Next to Normal

Photo: Joan Marcus

The best seat in the house is a matter of opinion. Some people prefer first row mezzanine center so that they can view the entire stage picture. Other people like four or five rows back in the orchestra so that they are close, but still have some perspective. I prefer to sit as close as possible. On Thursday, I had the wonderful experience of seeing Next to Normal first row center orchestra. (Thanks to Susan and Andrea for getting to Shubert Alley at 7:30 in the morning to buy rush tickets!) Yes, there are things you miss sitting first row--in the case of Next to Normal, you can't see the entire top section of the set. But, oh, what you do get to see. And feel. For example, the first row reveals whole new levels to Alice Ripley's performance. Her lips move nervously while the others talk. Paranoia wafts off her skin. You experience her craziness as you might experience a friend's. And the most emotional scenes are right in your face, as though you are in Dan and Diana's house rather than in a theatre. On a more mundane level, first row allows you to hear the performers' actual voices a bit and not just the amplification and also to appreciate the mechanics of putting together a song that goes from person to person and scene to scene, as the actors go up and down stairs, move furniture, and clean up messes, all in character. The excellent Michael Berry was on for J. Robert Spencer. He plays Dan as a warmer, more loving person, which I liked a lot.

Wishful Drinking

photo: Kevin Berne

A word to the wise: don't eat before you see Wishful Drinking, the acerbic and utterly enjoyable one-woman show written and performed by Carrie Fisher, which opens tonight at Studio 54. No, there's nothing disgusting onstage--unless the sight of a slightly zaftig fifty-three year old woman trying to dry hump a young male audience member doesn't exactly do it for you. Rather, the reason that you should refrain from food prior to Fisher's two-hour confessional is that, if your reaction to the show is anything like mine, you'll be heaving so heartily in your seat that by the end of the evening you find yourself on the verge of nausea. Fisher--back on Broadway for the first time in nearly three decades--holds the audience in the palm of her hand for the show's entirety, skillfully wringing waves of comedy from some of the most unfunny moments of her life: the dissolution of her parents' marriage; her fraught relationship with ex-husband Paul Simon; having the father of her daughter leave her for another man, and then promptly announce that she'd "turned him gay by taking codeine"; and, above all, her almost lifelong battle with substance abuse. All of this material is inherently dramatic--most of these plot-points could easily make their way into a play by Martin McDonagh or Tracy Letts--which is all the more reason to praise Fisher and her comedic prowess. She throws up her hands and laughs at her pain, and you'd better believe we're laughing with her.

Kiss of The Spider Woman

It's well-known that productions at NYU's Steinhardt School tend to be very good if not excellent. While I intend to honor the policy that they're not open for review, I really see no harm in spreading the word that their current production, of Kander and Ebb's Kiss of The Spider Woman, demands you clear some time on your calendar. Remaining performances through Monday night.

Hamlet

photo: Tristam Kenton

A note to Michael Grandage, artistic director of The Donmar Warehouse and director of its production of Hamlet, currently playing a limited engagement at the Broadhurst Theatre: just because you have Jude Law in your cast doesn't mean that you can skimp on the rest of the ensemble. Though far from perfect, Law acquits himself nicely as the Danish prince, commanding the attention of the audience throughout the role's myriad soliloquies (his delivery of "What a piece of work is a man..." is particularly good). However, there's hardly anyone else in the cast that's up to his--or, for that matter, any professional--level. Especially horrific is Gugu Mbartha-Raw, who reads Ophelia's lines as if they were being fed to her through an earpiece. The great Geraldine James is no better as Gertrude--she announces Ophelia's death as casually as one would order a glass of wine at a bar--and Ron Cook's dual performance as Polonius and the 1st Gravedigger is hammier than an Oscar Mayer delivery truck. Grandage's overall production is overwhelmingly grey and dull, and adds no dimension to the hollow performances on stage. His intention was probably to spotlight the text through the absence of scenery, but the sight of the Broadhurst's brick stage wall simply made me miss Mary Stuart more than ever.

The Buddha Play

Evan Brenner's one-man play is a simple piece of theater, but not simple-minded. Mr. Brenner plainly and engagingly recites from the oldest Buddhist sutras, known as the Pali Canon, recounting the life of Siddhartha Gautama, who became forever known as the Buddha. He brings the characters alive, not histrionically, but through measured, focused, artful talk and movement. As the play begins it feels more like storytelling than "drama"; but it slowly becomes suspenseful in spite of itself. Gautama does not take lightly his decision to leave behind his rich inheritance and "go forth" as a seeker of salvation. And after he has achieved Nirvana he continues to live in a warlike world, with followers, family – and the Devil periodically prodding him away from his path. Read the full review.

A Steady Rain

photo: Joan Marcus

Where's the fun in a star performance that doesn't capitalize on the star's star qualities? That's what I wondered watching Hugh Jackman work his ass off during this one act in which he sits with legs wide apart and says "moherf@*ker" a lot to play a lower middle class Chicago beat cop. To borrow from Pauline Kael, it's like watching Julia Roberts not smiling. Jackman does a commendable job vocally - there's no trace of his Australian accent - and you see all the work he's done on his physicality. But that's just it - you're watching sweat. In the chair beside him all evening is Daniel Craig, whose disappearance into his more character-y character is so complete you'd barely recognize him even without the mustache. You forget almost immediately that he's the James Bond of our day, but you don't forget for an instant that Hugh Jackman is Hugh Jackman. This isn't to say that Craig is a better actor than Jackman, but instead that Craig isn't yet limited by stardom the way that Jackman is.