precisely what still makes it somehow socially acceptable to claim acceptance of all music styles except the musical theater; it is why even people who should know better blithely respond to explanations I offer about my scholarly pursuits with "Oh, my God, I hate musicals. They're all just so stupid." The stereotype of musicals as corny, stupid, outdated and lame is why "Glee," however disappointing that show has become, exists at all.

I mention this because in the end, it's why I am rooting for "Smash." Broadway took decades to figure out how to reintegrate itself into the web of contemporary popular culture after Tin Pan Alley went the way of the dinosaur and rock became the coolest kid on the block. That was over half a century ago. Musicals have been catching up ever since; nowadays, Broadway bends over backward to offer international audiences the shit they want: glitzy musicals based on comic books, tv shows, pop songs, and movies. There's more, of course--believe me, there is so much more--but the Broadway musical is still trying, sometimes pathetically,  desperately, to find its own place at the pop-culture table. "Smash" may backfire--it already has, in some ways, and it could well continue to do so--but it remains another potential means of keeping the American musical alive, and of showing people why it's interesting, and important, and beautiful.

Or--and I admit that this is more likely--"Smash" could wheeze along for another season or two and then go away. Which maybe wouldn't be so terrible either. After all, there are tv shows about cops, and lawyers, and spies, and aliens, and British nobles, and mathematicians, and doctors, and haunted houses, and country music stars. Why not a show about Broadway? Why not seven or eight? Maybe "Smash," whether it lasts or not, is important merely because it is a show about people working on Broadway. And maybe, however flawed they may be, tv shows about Broadway matter because they help the Broadway musical, along with the people who love it, sit just a little taller at the table.

Kinky Boots

(I saw an early preview of Kinky Boots, so take everything I write with the proverbial grain of salt.)

Kinky Boots is not a great show. I'm not even sure it's a good show. But it is an entertaining show.

Annaleigh Ashford

The plot, as described on the Kinky Boots website:

Charlie Price (Tony nominee Stark Sands) has suddenly inherited his father’s shoe factory, which is on the verge of bankruptcy. Trying to live up to his father’s legacy and save his family business, Charlie finds inspiration in the form of Lola (Billy Porter). A fabulous entertainer in need of some sturdy stilettos, Lola turns out to be the one person who can help Charlie become the man he’s meant to be. As they work to turn the factory around, this unlikely pair finds that they have more in common than they ever dreamed possible… and discovers that when you change your mind about someone, you can change your whole world.

First, the negatives: Kinky Boots' book (by Harvey Fierstein) is predictable and often relies on cliches rather than being real for these particular people at this particular time. For example, Charlie's outburst in the second act feels insufficiently motivated and many degrees too harsh. And the It's a Wonderful Life moment is completely unearned.

Kinky Boots tries, unsuccessfully, to be fabulous and meaningful at the same time. When Lola performs at a nursing home, the interaction with her father falls completely flat as it is tossed away. Also, since performing at a nursing home is presented as something sad, it's a weird number to turn into a super-glam star turn, if you're going for meaningfulness. If you're going for fabulousness, however, it is pretty fabulous.

Kinky Boots also suffers from Stark Sands' lackluster performance as Charlie. He just isn't likeable enough to care about. (And they should really, really, really, give Billy Porter the final bow. He's the star of the show, and it's going to be depressing for Sands to hear the applause and cheering die down for him every night after the loud acclaim received by Porter.)

The final negative is not actually Kinky Boots' fault, but it's annoying nevertheless. There is something about drag that brings out a hooting-hollering obliviousness in many audience members, and their yelling and screaming and talking and wooooo-ing get very old very fast.

Now, the positives: Billy Porter makes Lola three-dimensional, on top of nailing all of his big numbers. Annaleigh Ashford's every line, movement, and sung moment are perfect; she is likeable, funny, and talented and nearly stole the show despite her small part. Cyndi Lauper's score is energetic and largely effective, although I wish she had used Broadway lyric conventions (true rhymes, repetition only for a reason, more character/plot development) rather than rock and roll conventions. Director Jerry Mitchell keeps the show moving along at an impressive clip, and his choreography brought a smile to my face again and again.

Despite these good points, the more I think about Kinky Boots, the less impressed I am. But I cannot deny the great fun I had watching it.

(N13, orchestra, tdf ticket)

Much Ado About Nothing

Here are the main reasons to see this lovely production of Much Ado About Nothing: Jonathan Cake as Benedick. Clear and smart direction by Arin Arbus. Jonathan Cake. Delightful scenery (Riccardo Hernandez) and beautifully moody lighting (Donald Holder). Jonathan Cake. A solid cast. Jonathan Cake.

Maggie Siff, Jonathan Cake
Photo: Gerry Goodstein

Without Jonathan Cake, this Ur rom-com would still be worth seeing, but with Jonathan Cake, it is a must-see. First, Cake has myriad physical gifts: a rich voice, a lovely accent, craggy good looks, and gawky grace. Second, he speaks Shakespearean English with an ease and clarity that allows the audience to fully experience the meaning and subtext. Third, he has impeccable comic timing. Fourth, he is enormously charismatic and can flirt with an entire audience with ease. In sum, he is delightful.

Unfortunately, Maggie Siff is not in his league. While there is much to admire in her performance, her voice comes across as thin and too contemporary. Also, her costumes and wig work against her. In terms of comic physicality and silent yearning, her Beatrice is Benedick's equal; in other terms, however, they are mismatched, somewhat throwing off the balance of the play (but not fatally).

Of course, there is more to Much Ado than Beatrice and Benedick, and Arbus does a good job minimizing the annoying subplot in which Benedick's friend Claudio is led to believe that his betrothed has been untrue. (As much as I try to put myself into the values of the time periods of the plays I see, and often succeed, I could not do it here. Claudio is a big baby, and all I could think was, "Get over your damn self.")

Much Ado provides the template of the romantic comedy genre with its squabbling lovers and silly obstacles. How impressive that it remains romantic and funny over 400 years after it was written (and how depressing to consider how far the genre has fallen).

(press ticket; 6th row center)

Belleville

A woman carrying a yoga mat comes home, drops her coat on the floor, starts stretching. She is startled to hear a noise in the bedroom when she is ostensibly alone. Her fear turns to annoyance when she discovers her husband--who is supposed to be at work--jerking off to a porn video.

This is our introduction to the couple at the center of Amy Herzog's odd, unsatisfying, but never uninteresting play Belleville, currently at the New York Theatre Workshop. We will soon see that they are Americans living in Paris, where the husband has an important position at Médecins Sans Frontières.  More importantly, we will learn that they are unraveling both as a couple and as individuals.

Abby (Maria Dizzia) has decided to go off her meds, leaving her particularly vulnerable to anxiety when her sister in the United States experiences a complication in her pregnancy. Abby would like nothing better than to fly to her sister--and to be able to celebrate Christmas at home--but she daren't leave. Zack (Greg Keller) made a mistake with their visas, and she might not be allowed back into France. Zack is concerned about Abby's decision not to take her meds and struggles with demons of his own.

The other two characters are their landlord Alioune (Phillip James Brannon), a French-Sengalese man with a matter-of-fact view of the world, and his wife Amina (Pascale Armand), who is even more matter of fact. They work hard. They take care of business, which is exactly what Abby and Zach cannot do.

Belleville is largely successful as a light thriller. Herzog metes out information carefully, keeping the audience in creepy semi-darkness for much of the show and utilizing French dialogue to add to the mystery/confusion (for those who do not speak French, anyway). It is an effectively disturbing piece.

Herzog also seems to be dissecting the self-focused triviality of entitled Americans abroad. But Amy and Zach are hardly representative Americans--they are specifically damaged people at a specifically difficult point in their lives.

As a thriller, Belleville is entertaining, but no big deal. As a piece of social commentary, it is unfair and unconvincing. And as an examination of the unraveling of a particular couple, it suffers from us never seeing them in a genuinely loving moment. Either we have to take it on faith that they were once a good couple, which is hard to do, or we have to accept them as having always had major problems that are now coming to a head, in which case it's hard to care. Perhaps if Dizzia and Keller had more chemistry together, they could overcome this deficit, but they don't. Ultimately Belleville is about an icky couple who spend 100 minutes getting ickier.

Herzog's recent play, The Great God Pan, is a superb piece. Belleville, although disappointing, is still the work of a first-rate playwright. I look forward to Herzog's next play.

(press ticket, seventh row, center)

Katie Roche

Watching Teresa Deevy's engrossing 1936 drama Katie Roche made this contemporary woman extremely grateful to be a contemporary woman. Katie is a servant in a small town in Ireland in the 1930s. She works for a nice woman; she is not abused; but as an uneducated woman of indeterminate heritage, she has few options.

Patrick Fitzgerald, Wrenn Schmidt
Photo: Richard Termine

Then life unexpectedly presents her with a choice, between two men, each with definite pluses and even more definite minuses. Can she make the right decision? Is there a right decision? As a young woman, does she have the experience and perspective to choose correctly? As a strong, sometime impetuous woman, who wants to be good, even saintly, can she force herself to be the person she needs to be to survive? Is it fair that she must live with the fallout of her youthful (often trivial) mistakes for the rest of her life? (Absolutely not. And yet she must.)

When Katie marries Stanislaus, a much older man, she briefly thinks that she has freed herself from her life in service, but then she realizes that her husband expects her to have much the same role in their marriage. She banishes her sad astonishment, though, and tries to make the most of her situation.  Over the next few years, Katie bounces between angry rebellion and humbled regret. All she can do is react and respond and act out; what she cannot do is shape her life to her own needs and desires (in particular, her desire to do something or be someone wonderful). Stanislaus, meanwhile, has no trouble reconciling his image of himself as a nice man with his willingness to run Katie's life as though she were his puppet. He's not physically abusive, but he's sure that his choices for her are correct and that her opinions about her own life simply don't matter.

Deevy vividly depicts the hopes, dreams, and limits of each of her characters, with a sense of a time and place that makes you feel that you've visited their world. She is much helped in this achievement by Jonathan Bank's smooth direction, Vicki R. Davis' attractive sets, Nicole Pearce's evocative lighting, and Martha Hally's character-defining costumes.

Wrenn Schmidt is superb as Katie, all nerves and resolution, sure and confused, restrained and (mildly) wild, trying desperately to be a good girl--or at least to understand what that would entail. In a role full of big moments, she gives a marvelously subtle performance. Patrick Fitzgerald as Stanislaus makes some odd choices, and it takes about two and a half acts to figure out what he is trying to do. I think he means to present Stan as someone who feels that he must always be "nice," no matter his actual emotions, and I think he ultimately pulls it off. John O'Creagh stands out in his comfortable and instantly real performance in a small but important role.

The people at The Mint have made a commitment to rediscovering Teresa Deevy and sharing her with the rest of us, and we have much to thank them for.

(press ticket; third row on the aisle)

The Revisionist

Jesse Eisenberg's new play, The Revisionist, seems to be a predictable exploration of familiar territory: Uneasy young man, complete with cache of weed, visits much older female relative. Add WWII memories, stir.

It is much to Eisenberg's credit, however, that The Revisionist has its surprises. Even better, it isn't an entry in the increasingly-tasteless worst-Holocaust-story-ever sweepstakes that stretches from Sophie's Choice to Red Dog Howls. (Even better than that, Eisenberg spares us a cutesy "old woman gets stoned" scene.) Instead, it is a thoughtful, sometimes funny, often moving, examination of the interactions and frictions between someone who doesn't know what he has and someone who knows exactly what she has lost.

Vanessa Redgrave, Jesse Eisenberg
Photo: Sandra Coudert

Nicely directed by Kip Fagan, and well-designed by John McDermott (set) and Jessica Pabst (costume), The Revisionist's strongest asset is its cast. Vanessa Redgrave as the old woman is excellent (duh--although her bangs and glasses make it frustratingly difficult to see her face). Eisenberg is even better as the young man. His discomfort in his own skin is vivid, as are his reluctance to give in to his better side and his ongoing sense of entitlement. (Dan Oreskes does well by a small supporting role).

Perhaps the biggest compliment I can give The Revisionist is that I keep wondering if the old woman should have done this or the young man should have done this--not if Eisenberg should have written them differently. And I'd love to know what happens next.

(press ticket, 7th row)

Things I Learned While Watching the 2013 Academy Awards

1) I have not set foot in a movie theater in a full calendar year, at least.

2) Nonetheless, missing the awards telecast was simply not a possibility.

3) Seth McFarlane is cute, charming, and all too often a walking justification for other peoples' casual racism, sexism, anti-Semitism, and/or homophobia.

4) Shirley Bassey is still alive.

5) Jack Nicholson no longer is, but his spirit roams the Earth in a deranged Merry Prankster sort of way, and he is only visible to living human beings once a year, on Oscar night.

6) Marvin Hamlisch is, apparently, the most important and revered dead person in Hollywood this year.

7) Men who work behind the scenes in Hollywood all have long, silky, Fabio-like hair.

8) The film version of Chicago is the most important, earth-shattering, significant movie musical ever made in the history of Hollywood.

9) Catherine Zeta-Jones lip syncs much better than she actually sings.

10) Catherine Zeta-Jones blinks her eyes on cue very well.

11) The Best Documentary award went to the most edgy, risky, political choice there was. Oh. Never mind.

12) Camera lenses are very interesting.

13) Dreams do come true, but they come true more often if  you are white, pretty, and raised by people with enormous wealth.

14) Channing Tatum and Jennifer Aniston are not going to appear in a movie that relies on romantic chemistry anytime soon.

15) A few people actually did see Life of Pi and, apparently, liked it very much.

16) Costume designers are the frumpiest, most poorly dressed people on the planet. I totally should have been a costume designer.

17) Quentin Tarantino is the reason the Earth spins on its axis, and everything he says is important, interesting, and not remotely irritating, ever.

18) Jew-baiting is cool if a dog puppet is the one doing it.

19) Russell Crowe really, truly cannot sing.

20) Anne Hathaway can, and also can do so with a smudged face and the presence of boogers, which is probably why she took home the award and had all her dreams come true.

21) I really do like Sally Field, and always will.

22) I can't WAIT for the Tony Awards.

Old Hats

If you like Bill Irwin and David Shiner, you will like Old Hats. It has everything you could ask for: baggy pants, brilliant physical humor, sublime silliness, and the magical ability to walk down nonexistent stairs.

And if you like Nelly McKay, you will like Old Hats even more. Playing with the wonderful Alexi David on bass, Mike Dobson on percussion, Tivon Pennicott on sax and flute, and Kenneth Salters on drums, McKay makes the intervals between Irwin's and Shiner's routines into a bonus show--and a delightful one.

(full price ticket--$25 plus fees--first row)

Passion

John Doyle is where Sondheim musicals go to die. His Sweeney Todd, with its instrument-playing cast, fractured staging, and missing throat-slittings, wasn't Sweeney Todd, and his Company, with its instrument-playing cast, was cold, awkward and altogether too fond of characters marching around and around like target ducks in a shooting gallery. Now he has been given the opportunity to ruin Passion, and he has run with it.

[plot spoilers] Start with the cast. Judy Kuhn was theoretically an excellent choice--she was a brilliant Fosca in Washington, DC, in 2002 during the magical Sondheim celebration at the Kennedy Center. However, Doyle has directed her to a strong, sane, robust performance--three adjectives that absolutely do not describe Fosca. Ryan Silverman is a bland Georgio with a bland soap-opera-handsome face and a nice but bland voice. I can't imagine anyone waiting for him half an hour, let alone sacrificing her life for him. Melissa Errico is an equally bland Carla. (The one good thing about the miscasting and misdirection is that they ironically clarify Georgio's often puzzling choice of Fosca over Clara. This Fosca is more interesting and attractive in every way.)

Doyle's physical staging of Passion is flat-out annoying. For example, in perhaps the most significant scene in the show, when Fosca realizes that Georgio actually loves her, Fosca is placed so that an appreciable chunk of the audience cannot see her face. Granted, the CSC stage is a difficult one, but Doyle emphasizes the problematic sight lines as though he is taking the word "blocking" literally.

Another weird choice is to have men play two female roles ("Mother" and "Mistress"), denying the audience a variety of voice types and giving an important scene an unhelpful air of burlesque (and cheating an actress or two of a chance to work). If indeed it is necessary to keep the cast lean, why not have a woman/women play a man/men?

Oh, also: the costumes were unattractive and badly cut; the scenery was ugly and noisy.

I believe that, just as you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, you shouldn't judge a show by its poster. Now that I have seen Passion, however, I wish I had taken its tone-deaf, inappropriate poster as a warning. 


(CSC membership, seat B3, where I really should have been able to see more of what was going on! Preview.)

My Name Is Asher Lev

Photo Credit: Broadwayworld.com

"My name is Asher Lev!"

The title of the 1972 Chaim Potok novel, and the Aaron Posner play based upon it is, when uttered by the title character, no mere how-do-you-do. It is a near-desperate plea for respect, acceptance and, perhaps, permission to live comfortably in one's own skin. This last is not easy for anyone, really, but it's particularly difficult when one actively chooses, as Asher Lev has, to straddle two conflicting worlds.

Asher Lev is a Hasidic boy from Brooklyn, being raised in the 1950s by a loving if rigid father who has devoted his life to spreading the word of his Rebbe, and a loving if fragile mother who dreams of more than her Hasidic surroundings permit. Asher has inherited his father's obsessive dedication to his work, and his mother's wild inner spirit. His prodigious talent as a visual artist, however, comes from somewhere else. Depending on whom you ask, Lev's gift is either divine, or has been given to him by a darker force, referred to here (and in Kabbalist tradition) as the sitra acha, or "other side." Lev doesn't know where his talent comes from--maybe both places at once?--and at least as a little boy, he doesn't much care. He just knows that he has to sketch. Obsessively. All the time. With anything he can get his hands on. Everything he sees. Even if what he sees doesn't fit into his community's view of the world.

Asher's parents are concerned that their boy spends more time drawing than he does studying Talmud, making friends at his Yeshiva, learning to live a Hasidic life. But at the same time, they recognize that he is gifted. Like many parents, from many backgrounds, and in many settings, they push and pull at Asher with equal strength: alternately, and sometimes simultaneously, they encourage and denigrate, punish and enable, warm to and insult his talents. Hasidic or not, they are arguably, in this way, fairly typical as parents.

That might sound flip, but I don't mean it to be. Asher Lev is, at least to me, at its strongest when it explores the ways that one is shaped by the positive and negative forces of one's surroundings, as well as when it touches on the gray and ever-shifting ways that families struggle when the apple falls unexpectedly far from the tree. The three-person cast--Ari Brand as Asher, Jenny Bacon as his mother (and a number of other roles), and Mark Nelson as his father (and a number of other roles)--does a fine job of striking its own delicate balance. The three actors do well to express the profound concern that Asher's talents cause within the household and, at the same time, the unwavering love and respect that the family members have for one another. In playing a number of different kinds of characters that are frequently subjected to broad caricature--the wise old Rebbe, the Yiddishe mamma, the blunt and rumpled artist, and any number of Hasids--the cast could easily have slid, even unconsciously, into cheap stereotype, but never once does. These are finely-wrought characters, honed by three able actors who breathe life into what, in less capable hands, could easily come off as cardboard cutouts.

My one quibble with Asher Lev is that its central argument--that you can't be a Hasid and an artist at the same time--doesn't exactly ring true to me. I say this as a secular Jew, and one living a half-century later than Asher Lev is set. Not only have I never been devout, but I come from the generation of both the Chassidic Art Institute and, later, Matisyahu. I freely admit, then, that I just might not quite understand all the nuances of the conflict as it would have played out in 1950s Borough Park.

But while I had no problems accepting the fact that Lev's parents are unhappy with their son's passion for drawing, and especially for drawing things that don't jibe with the Hasidic world view (portraiture; the human body; Christian imagery), some of the conflict that Asher Lev creates seems more forced, especially once it introduces Jacob Kahn as Asher's secular-Jewish art teacher and mentor. Kahn, also played by Mark Nelson, serves as the Yin to Asher's father's Yang; an equally passionate, similarly rigid paternal presence who bluntly and repeatedly informs Asher that one cannot be both an artist and an observant Jew. Whenever Asher balks at an assignment Kahn gives him--whether it is to paint a nude or to copy a Pietà--Kahn's retort is more or less that Asher should just go back to Brooklyn and spend his life making trite little Rosh Hashannah greeting cards and painting Hanukkah decorations for children.

Such discussions add to the dramatic conflicts Asher carries perpetually on his shoulders as he skyrockets to fame and continues to struggle with his family and faith. But I am not convinced of them as realistic. Whether they are or not, they are not nearly as well-honed or as nuanced as the heated debates that take place between Asher and his parents. I would have liked to have learned more about Kahn, who is not religious but who describes himself as "admirer of the Rebbe," and who thus might just have a relationship with Judaism that is far more complicated than his frequent black-and-white pronouncements imply.

The constant back-and-forth was, I suppose, deemed dramaturgically necessary, and anyway, it does quite a number on Asher, who grows to be a deeply conflicted, deeply complicated man clinging so desperately to both his faith and his art that one becomes hard to discern from the other.

Bethany

Bethany begins with Charlie (Ken Marks), a third-rate motivational speaker, practicing his spiel in the mirror. "And I'll tell you one thing about [your] higher power," he says. "He wants you to be rich. Rich beyond your wildest dreams."  In the next scene, Crystal (America Ferrera), a young woman in a suit and red spike heels, lets herself into an empty (she thinks) house. A single mother who lost custody of her daughter after losing her job and home, Crystal wouldn't agree with Charlie. Not at all.

When Crystal discovers that the house is occupied by Gary, a sort-of-crazy, sort-of-savvy, sort-of-likeable sort-of-vagrant, she enters into an uneasy alliance with him. He takes the upstairs, she takes the downstairs, and they agree not to bother each other. Next we find out that Crystal is now working at a Saturn dealership, where she is desperate to close a sale. Who should walk in but Charlie, showing great interest in the various cars, and even more interest in Crystal?

Tobias Segal, America Ferrera
Photo: Carol Rosegg

Bethany, written by Laura Marks and directed by Gaye Taylor Upchurch, is a study of various sorts of neediness, and its examination of the clash between individual responsibility and an uncaring society has strong moments. But the show frequently gets in its own way. The biggest problems are these: 1. The way Charlie is written and played, Crystal would see through him quickly, no matter how desperate she is. 2. Crystal would never stay with Gary when she knows there are dozens of empty houses in the neighborhood from which to choose.

There is also a lack of attention to detail that seriously messes with suspension of disbelief. For example: In this deserted house, shortly after meeting Gary, who could be a murderer for all she knows, Crystal turns her back on him. And: After specifically saying that she cannot afford dry cleaning for her suit, she proceeds to sit on the floor and eat a hamburger, unwrapped, without changing her clothing or using a napkin or showing any concern for how greasy and drippy hamburgers can be. And: She would never tell Charlie that the car he's considering could get him laid under the circumstances in which she tells him just that. And: Early on, Gary mentions that the electricity could go out in the house at any time; this should be a major source of tension but it is completely forgotten.

Ultimately, with the help of a smart performance by the likeable America Ferrera, Bethany manages to do an effective job of showing how the lack of money and power can strip someone bare emotionally, psychologically, and morally. But I think it could have been devastating.

(press ticket, second row center)

Clive

Clive, written by Jonathan Marc based on Baal by Bertolt Brecht, and directed and starring Ethan Hawke, is yet another tale of a male artist so charismatic and tortured that people line up to be fucked or fucked over by him. As is true of most stories of this sort, it is unpleasant, frustrating, annoying, and boring. It also depicts all women as weak idiots (some of the men at least get to be strong idiots). Clive sleeps with his producer's wife, seduces a friend's girlfriend out of her virginity, and says things like, "My insides are on the outside. My intestines are stuck to my chest and my veins are on my skin."

It may be that Clive is supposed to limn the dog-eat-dog mundanity of human society or reveal artistic self-destructiveness or something else equally meaningful, but it comes across as a lot of posturing and blah, blah, blah. Clive is reasonably well-directed and well-acted, but, really, who cares?

Mahira Kakkar, Stephanie Janssen, Ethan Hawke
Photo: Monique Carboni

(press ticket; 7th row center)

Fiorello!

Kate Baldwin

Fiorello!, the 1959 Pulitzer Prize-winning musical, requires a lead actor full of energy and charisma. In the current revival at Encores!, Danny Rutigliano, while likeable and physically appropriate for the role, is only Fiorello and not Fiorello! 

In fact, most of the evening lacks its exclamation mark. Emily Skinner and Erin Dilly surprisingly don't quite land their songs, and Jenn Gambatese's annoyingly hard work adds up to little. The choreography is okay at best. Perhaps most significantly, the edits to the book remove any chance of real emotional investment.

Luckily for the audience, however, the evening includes an excellent male chorus singing "Politics and Poker" and "Little Tin Box" plus Kate Baldwin's ravishing "When Did I Fall in Love."

(orchestra side section, first row; ticket was a gift)

All the Rage

In his one-man show, All the Rage (directed by Seth Barrish), playwright-performer Martin Moran shares his intimate exploration of the sometimes-thin lines between hatred and love, victimhood and survival, and anger and compassion. Part yarn, part philosophy, and part show-and-tell, All the Rage takes us from New York to Las Vegas to South Africa and introduces us to people as varied as a somewhat wicked stepmother and an amazingly resilient victim of torture.

Moran is a charming performer and a likeable man, and he knows how to tell a story. His style is reminiscent of Spalding Gray's in terms of tone and the way he meanders back to where he started--except that it's not quite the same place anymore. In contrast to Gray, however, Moran is all over the stage, dashing and jumping from here to there to show us maps, photos, and other memorabilia of his journey. It's possible he and director Barrish got a little carried away with their quest to provide the audience with visuals--the show would have been fine with a slightly less frenetic presentation. But that's a small complaint: All the Rage is smart, fascinating, funny, and frequently moving.

Collision

A young man dances energetically in his dorm to the music his iPod feeds into his ears. Another young man sneaks into the room and puts up posters of Che and Kurt Cobain. The first young man doesn't notice him. The moment isn't convincing--it's an unlikely setup. In itself, this incident would be no big deal, but when it turns out to be one of the better parts of the play, we have a problem.

Nick Lawson, James Kautz
Photo: Russ Rowland

Lyle Kessler's Collision, currently receiving its premiere in an Amoralists production, examines how lost people can find each other and how a charismatic person can lead others astray. However, since neither the people nor the setups are remotely believable, or particularly compelling, Collision is ultimately about how even excellent theatre companies can have bad days.

Amoralist productions generally sizzle with human foibles and desires. Their shows, many by resident playwright, Derek Ahonen (The Pied Pipers of the Lower East Side, Happy in the Poorhouse), combine highly entertaining, heightened, almost cartoony acting with an unerring sense of the absolute messiness--and wonder--of human existence. Usually, Amoralist productions, even when being totally unrealistic, are somehow true. Collision is a major exception to this rule.

In Collision, ostensibly smooth-talking Grange can convince people to do almost anything, as when he cajoles Doe, with whom he has just had sex, to go to the next bed and have sex with his roommate. Or as when he convinces that roommate to beat up someone he barely knows. The plot, such as it is, comprises a series of such incidents interspersed with "meaning of life" conversations and speeches, such as, 

This Meteor changed the course of life on this planet. One Species disappeared and another Species emerged. We emerged in all our multi colored brilliance. If that Meteor had not plunged into the ocean at that particular Time and Place, we would not exist. We would not be here at this moment discussing the Relativity of Being. So the question we are addressing today, the question I put forth today is the following...Is that Meteor, was that Meteor, God? Or was it just a random collision, a throw of the Celestial Dice?

Since the title of the show is Collision, this speech is likely thematically significant, but it doesn't matter if what transpires is God's work or a throw of the Celestial Dice. It's still boring. Oh, and unpleasant.

The show is not helped by the usually excellent James Kautz's lackluster performance in the central role of Grange. For this play to have any chance of working, Grange must be the ultimate salesman. He must be compelling, charismatic, fascinating. He must spin his verbal webs gracefully; he must entice others to enter his web voluntarily, even enthusiastically. Kautz does none of this. Granted, the writing is weak, but with some energy and personality, Kautz could have given the production a desperately needed center.

It feels unlikely that the Amoralists--and in particular, Krautz--would make these particular mistakes. Is Collision's flat falseness deliberate? Perhaps, but why?

(fifth row center; press ticket)

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

If silliness can be an art form--and I believe it can--then The Mystery of Edwin Drood is an artistic triumph. From the pre-show call-and-response to the audience-chosen denouement, this musical play-within-a-play version of Dickens' unfinished novel is delightful. 

Will Chase, Stephanie J. Block
Photo: Joan Marcus

It's 1895 London. Edwin Drood and Rosa Bud are engaged to be married, but is their romance what it seems? Edwin's uncle Jack is a respected choirmaster, but is he what he seems? And what about the opium dealer Princess Puffer? The Reverend Crisparkle? The orphaned Landless twins? What exactly is going on here?

Because Dickens died before finishing the book, that last question is unanswerable. Nevertheless, with the audience's help, The Mystery of Edwin Drood answers it, while also providing ear-pleasing melodies, wonderful performances, dreadful puns, intrigue and disaster, and a fabulous kick line. The cast is game and energetic, and their clear love of the show is contagious. Stephanie J. Block does well by her various roles and nails her 11:00 number. Jessie Mueller and Andy Karl are polished, elegant, and sly as the Landless twins. Peter Benson's sheer likeability is equaled only by his talent. Will Chase and Betsy Wolfe are both a tad too hammy for my taste (and that's saying something in this ham-filled show) but effective nevertheless. Chita Rivera was out, and while Alison Cimmet lacks star power--and is too young for the role--she pulled it off with flair. By the time she sang "The Garden Path to Hell," the audience had forgiven her for not being Chita.

Another of Drood's many delights is the breathtaking scenery. From street scenes to parlors to a graveyard, the audience is presented with a luscious tour of late-19th-century London. Every time a curtain goes up, the audience is given another visual treat. I imagine (and hope!) that designer Anna Louizos has a Tony in her future.

One criticism must be voiced: at least 50% of the lyrics are indecipherable as sung. When I saw Drood at its first preview, 80% of the lyrics were indecipherable, so I guess this is progress. And, amazingly enough, the show survives this major flaw. But I certainly expect better of a Broadway show.

(press ticket; third row on the aisle)

Parsons Dance

A screen filling the back wall of the stage springs to life with vibrant video footage of the Everglades and other South Florida parks. Voices speak of nature, honoring nature, the importance of nature, the meaning of nature. It feels like a National Geographic documentary. Then a dancer flows on stage, arms beckoning, and seems to entice an on-screen alligator from stage right to stage left. The effect is playful, with a hint of magic. A line of performers snakes (alligates?) across stage, echoing the alligator's vertebrae. The interactions continue. Then one of the dancer appears, startlingly large onscreen, and others as well.  As we see sunsets and waving reeds, egrets, herons, anhingas, woodstorks, ibis, and hawks--and more giant humans--the performers evoke, complement, and imitate nature, all the while playing with size and movement. In one particular case, a performer does a pas de deux with herself in a multimedia duet for one.

Dawn to Dusk
Photo: Eric Bandiero

Commissioned by the Wolf Trap Foundation for the Performing Arts, David Parsons' new piece Dawn to Dusk is a beautiful and enjoyable ode to nature, but perhaps not a totally successful dance piece. The video often overwhelms the dancers, and the switch to Miami at the end, going from the lovely music of the aptly named Andrew Bird to the timba of Tiempo Libre, along with the switch to quick-cut eye-assaulting video, is painfully jarring. The contrast between nature and nightclub may make some sort of point--or not--but as choreography it doesn't cohere. And yet much of the piece is wonderful to watch.

Parsons' 2005 piece Wolfgang, to music by Mozart (natch), is a complete delight, a totally satisfying piece of Parsons-ania (Parson-age?). His trademark playfulness is perfect for this riff on relationships, and the piece is in turns coy, seductive, and funny. The choreography feels colloquial, as though the dancers are talking to one another--and to us--in the familiar vernacular of romance. Parsons' frequent focus on hands and arms adds to the beauty and the meaning of the piece. It's as though the dancers' bodies tell the story and their arms and hands provide the boldface and italics and punctuation. It's a wonderful effect. The lighting by Howell Binkley frames and focuses the piece perfectly, forming a significant part of the choreography.

The evening's other premiere, Black Flowers, choreographed by Katarzyna Skarpetowska to anguished music by Chopin, provides a sharp emotional contrast to Parsons' work. She utilizes much floor work and a unique, uncomfortable choreographic vocabulary that is evocative, painful, vivid, and, to me at least, not much fun to watch.

The other two pieces are Parsons' ever-exhilarating Caught, a magical tour de force that everyone should see at least once a year and his joyfully exuberant In the End.

The troupe is consistently strong and beautiful to watch, and their stamina makes Olympic athletes look like wimps. They are Eric Bourne, Elena D'Amario, Lauren Garson, Abby Silva Gavezzoli,
Christina Ilisije, Jason MacDonald, Ian Spring, Melissa Ullom, and Steven Vaughn.

(press ticket, row N)

The Other Place

Even as the audience finds their seats at Manhattan Theater Club’s presentation of The Other Place, the juxtaposition of human strength and fragility and the whisper of the bridge between, sits in elegant contradiction on the stage.  In dusk-like shadow Laurie Metcalf as Juliana, a neuromedical researcher turned drug therapy shill, meditates in a chair. Her erect posture and cross-legged position emanate businesslike certitude: here’s a woman who knows her place in the world.

Or does she? Like the simple but symbolic set’s multitude of white-framed windows stacked erratically against one another (designed by Eugene Lee and Edward Pierce)— a giant Jenga game waiting to topple over—the audience, as well as Juliana, soon recognize that memory can also unexpectedly and easily unravel, leaving even the most confident persona in confused pieces.

What makes playwright Sharr White’s storytelling so compelling, and sometimes also frustrating, is the nonlinear unfolding of Juliana’s situation. When Metcalf finally rises from her seated position, she offers a hint of the problem as she begins talking about her first “episode” during a presentation about a patented protein therapy she helped create. As Juliana narrates her power point to an invisible St. Thomas crowd of doctors, she tells the theater audience about a bikini-clad woman at the conference and the caustic remarks she inflicts on her from the stage. Does Juliana mock her because of the youth she represents? Does the hate generate from her own husband’s philandering? Or is it something more?

Intercut with Juliana’s presentation, we see her interact with a lost daughter, she recently and awkwardly, re-connected with, spar with a young doctor she thinks incompetent, and argue with a husband who insists he’s not unfaithful nor is he divorcing her. The Other Place makes its audience uncomfortable—not just because it ultimately addresses the terrible result of dementia, but as Juliana grows more befuddled, we do, too. The barrier between what’s real and what’s invented memory perplexes us and reminds all of the precarious nature of the things that make us ourselves. Metcalf, who also appeared in last spring’s MCC Theater production of the play’s Off-Broadway premiere, shows Juliana as the bristly and sarcastic person dementia created, while subtly hinting at the charm and wit overshadowed by the disease.  The rest of the cast support Metcalf beautifully, with Daniel Stern as her husband, Ian, and Zoe Perry, Metcalf’s real-life daughter, playing several roles, including the prodigal daughter and a nicely rendered turn as a kind stranger. Although the play’s end mimics a Lifetime television, disease-of-the week movie, with its pat-like finale, The Other Place still resonates with the very real sadness of someone coming undone  (TDF ticket, mezzanine).

The Other Place

The Other Place, which ran last spring at MCC and which opens tomorrow night on Broadway at MTC's Friedman Theatre, has been described as a "psychological thriller" and a "dark comedy." It struck me as neither. The mystery at the center of the play--the relevance of the woman in the yellow bikini that the main character thinks she sees during the first episode of dementia she experiences--takes its time unfolding, but hardly in a "thrilling" sort of way. Rather, The Other Place creeps up on you, building in ways that are at once enormously compelling and increasingly uncomfortable, before reaching a gentle, sad conclusion. As for "dark comedy"? Um, no. Sure, there were some light moments, and some very funny asides. But more often than big collective chortles were inappropriate ones emanating from solitary members of the audience at jarringly weird times. The Other Place is a highly disorienting play made up of increasingly uncomfortable moments where laughter would help, but isn't encouraged by the playwright, performers, or director.

But I suppose marketing the show this way would be utterly disastrous. And that would be a shame, because The Other Place is worth seeing: it's tightly written by Sharr White, beautifully acted by a small and deeply committed company, and directed with cutting insight by Joe Mantello.

It is also about dementia, which is no secret, but which isn't easy to sell to the masses, either. We all have our stories, don't we? The ones about family members, friends, or loved ones who, sometimes very quickly and sometimes at a snail's pace, descend into a sort of twilight of the mind that initially creeps around the edges ("What day is it?")  and ends up taking over completely, in the most painful and disturbing of ways ("Who are you, again? My husband, you say?"). The subject has certainly been tackled before, in various entertainment forms that range from absurdist and slapsticky (Where's Poppa?), to mawkishly sentimental (Driving Miss Daisy), to heartbreaking.

Full disclosure: I found The Other Place to be an excellent example of the heartbreaking variety, which doesn't necessarily mean that you will, too. Sometimes, art is all about what hits you, and why, and when; timing, here, is of the essence. I've watched a number of older family members slide into dementia in the course of my life, and am in the process of watching it again. My personal experience has thus caused The Other Place to stay with me in a way that it would perhaps not have a year ago. But then, I suppose this applies to just about everything we see and interpret.

Seeing and interpreting are central to the show, which jumps around in time and shifts from scene to scene in terms of perspective, mood, and allegiance to characters. The exceptional Laurie Metcalf plays Juliana Smithton, a biophysicist in her early 50s who is married to a successful oncologist (the surprisingly nuanced Daniel Stern), works for a pharmaceutical company that (cruelly, ironically) sells a drug that aids with dementia, and has deeply conflicted feelings about her daughter, with whom she has had no contact for a decade. Onstage before the house opens and there until the curtain call, Metcalf does an exceptional job of depicting a terse, caustic, highly efficient woman who slides suddenly--and with terrifying rapidity--into a dementia that makes her worse in every way: she becomes disoriented and aphasic, delusional and paranoid. She also becomes viciously nasty, snidely condescending, and shrilly combative, to the point where you might ask yourself--as I did midway through the show--why we should even bother with such a character.

But that's what dementia does, and the play follows the twists and turns of the disease and its impact on Juliana and her husband bravely and without a lot of pandering to the audience. It is a testament to all involved with this production that by the end of the show, Juliana--along with the circle of characters who suffer along with her--earns our understanding, our support, our sympathy.

She also makes us question our own hold on reality. Are the scenes we are being shown actually happening? Is what we are left with at the end of the play true at all? Is the scene, for example, where Juliana sits on the floor being fed Chinese food taking place where the production is telling us it is taking place, or is Juliana in a nursing home being fed something much blander by a kind orderly? The more I think about The Other Place the less I am sure about any of it.

The fact that I began to cry at the curtain call last night surprised the hell out of me. I was drawn in to the play deeply enough that I didn't think much about my emotional reaction to it until it was over. And, to reiterate, the sorrow that the play has left me with is not just about the play itself. But then again, the fact that The Other Place--for all its twists, turns, and slightly inaccurate marketing descriptions--shook me as deeply as it did is perhaps the most superlative praise I can give a production and the people involved in it.

Ode to Anticipation

Vivien Leigh, Robert Taylor
Waterloo Bridge

When I was a kid, Sunday was one of the highlights of my week because it included the Sunday NY Times Arts and Leisure section, with its robust and exciting theatre section. On particularly good weeks, my parents would be in the mood to drive the two miles to the store that had the Sunday Times on Saturday night. That was a real treat.

I remember leafing through the Times in the store to make sure that every section was there. Well, maybe not every section--I probably wouldn't have noticed if the business or cars section was missing--but the big three: Arts & Leisure, Book Review, and the Magazine.

I remember learning how to handle the large pages, folding them just so. I remember the smell of the paper. I remember the feeling of the ink on my hands. I remember calling friends because, oh, Debbie Reynolds was going to be in Irene or Colleen Dewhurst was doing a show.

Similarly, I remember the excitement when the TV guide was delivered. If Waterloo Bridge or Kings Row was on at 2 a.m. a week from Wednesday, I'd have all that time to look forward to seeing it. My parents would get me up in the middle of the night--even on a school night--because who knew if we would ever get a chance to see it again?

I wouldn't go back. I love having the world at my fingertips. I love knowing that someone is going to be in a show practically before they do. The ink from the newspaper made me sneeze. I'm glad I don't kill so many trees. I love that I can watch Waterloo Bridge any time I want to.

But I miss anticipation.

Last year I went to Madagascar, and toward the end of the trip I ran out of books to read. I had brought six paperbacks, but I had read them all in various planes and airports and lodges and tents. Where we staying had one book in English: The DaVinci Code. I had read it, and once was more than enough. So, for about 30 hours, I didn't have a book to read. That's a long time for me. The only other time I can think of, I was in the hospital.

I knew that I would be able to get a book or two on the way home, when we had a layover at the Johannesburg airport, which has a lovely bookstore. I can't tell you how much I looked forward to that bookstore. When we finally got to the airport, I practically skipped there. It felt wonderful to leaf through various books with their worlds of possibility. (I wanted to stroke the covers, but I didn't want to get arrested in South Africa.) I bought Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and The Empty Family by Colm Tóibín. I read the entire The Empty Family on the way home, and loved it.

When I told people this story, many said, "Why didn't you take a Kindle? Then this would never have happened." But that misses the point. Doing without for a whole 30 hours didn't kill me, and when I did get my hands on some books, it was a flat-out joy. Anticipation enhanced the experience.

I'm tempted to do a "things were better in my days" rap now, but that's not the point either. The access to art, information, books, words, the entire world, is wonderful. But I do believe that young people nowadays, in being given so much, have been denied the deep pleasure of anticipation.

Show Showdown's Most Read Stories of 2012

In 2012, Show Showdown published 146 total posts. These twenty were the most read--or at least the most-clicked-on. I have tried to find a theme, but with no luck. Broadway, Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and regional theatre are all represented. Some are positive reviews, some quite negative. Some shows were reviewed on Show Showdown more than once, but only one review made this list--not necessarily the first review, not necessarily the review written by a particular writer. Six of the shows are musicals; one is about musicals; and one is a cabaret performance. Six shows were revivals.

I guess the only theme is that our readers have catholic tastes.

1. Les Miserables (Eastlight Theatre in Illinois; Jamie Fuller)
   
2. "Hard Times: The Adult Musical in 1970s New York City" (Liz Wollman)
   
3. Fort Blossom Revisited (2000/2012) (Wendy Caster)
   
4. Venus in Fur (Liz Wollman)
   
5. Annie (Liz Wollman)
   
6. Judy Kuhn at Feinstein's (Wendy Caster)
   
7. Nice Work If You Can Get It (Aaron Riccio)
   
8. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Wendy Caster)
   
9. A Streetcar Named Desire (Wendy Caster)
   
10. Don't Talk to the Actors (Wendy Caster)
    
11. Menders (Wendy Caster)
    
12. A Man of No Importance (Wendy Caster)
    
13. Rock of Ages (Liz Wollman)
    
14. Disaster! (Wendy Caster)
    
15. Clybourne Park (Wendy Caster)
    
16. Wendy Caster's 2012 Top Ten (Wendy Caster)
    
17. How I Learned to Drive (Liz Wollman)
    
18. Other Desert Cities (Liz Wollman)
    
19. DEINDE (Wendy Caster)
    
20. Red Dog Howls (Wendy Caster)

To Spoil or Not to Spoil: A Discussion

An interesting thread on critics and spoilers on All That Chat got me thinking. As a theatre blogger, I've already thought about the role of a critic quite a lot, as discussed here. One conclusion I've come to is that I'm a reviewer, rather than a critic.  (An interesting discussion of the difference can be found here. Based on this differentiation, I think Michael Feingold is the only true full-out theatre critic we have right now, and it remains a sin that he doesn't have an unlimited word count for his writing.)

The Critic from The Critic

As for the spoilers discussion: I completely do not understand why people can't just label spoilers as such. It's such an easy thing to do.

But, of course, reader self-protection is also important. For example, if you don't want to know the ending in advance, don't read John Lahr's reviews (though, of course, he's no longer writing them, which is not a huge loss). And if you really don't want anything spoiled, don't read any reviews or articles before seeing a show. Save them for afterward.

A personal bugaboo is when the one-line descriptor of a show or movie is in itself a spoiler. For example, a friend of mine was reading a book, and I said, oh, that's her AIDS book, right? And my friend actually started yelling at me, because the main character's illness had not yet been diagnosed, and I had taken away the surprise. But I had no idea it was a spoiler--I hadn't read the book, and it was referred to all over the place as a book on AIDS.

I personally don't like even hearing, "Oh, you'll love the twist." It changes how I view things. I recently read a book about which I knew nothing, and every twist and turn was a complete delight. If I had read even the first line of most reviews, I would have been denied much of that delight.

Ultimately, it's hard to write about anything without, well, writing about what you're writing about. Sometimes too much will be said. But, where possible, segregating spoilers into one part of the review and labeling them as spoilers is a form of customer advocacy I can live with.

Fun Home

One show I accidentally neglected for my top ten list was Fun Home.* This amazing musical version of Alison Bechdel's brilliant graphic memoir, by Jeanine Tesori and Lisa Kron, was one of the best new musicals I've seen in years and years. I hope it gets the full production it so richly deserves. And I hope it happens soon, before the cast's amazingly talented young people--in particular, Sydney Lucas as Young Alison--outgrow their roles.

Sydney Lucas sings a song from Fun Home at the Public Theatre Block Party
Photo: Simon Luethi

*I didn't review it because it was a workshop, so it didn't show up on my list of shows I saw this year.