She Loves Him (Kate Baldwin at Feinstein's)

If you look up the word lovely in the dictionary, there she is: Kate Baldwin, with her sweet, pure voice, beautiful smile, and great charm. In her current show at Feinstein's, She Loves Him, Baldwin devotes her copious gifts to the songs of the great Sheldon Harnick, who sings a few duets with her (and one solo). The whole show is a treat as they wander through Harnick's early novelty songs, Fiorello, She Loves Me, Fiddler, and the Rothschilds. The evening has many highlights, including Baldwin's gorgeous "When Did I Fall in Love?," excellent "A Trip to the Library," and superb "Gorgeous." Harnick's voice is strong and gravelly and contrasts perfectly with Baldwin's. I particularly enjoyed their duets on "In My Own Lifetime" and "Sunrise, Sunset." Harnick sat on stage for a couple of Baldwin's solos, and if I had to pick one best moment of the evening, it would be watching him kvell while Baldwin sings his songs. Baldwin's patter is often funny, and her backup band is superb (Scott Cady, piano/musical director; John Beale, bass; and Andrew Sterman on a truly impressive range of wind instruments).

(Press ticket, table audience left.)

Spider-Man

Photo: Annie Leibovitz

Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, which has been in previews since late November, has blown through at least $65 million dollars and three lead producers. Four actors have been injured. The opening has been delayed five times, and there is talk that the latest planned opening night, March 15, will be put off yet again.

The creative team has shrugged off these setbacks with fatuous excuses. Director Julie Taymor has explained that Spider-Man is less a mere “musical” than a “circus rock-‘n’-roll drama” that celebrates one of the most important myths of our time. Bono, who composed the music with U2 bandmate the Edge, told the Times that Spider-Man has been delayed as much as it has been because They Will Sell No Wine Before Its Time: “We’re wrestling with the same stuff as Rilke, Blake, ‘Wings of Desire,’ Roy Lichtenstein, the Ramones—the cost of feeling feelings, the desire for connections when you’re separate from others.” The producers are more candid, saying the delays are necessary to let the creative team focus in on the more deficient aspects of the show: the plot and score. Details, details.

The mere presence of a pricey musical that barely functions properly or makes any sense while patrons are asked to fork over more than $200 for some seats has prompted debates about consumer rights, worker safety and the ethics of reviewing a show before it officially opens. Does Broadway need a $65 million show to begin with?

Not this one.

Even the worst Broadway flops can have bright spots. Lost in the drab muddle of Paul Simon's The Capeman, for example, were a couple of great doo-wop numbers and a near-perfect starry rooftop scene. In Spider-Man, these shining moments come at the beginning of the show, which starts in the middle of the action: Mary Jane (a hard-working Jennifer Damiano) is dangling from a bridge! Will Spidey (a dazed Reeve Carney) leap from the Chrysler Building to save her in time?

Nothing after that is nearly as good. In her exploration of legend, Greek drama, aerial stunts, and how one actually Turns Off the aforementioned Dark, Taymor forgets that the Marvel Comics Spider-Man was an awkward, working-class kid from Queens whose peculiar physical gifts enabled him to kick ass and save lives, but not make many friends. For all the visual set-pieces and lengthy exposition, not a single character in this production—including, heartbreakingly, Peter Parker and Mary Jane—has any development, trajectory or motivation. Taymor’s contribution to the story, the spider-goddess-nemesis-whatever Arachne, contributes nothing save more confusion and one truly bizarre number involving a kickline of chorines dressed as spiders in tawdry underwear, singing something about sex and shoes.

In Spider-Man, Taymor can't tell a story (her greatest successes are adaptations of a Disney movie and Shakespeare plays) and she can't stage a scene unless her actors are swaddled in elaborate costumes, draped in scenery or hiding behind enormous masks. Even more distracting than some of the cheap-looking sets are the abrupt transitions between scenes in which monsters, villains and multiple Spider-Men bring the show to something approaching life, and those in which plain old people, devoid of camouflage, stand around spouting wooden exposition and sounding alternately like they are trapped in a bad screwball comedy, a John Hughes film, a grindhouse horror flick, or a cheesy sex-ed filmstrip about how, as Peter’s uncle puts it, “Puberty can be hard.”

The "Geek Chorus" (get it?) of four comic-book readers may be writing the story. Or maybe they are part of the story. Either way, they are neither interesting nor amusing enough for us to care about them. Same goes for all the villains save Patrick Page's gleeful Green Goblin, who seems like he’s in another show entirely. All the other villains are introduced early in act II. As they strut down a catwalk, a guy in dreadlocks sings about them in an insultingly thick Jamaican accent while accompanying himself on an empty pickle tub. After the number, the drummer disappears, and eventually, so do all the villains. Who were they, where did they come from, and where did they go?

The sound design is good and the orchestra is excellent. Too bad about the songs. At root, U2 is a post-punk band that made itself into an arena darling by matching swagger with introspection. U2 works with layers of sound that repeat, slowly entwine and build gradually in volume and density into petulant, anthemic proclamations. But what works well in front of 40,000 screaming fans at a stadium quickly becomes tedious in a theater. Each song develops in the same way, robbing the show of energy and surprise. The only time the music serves the drama is during the wordless chase scenes—such as a black-and-white sequence with bad guys in giant masks hauling bags of money—when the repetition and layering convey a sense of urgency.

Near the end of Act I the night I went, a stuntman playing Spider-Man (Stunter-Man? Stuntey?) got trapped on the balcony and the show stopped—to raucous applause. Was the audience, deprived thus far of much that could be called entertainment, hoping for a clever ad lib or a fatal plunge into the orchestra seats? Both?

Theater is theater until it ceases to be live, and the second act of Spider-Man is as dead as dead can be. At one point, Taymor puts Spidey alone on stage to pantomime a fight with cartoon images projected on the screen behind him. Wii Broadway.

Even at its prettiest and most interesting moments, and there were a few, this show got no emotional response from me except the fear that it would never end, trapping me forever in front of a huge projection of cartoon bad guys. This is not what Aristotle had in mind when he discussed catharsis. Nor is the pity I felt for the artists and theater-goers whose time this musical has wasted. There is no saving Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, no matter how many more times opening night is put off. This broken project needs to open and close, so that all involved can lick their wounds and get back to putting on shows worth watching.

(seen Wednesday evening, March 2; BroadwayBox special offer; row W on the aisle.)

That Championship Season

If Broadway is a museum, the mediocrities depicted in Jason Miller’s 1972 play That Championship Season (in previews at the Bernie Jacobs Theater) are dinosaurs. In the Pulitzer Prize-winning drama, five men “somewhere in the Lackawanna Valley” gather to reminisce about the 1952 state high school basketball title they won by a single point at the buzzer. Championship contemplates aging, mythmaking and the ways middle-aged, middle-class men view masculinity and success.

These days, a Broadway production of a middle-aged retread with household names in the cast comes as no surprise. The structure of the show is not much of a surprise, either: Give a bunch of middle-aged, not-especially-happy guys a bucket of chicken and unlimited booze, and it’s only a matter of time before tensions rise, secrets spill and long-harbored disappointments and resentments boil over. Then, bust out some old fight songs to make everything all better again by the end of the night.

Nevertheless, the characters–rather than director Gregory Mosher’s somewhat pedestrian staging or the predictable, confessional trajectory of the plot–carry the show. Each man is bitter in his own particular way. These are not especially likeable men–they don’t hesitate to voice their hatreds of Jews and Blacks, and all seem to have a pathological disrespect of women—but they are always honestly rendered by the playwright, who could have been a lot nastier and more condescending to them had he wanted to be.

Although the actors mostly disappear into their roles, here, their real lives add unexpected dimension to the events. Jason Patric (who plays the nihilistic alcoholic Tom Daley) is the son of the playwright, who died in 2001; his role as court jester for the evening evokes his late father’s function as the scene-setter. Kiefer Sutherland, another son of a famous father, has struggled publicly and often humiliatingly with his own alcoholism and is practically unrecognizable here as Tom’s slouched, buttoned-down brother James, whose conservative demeanor disguises profound anxiety, resentment, and disillusionment. Chris Noth brings a touch of the ingratiating Mr. Big of “Sex and the City” to his portrayal of the coldly amoral, unapologetically materialistic Phil Romano. Jim Gaffigan—better known as a stand-up comedian—plays the inept town mayor, George Sikowski, with equal amounts of obtuse, stuffed-shirt swagger and crippling doubt.

As the coach that refuses to see them as anything but glorious heroes, Brian Cox occasionally tends toward the histrionic, and sometimes forgets to suppress his British accent. But usually, he shrinks beautifully into himself. It’s clear here that for all the swaggering bravado and insistence that he’s on the mend from a ridiculously downplayed illness, Coach is dying. Offstage, Cox may be a Commander of the British Empire, but for the duration of this revival, he, like the rest of the characters, is a sad man clinging desperately to a fading, mythical past. When Coach gamely pulls his shirt up to show off the enormous scar that runs down his belly, he inadvertently reveals himself to his “boys” to be small, disoriented, and old.

The show, advertised as a “strictly limited run,” may have legs, opening as it does in the shadow of the surprise hit Lombardi. Audiences looking for the darker side of sports and a more jaundiced view of what manhood meant in the second half of the last century might want to take a look at Championship before the season ends.

TDF purchase; 2pm on 2/23/11; row G24, mezzanine.

Introduction

Hi. My name is Liz, and I'm an assistant professor of music at Baruch College, CUNY. I specialize in the American musical, and focus for the most part on late-20th and early 21st century productions. I am the author of The Theater Will Rock: A History of the Rock Musical, From Hair to Hedwig (2006). The Show Showdown has long been one of my favorite blogs, and I thank its creators for having me as an occasional contributor.

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller

Anthropologist Krystal D'Costa was my companion for The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller. For her insightful take on the show, click here.

The Wooster Group's Version of Tennessee Williams' Vieux Carré

While watching the Wooster Group's pretentious, pointless, and ham-handed production of Vieux Carré, a question occurred to me: What if it's not that the emperor has no clothes but rather that the emperor has only one outfit? One tattered outfit that the emperor trots out again and again?

The first Wooster Group production I saw was House/Lights. It was mesmerizing--I had never seen anything like it. I had no idea what it was supposed to be, but it didn't matter. It was fascinating and stimulating with its video and stylized acting, and Kate Valk was amazing. My second Wooster Group production was the Emperor Jones, which I found bizarre and arguably racist and which relied on many of the same tricks used in House/Lights. However, Kate Valk's brilliance saved the evening. Next came the recreation of the Richard Burton Hamlet, which brought nothing to the table but the same old bag of tricks but took a great deal away. It reminded me of those abstract paintings that are one line or one big splash of one color--a somewhat interesting exercise presented as a finished work of art.

And now there is The Wooster Group's Version of Tennessee Williams' Vieux Carré (yes, that's the title). The Wooster Group drowns Williams' odd and gentle work in a murky sea of electronics, peculiar sounds, repetitive videos, and marked disrespect for the text. In Williams' version there is a lonely, dying, elderly homosexual who seduces the main character (called "The Writer") in an act that is simultaneously predatory and generous, meaningless and meaningful. In the Wooster Group version, that same character is reduced to a flaming queen in an Asian robe with a constantly visible, constantly erect phallus; for a cheap visual gag, the Wooster Group gives up all that is complex and humane in the character. Two elderly women who are slowly starving to death become an ugly vision of a man with a bad wig on a flat screen. The Writer hammers away at his anachronistic keyboard as though he is creating rather than recording the events of the play, a conceit that works no better here than it did in the Roundabout's recent version of The Glass Menagerie. And the production isn't even semi-rescued by Kate Valk, who is one-dimensional as the society woman desperately in love with a bouncer at a strip club and annoying and unintelligible as the nasty, needy landlady.

(It didn't help that the Jerome Robbins Theater at the Baryshnikov Arts Center is possibly the single most uncomfortable theatre that has ever had the nerve to charge up to $65. Chiropractors should be provided when the two-hour, intermission-less show finally ends each night.)

Considering the four productions I've seen, I would have to say that the Wooster Group is like a bad jazz band who thinks everything is about them--and who makes every song sound the same.

(Paid $34, sat first-row balcony.)

Apple Cove

Apple Cove is a satire of people who choose conformity and control to feel less frightened by the rest of the world. The show starts when newlyweds Alan and Edie move to the rule-bound Apple Cove, next door to Edie's father Gary, who considers regular gated communities insufficiently rigid and guarded. Alan and Edie's feeble attempts at independence and originality are nipped in the bud by Gary's overbearing interference until the swamp on which Apple Cove was built starts to reassert itself.

Apple Cove, written by Lynn Rosen and directed by Giovanna Sardelli, is too heavy-handed--and starts too slowly--to succeed as satire and/or farce. The main characters are too cartoony to elicit much audience sympathy or identification, and the show is too long for the story it has to tell. However, parts of Apple Cove do work, in particular the attraction between Edie (Allison Mack) and the hunky security guard (Dion Mucciacito) whose multi-ethnicity and love of the natural make him her antidote to enforced conformity. It helps that Mack and Mucciacito have genuine chemistry and are excellent performers. Kathy Searle is impressively effective as Edie's former classmate and current stepmother, despite having to play an ill-defined character.

(Reviewer comp; eighth row on the aisle.)

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller

Photo: Lia Chang

In 1961, the anthropologist Michael Rockefeller, of the business-political-philanthropic Rockefellers, visited the Asmat people deep in the jungles of New Guinea. He fell in love with their art and made a second visit for further study, during which he disappeared. There are two versions of how he died (if indeed he did die): (1) A crocodile ate him after his canoe overturned (a theory supported by another anthropologist who saw the canoe overturn but didn't see what happened to Rockefeller) or (2) The head-hunting, cannibalistic Asmat killed and ate him in revenge for an earlier murder of some of their people by white men (this theory is based on extremely circumstantial evidence).

Jeff Cohen's smart, funny, and moving play The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller (based on a short story of the same name by Christopher Stokes) tells the story of Rockefeller's visit from the point of view of the Asmat, who are initially amused by Rockefeller's enthusiasm and his mangling of their language (he cheerfully announces at one point, "I am a monkey fucker"). However, as he focuses his attention on the carvings of Designing Man, he throws off the balance of the tribe, and his visit sets off a chain of events that epitomizes the concept of unintended consequences.

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller is, on one hand, a romp of a show, including an hysterical sex-as-manipulation scene, and on the other a serious examination of how humans (both strangers and friends) interact, how our assumptions color our view of the world, and how the road to hell can indeed be paved with good intentions.

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller is beautifully directed by Alfred Preisser, and superbly acted by, in particular, Daniel Morgan Shelley as Designing Man; David King as his friend Half-Moon, who feels threatened by the attention Designing Man is receiving, and Tracy Jack as Half-Moon's sexually enthusiastic wife.

(Reviewer comp; third row on the aisle.)

A Perfect Future

Photo: Richard Termine

There are certain things that are devilishly difficult to pull off in a play. One is having middle-aged people reminisce about a shared wild youth without sounding artificial. Another is assigning characters different political points of view without making them two-dimensional "theme-bearers" rather three-dimensional humans. A third is having characters drink themselves into brutal honesty without writing a pale copy of the works of Albee or O'Neill.

I am sad to say that David Hay's new play, A Perfect Future, directed by Wilson Milam, does not succeed at overcoming these difficulties.

Natalie and John are visited by their old friend Elliot. Decades ago, the three shared sex, drugs, and radical politics. Natalie is now a film maker; John is on Wall Street; Elliot is raising money for the defense of a former Black Panther they all knew, now a Muslim in jail for terrorist activity. John has invited along one of his staff members, Mark, supposedly to provide a potential match for Elliot, but really to set the plot in motion. Much wine is drunk. Much, much, much wine is drunk. Oh, boy, is a lot of wine drunk.

John is supposedly an oenophile, but his behavior does not match the description. It is hard to tell whether this is a character point or careless writing, particularly since the production is sloppy about which bottles supposedly contain red wine and which supposedly white.

So, anyway, they drink and drink and drink. They drink so much that one has to wonder if the unnecessary intermission was added to give the actors a pee break.

At some point in the evening's festivities, Mark makes a comment so egregiously wrong that the others turn on him. The problem is that it is so egregiously wrong that he would never, ever, in a million years have said it in that room at that time. Then the other characters go on to say a lot of things they would never say. Oh, and they drink a lot. Did I mention that? That they drink?

When finally the social masks have been stripped away, some of the characters turn out to be not what we expected. But they turn out to be unbelievable as well.

At its best, A Perfect Future is a third-rate copy of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. At its worst, it is watching a bunch of people drink dyed water.

(reviewer comp; eighth row on the aisle)

StageGrade (Website Review)

StageGrade provides an important public service for New York theatre-goers: it assembles reviews of Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Off-Off-Broadway shows, providing a synopsis, an average grade, and links to the reviews themselves. The site is attractive and easy to navigate.

One of StageGrade's most interesting features is the way it pairs reviewer and community ratings. Some are identical--for example, Mary Poppins received C+'s from both groups. Some differ in predictable ways--for example, Wicked received a C+ from critics but a B+ from audience members. Some differ in surprising ways--for example, Through the Night received a B+ from reviewers but only a C from the community. And some I think could be (should be?) of particular use to producers--for example, while the critics gave Phantom of the Opera a B, community response is down to C+. Perhaps it's time for some extra rehearsals or a visit from director Harold Prince.

StageGrade carries advertising and links to Telecharge. I have no idea if the site makes enough money to pay its staff of four (Rob Weinert-Kendt, Isaac Butler, Karl Miller, and Linda Buchwald) even minimum wage. However, I hope StageGrade does very well--the staff members obviously work hard keeping up this comprehensive site.

StageGrade's most important contribution to the theatre world? It provides a wonderful and vivid reminder that reviews are ultimately just opinions--ideally, knowledgeable and educated opinions, but opinions nevertheless.

(Disclosure: my reviews are often included on StageGrade.)

Dog Act

Photo: Isaiah Tanenbaum

In Liz Duffy Adams' amazing new play Dog Act, presented by the Flux Ensemble Theatre, the apocalypse has come and gone, and various tribes scramble to survive in a barren, unfriendly landscape. Zetta Stone, of the Vaudevillian Tribe, and her companion Dog (a young man undergoing a voluntary species demotion) are on their way to China for an important gig. This description, part of which is directly from the Flux Theatre's website, does as good a job describing Dog Act as "it's about Russia" does describing War and Peace. Dog Act is a meditation on religion, civilization, responsibility, morals, the implacability of the life force, and how the arts/media bring meaning to people's lives. It's also extremely entertaining, breathtakingly imaginative, and quite funny (especially in the second act).

Adams and director Kelly O'Donnell, with the help of a wonderful cast and a superb creative team, bring to life an entire world, fascinating and frightening, on a small stage with limited scenery. The different patois Adams has created for the different tribes are totally convincing as future forms of English (and not difficult to understand). Members of the Scavenger Tribe talk in a combination of Shakespearean English and obscenities, including the perfectly delightful phrase "for-fuckin-sooth." The Vaudevillians use mangled versions of sayings from TV shows that went off the air before their grandparents were born.

Each cast member makes a strong, important contribution. I was particularly impressed by Lori E. Parquet's subtlety, Liz Douglas's intensity, and Becky Byers perfectly calibrated insanity.

As a reviewer, I sometimes feel tired and jaded. It can seem as though everything has been said and all that's left for theatre is different combinations of tired tropes and creaky cliches. But then I see something like Dog Act (although there really isn't anything like Dog Act) and I am reminded of theatre's power and beauty. Dog Act only runs through February 20th. Here's the website. Go!

(Reviewer's comp; second row center.)

Black Tie

Photo: James Leynse

In A.R. Gurney's stilted, unconvincing play Black Tie, middle-aged Curtis is thrilled at the prospect of wearing dinner clothes and giving a traditional speech at the rehearsal dinner for his son's wedding; however, his future daughter-in-law Maya has other ideas. Through this not-particularly-compelling conflict, Black Tie ostensibly explores changing contemporary mores, but Curtis's cluelessness and bellowing are straight out of a late-20th-century sitcom. Even worse, we never see Maya, so there is a gaping hole where the play might be. The characters we do see are thinly drawn--when a ghost is the most complex character, something is off-balance. The occasional political references seem random and make Black Tie neither more meaningful nor more interesting. Mark Lamos directs the show with big takes and overdone business. Of the performers, only Ari Brand as the son manages to sound like an actual human being. Gregg Edelman as Curtis gives a one-note performance and his inverted-S posture is annoying and wrong for the role.

(Reviewer's comp; eighth row on the aisle.)

Lysistrata

Theodora Skipitares has directed a new version of Aristophanes' Lysistrata, featuring performers wearing Skipitares' masks or life-sized puppets. (The other puppet designers are Jane Catherine Shaw and Cecilia Schiller.) Her adaptation is true to Aristophanes' version, with the storyline (women withholding sex to convince their menfolk to give up war) and bawdy humor intact. Skipitares also includes recent footage about real women using Lysistratan techniques, including a sex strike by girlfriends of gang lords in Colombia. There is much creativity in this production, but, sad to say, the show is on the dull side and runs too long, even at an hour. Part of the problem is that Lysistrata itself is a one-joke, one-theme show. While it is interesting historically, it is not that interesting theatrically. Penis jokes wear thin. Skipitares' puppets and masks bring a sense of ceremony and period, but they are distancing, and it is hard to care about anything happening on stage for more than a few minutes. The video footage, while compelling, is difficult to see and the narration is difficult to hear. Lysistrata is blessed, however, by a fascinating score, composed, played, and sung by Sxip Shirey on/with a wonderful array of digital, plastic, and wooden devices.

(Reviewers comps, 4th row.)

Road to Qatar

Theatrical satires of theatrical performances have many things in common: enthusiastic but oblivious participants, extreme versions of theatrical clichés, and happy endings where the final product is kind of terrible yet kind of wonderful. The Road to Qatar (book and lyrics by Stephen Cole; music by David Krane) is the latest in this long and honored tradition, and it faces a difficult challenge: there have been so many satires of theatre clichés that the take-offs themselves are now clichés. While The Road to Qatar, a mix of [title of show] and the Bing Crosby-Bob Hope road movies, is amiable and pleasant, it is little more than a greatest hits collection of Jewish jokes, gay jokes, annoying mother jokes, foreigner jokes, and other extremely-well-worn categories of humor. The music is listener-friendly but undistinguished; the lyrics are occasionally clever but not often enough.

If The Road to Qatar focused on its unique (and true!) story of two strangers thrown together to write a musical in Dubai and less on the usual theatrical jokes, it might be stronger. Cole and Krane decided to go the broad-humor route, but more reality might have served them well--in particular more focus on how the men coped, became friends, dealt with the travel, and how they perhaps grew from the experience.

James Beaman and Keith Gerchak play the leads; the jokes about their being mirror images would work better if they actually looked alike (as the authors definitely do). Sarah Stiles and Bruce Warren bring much life to the show with their wide range of talents and deep senses of humor. Michael Bottari and Ronald Case's puppets are delightful, and Bob Richard's choreography is fun.

(Reviewer's comp; 4th row)

David Parsons Dance

Photo: B. Docktor

Years ago I took a friend to see his first evening of dance. Afterward, I asked him what he thought. He said, "Beautiful people doing beautiful things with their beautiful bodies. What's not to like?" He could have been talking about Parsons Dance, at the Joyce theatre through February 6th.

World premiere Portinari, choreographed by Parsons, was inspired by Brazilian painter, muralist and political activist Candido Portinari and is a duet between the artist (the brilliant and seemingly indefatigable Miguel Quinones) and his muse. I (deliberately) did not read the explanation before seeing the piece, and I perceived it as a heartbreaking meditation on grief.

Another premiere, Love, oh Love, choreographed by Monica Bill Barnes to music by Kenny Rogers, Lionel Richie and Diana Ross, explores the push-pull of relationships (including same-gender relationships, a welcome touch) with verve and humor.

From the established repertory, Bachiana, set to Bach's Orchestral Suites and Air on a G String, represents the best of David Parsons: joy and exuberance unfolding like sinuous machinery, each movement leading to the next with graceful inevitability.

And if you haven't seen Parson's signature piece Caught, you really, really, really must. You'll believe a man can fly.

(Seat N1, reviewer comps)

Reviewer or Consumer Advocate?

Art & Photo © Susan B. Glattstein

I have decided to start specifying where I sat--and how much I paid to sit there--at the end of every review I write. And here's why:

Have you ever gone to see a well-reviewed show, only to discover that (a) it didn't work from the cheap seats or (b) it didn't justify the cost of the good seats? And did you ever think, well, if I sat where the critics sat, with free tickets, I also might have loved it?

Me too.

There is a saying that where you sit is where you stand, and it can be literally true when critics for the mainstream media receive comps for the best seats in the house. It doesn't matter to them if there is a dead spot in the back of the orchestra under the mezzanine or if the lead actor's performance doesn't register past the tenth row. They also never have to experience the pain of spending a small fortune to see a show that, well, kinda sucks.

Most of us in the blogosphere are lower on the food chain than the mainstream critics (some of us much lower). Yes, we are fortunate enough to receive comps to some shows, but we still pay to see others. Our seats, like yours, can be anywhere in the theatre.

Theatre is more enjoyable from good seats. That's why they call them good seats. And even a terrible play is not quite as painful when you haven't paid for it, while seeing a wonderful play for free can make you feel like the luckiest person on earth. On the other hand, paying a ton of money can skew an audience member's response to a show. It makes some people determined to have a good time--no matter what. Me? I get angry. That's why I have largely stopped buying expensive tickets. I have yet to see Billy Elliot or Jersey Boys and will probably never see Spider-Man. Is any one show really worth $141.50? (Okay, the Sondheim Celebration at the New York Philharmonic was worth every cent we all paid, but that was an exceptional, exceptional evening.)

As a reviewer, I am vigilant not to let comp tickets influence how I review a show. I admit that I occasionally worry that a negative review will get me blacklisted, but I write the negative review anyway. Otherwise, what's the point? And as I write about shows for which I received comps, I keep their real-world ticket prices in mind. The bottom line is that I strive always to acknowledge the actuality of theatre-going for most theatre-goers.

I guess I've come to feel that being a reviewer is a consumer-advocate position. I know that some critics posit theories that expand one's theatrical experiences, open one's eyes, and blow one's mind, and more power to them. I'm more of the "it's good, here's why, give it a chance" school. And I want my recommendations--and un-recommendations--to be as useful to my readers as possible. And that is why I made the decision to start specifying at the end of each review where I sat and how much I paid to sit there.

One other thing: when I am given reviewer tickets, I will of course honor the embargo not to publish my review until opening night. When I pay for tickets for a preview, I will generally wait until opening night to post, unless there are particular circumstances (e.g., the show is already good or has become news in some way). And if I see an early preview, I will say so.

Here's hoping that the extra information at the end of my reviews will make my reviews more relevant and useful to you.

To readers: Do you have any suggestions on other ways to improve the utility of reviews for you? Please share them if you do.

To other reviewers: What do you think?

Terri White

Terri White does not identify a theme to her show at Feinstein's at the Regency, but it is nevertheless clear: the theme is joy. Not that White doesn't sing a sad song or two, and act them nicely. It's simply that she is bursting with happiness. After some tough times, she now has a happy marriage and a rejuvenated career (including playing Stella Deems in the upcoming Follies in Washington, D.C.) and enough energy to light up a small town or two. Utilizing her strong, attractive voice and a ton of personality, White sings exuberant versions of "Necessity" (which she sang in Finian's Rainbow on Broadway), "I Am Changing" (from Dreamgirls, which she briefly pouts about not being cast in), "When You're Good to Mama" (which she sang in Chicago), and the cabaret favorite "Here's to Life." Her version of "More Than You Know," sung to her wife in the front row, had both women and some audience members in tears. White's patter has some funny moments, and her imitation of Nell Carter singing "Mean to Me" is nothing short of hysterical. White's show could use a bit more polish, and some of her interactions with her band are a little too "in-joke-y." Her voice occasionally falls off of a note or two, and her physical mannerisms can be repetitive. Overall, however, watching her perform is a great deal of fun. White is at Feinstein's again on January 30th. (Note: I had a reviewer's comps and sat to the side.)

Short Takes

The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore. The Mild Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore is far from Tennessee Williams' best work. However, it is involving, funny, sexy, and sad. The situation is familiar: emotionally-needy rich old woman meets financially-needy gorgeous young man. Both are and aren't con artists. Their connection is and isn't genuine. But it doesn't matter. In Williams' world, faux love is better than no love. Olympia Dukakis is uneven but ultimately triumphant as the self-involved, nasty, frightened Flora Goforth. Edward Hibbert, in a piece of inspired casting, does wonders with a role previously played by Mildred Dunnock, Ruth Ford, and Marian Seldes. Director Michael Wilson does a lovely job with unspoken moments but allows a certain thinness to the performances of Darren Pettie in the all-important hunk role and Maggie Lacey as a young widow trapped in a claustrophobically unhappy situation. (Note: I saw a fairly early preview, paid $31.50, and sat in the first row to the far house left.)

The Importance of Being Earnest. The current production of The Importance of Being Earnest isn't earth-shattering, but it is solid and funny. Brian Bedford does well as both director and lead actress. The cast also isn't earth-shattering, but they are all good and they all know how to land their jokes. Perhaps most importantly, the dialogue is about 95% intelligible, which is a very high grade in a Broadway house nowadays. Sitting in the last row of the mezzanine ($10 tickets) at the third preview, I felt completely involved in the show, with none of that sense of distance that often occurs past the tenth row in the orchestra.

[Semi-spoilers below.]

Other Desert Cities. I am baffled at the superlative reviews that Jon Robin Baitz's Other Desert Cities has been receiving. The play is in that dreadful genre of "we must avoid telling the truth until late in the second act or we won't have a show." If the big reveal had been at the end of the first act or even in scene one, Other Desert Cities could have focused on the realities of how long-kept secrets can poison families. Instead, it chooses to move into another annoying genre: "a secret is revealed and, boom, everyone is healed." Stacey Keach rises above the material, Stockard Channing gives an interesting voice performance with no facial expressions (Botox?), Thomas Sadoski does well with an odd character, Linda Lavin is underutilized, and the often-wonderful Elizabeth Marvel flails away to little avail. (I saw an early preview, fifth row center, ~$45.)

Blood From a Stone

Photo: Monique Carboni

Is there anything left to be said about dysfunctional families? If so, Tommy Nohilly hasn't found it. His debut play, Blood From a Stone, with its echoes of Sam Shepard and its unremitting ugliness, is a second-tier grim-a-thon. If you see even a little theatre and/or independent film, you know the drill: the parents hate each other; the father is violent; the mother is angry; one kid is charming but can't be trusted; one got away; and the last, the main character, is more insightful and sensitive than the others--and generally autobiographical. Everyone argues. Drugs are consumed. Punches are thrown. Blood From a Stone does have some compelling and convincing moments, particularly on the rare occasions it shows a little humor, but not enough to justify its two hours and 45 minutes. Ethan Hawke tamps down his usual theatrical exuberance into a subtle, pained, hopeless yet hopeful performance. Natasha Lyonne gives a jolt of energy to the proceedings--she is one of those actors whose very presence brings everything up a notch. Daphne Rubin-Vega does well in a quick scene as the adulterer next door, and Ann Dowd, Gordon Clapp, and Thomas Guiry bring flesh and blood to characters that get only a couple of traits each. (Note: I saw this fifth row, close to center, with free reviewer tickets.)