Priscilla, Queen of the Desert

A Little Dessert in the Desert

I love the movie, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. The performances are nearly flawless, the costumes spectacularly original, and the script and direction fresh and thrilling. And the score is inspired. Translating movies to Broadway seems to be a dicey affair, especially when transfusing in the literal vein. As a matter of course, adding no original music rarely honors either medium.

From that standpoint, Priscilla the Musical isn't "good." Compared to the movie, the script is lesser, the costumes are copies, and the brilliance of the song selection (as necessary as some of the changes were) is debateable. Despite any of that, the show is fun and entertaining. It isn't trying to reinvent the musical form. It isn't trying to out-do the movie. It exists for commercial and not creative reasons. And, quite frankly, it does more to give you your money's worth than many shows with better books and scores. Personally, I am happy the show exists.

As staged camp, they know better than to take themselves too seriously, with the exception of the terminally pensive Will Swenson (who I loved in Hair with a stalker's devotion--a stalker that was, alas, too lazy to pose an ounce of a threat, so no need to alert Mr. Swenson's security team). It is tough to make interesting a dramatic arc that journeys from ache to hurt for 2 hours. It makes the audience a little numb to the moments that are actually intended to be painful--and the movie has those moments. Beneath the wigs, wardrobe, and wackiness, the movie was about real people with real issues that exist in the real world. It revealed devastation at every stage, literally and figuratively.

All of the leads are shadows of the original, although Tony Sheldon is genuinely touching and funny. The actors tell the story with heart (and heels), and they mount the bus and invite you along for a joy ride. I was pleased as punch to climb aboard, but most in the audience on the night I attended displayed a raucous enthusiasm and nearly jumped on board. They were into it from the first spin of the disco ball.

Keala Settle as Shirley shines in a brief appearance that capitalizes on every moment. The 3 divas, big voiced one and all, offer a nice but ultimately unnecessary addition that serves more as vocal set dressing than Greek chorus. Much of the remainder of the supporting cast were attractive--all over. The buffet of bare flesh was endless and extensive, a slip of the tucking tape away from revealing their didgeridoos.

I won lottery tickets in the first row. My general opinion is that closer is better. That just works for me. At the Palace, though, the height of the stage is a bit too high for my comfort (and at 6'2" I've got more stretch than most people). You'll spend the money you save on $40 tickets on a chiropractor after the show.

I understand that they couldn't get the rights to the Abba songs that were so essential to the movie--you'll have to walk up the block to catch those. If you don't know the movie, you won't necessarily miss the songs, but what they represented is missing too. They were the payoff for a movie-long buildup. There's no climax here. As a matter of fact, there's very little huffing and puffing either. It is actually disappointing theatrically and politically. That this female impersonator's showstopping characterization is reduced to an off-handed, poorly-executed Elvis redux is silly, unnecessary, and borderline offensive. It makes one wonder why they didn't cut it entirely, as they did the ending of the movie. It felt like they had to get everyone out of their gaffs and girdles before the clock struck twelve or overtime kicked in. Interesting that the script was the clumsiest thing about the show given the height of the heels.

The show has the elements to have a nice run--flash, fun, familiar songs, and a negligible script. Safe for tourists who don't travel with a Bible, a baseball bat, or a translator.

If you are looking for a silly night in the theatre that allows you to escape for a couple of hours, this is a perfectly enjoyable show. If you are a huge fan of the movie, you've probably already seen the show. If you haven't, spend the time on the couch cuddled up with the originals.

Anything Goes

A Cole Day in Hell 

Photo Credit: Joan Marcus

I work in the theater. No, I no longer perform; but I am an enthusiastic audience member who believes that once the curtain goes up, I have a job. I don't sit back and wait to get caught up in a show. I throw myself at it. In the spirit of full disclosure, I will also pick myself up and remove myself at the first black out if I decide the job's not up to much. As a passionate audience member, my responses tend toward the extreme. I am bitter, resentful, and venomous when I hate something and am an effusive, cheering, unpaid-spokesperson when I love something. Occasionally, I am merely whelmed.

I went into The Stephen Sondheim Theater with a dubious heart and a ten dollar ticket for Anything Goes. I also went in with a history, starring alongside a first-class Reno Sweeney in community theater and witnessing the pint-sized genius of Elaine Paige from the third balcony in the West End. Upon hearing the announcement of Sutton Foster's casting, I was more perplexed than when splitting the check after an all-you-can-drink brunch. To me, she was a Hope at most and a Bonnie/Irma at best.

A reconfigured opening, establishing her dating relationship with Billy, gave me hope. . .that lasted until the first belt. As feared, she just wasn't up to the role. Her singing was sweet not Sweeney, her vibrato was under control, and her dancing (what little there was in what is traditionally a tap show) was accurate, although the choreography transported me back to community theater--more arms than toes and heels. Her delivery, requiring zing and star quality, was more US Postal Service than Fed Ex. The jokes showed up, just not always on time. And when she wasn't speaking or singing, her attention span jumped ship.

The show, as written, is fun. I came to have fun. It was, instead, functional. It was super-undersized--fewer actors than a hillbilly has teeth (I grew up in hillbilly country, I know). Billy was beige, Hope was off-white, Irma was egg shell. All well and good for a Sherwin Williams paint chip strip, less dazzling in a Broadway show. The three lead women had nearly identical voices, nearly identical ranges--I was wearing a more impressive belt. John McMartin, Jessica Walter, and Adam Godley shone like eco-friendly bulbs--sustained brilliance, dialed back so as not to outshine the leads. The only person who stood out was Joel Grey, but mostly because he was doing a completely different show, with a comedic tempo that worked better for his performance than the production.

The greatest disappointment of the night was the dancing. It's a dance show. More specifically, it is a tap show. In short supply, the tapping felt more perfunctory than integrated or inspired. Rarely thrilling. And that sums up the show--rarely thrilling.

For a person who doesn't know the show or has never seen a beloved production, Roundabout could easily satisfy. I attended with two first-timers who were perfectly entertained. I love the show too much and worked too hard (all through the night's performance as a matter-of-fact) to love this production. It was not De-Lovely. De-Likely at best.

Born Bad

Photo: Carol Rosegg

The lights come up. A woman demands of an older man, "Say it!" Before we can fully consider what she wants him to say, the lights go down. When they come up again, the same woman is calling an older woman a bitch. But not just calling her a bitch. Instead, she spews forth a spoken aria on bitch-ness. After the lights go down and come up again, the woman's sister has joined them, dodging the woman's needy questions about their childhood as skillfully as a toreador dodges a charging bull. This pattern of lights down-lights up-new character continues until we have a whole family: mother, father, three daughters, one son.  By the end of the hour we spend with them, we have experienced their lies, their pain, their denial, their betrayals, and even their love as they try to understand just what happened many years earlier.

Playwright debbie tucker green's elegant, pared-down Olivier Award-winning play Born Bad is a formidable achievement. The language is poetic and revealing, and green's acute understanding of family psychology allows her to parse the intricate relationships among the six complex characters. Director Leah C. Gardiner supports the play's elegance with her focused, stylized staging, using the juxtaposition of chairs to let the audience know just where the characters stand (or sit). Mimi Lien's simple, handsome set smartly reflects the mood and tone of the play, as does Michael Chybowski's lighting.

And then there is the cast. All six performers are superb. As Sister #1, Quincy Tyler Bernstine finds the comedy in the play without losing the tragedy. Crystal A. Dickinson (pictured) speaks with a mania that underlines Sister #2's deep desire not to listen.  Elain Graham works hard to retain the mother's dignity even as it is stripped away, LeRoy James McClain (pictured) says few words as the father yet maintains a vivid presence, Michael Rogers' physicality as the brother says more than words ever could. And Heather Alicia Simms, as the sister who catalyzes the play, goes through a tornado of changing emotions without ever losing her way.  

(Press ticket, fourth row on the aisle)

Marie and Bruce

Photo: Monique Carboni

My friend Dennis was an usher at the Public Theater when Wallace Shawn's Marie and Bruce opened there in 1980. He despised the show. He said it was hateful and ugly. Dennis and I often disagreed, so when I had a chance to see the revival of Marie and Bruce, I decided to give it a try. That Marissa Tomei (pictured) was cast as Marie made it an easy decision.

Dennis was being kind. From its stupidly coarse opening sentence, Marie and Bruce is a crass and juvenile--and unsuccessful--attempt at being shockingly funny.

The story, such as it is: Marie is planning to leave Bruce. She berates him with strings of expletives. He largely shrugs her off. They go to a party. They drink too much. He calls her a cunt. They go to a cafe. A guy at the next table tells an endless story of digestive troubles, in vivid detail. Bruce asks the guy to shut up but backs down when the guy's friend threatens him. Bruce and Marie fight some more.

This takes about 140 painfully boring minutes.

Other problems: Scott Elliott's direction is sluggish at best. There is no reason for Marie and Bruce to be together in the first place--and less reason to care. Marissa Tomei provides an unusually weak performance. Frank Whaley as Bruce is little more than a stick figure. There isn't a genuine moment in the whole show.

This is a tedious production of an execrable play. The overall effect is of being forced to spend nearly two hours with a creepy 13-year-old boy who thinks it is cool to curse and make sexually inappropriate comments while he pulls the wings off flies.

(Press tickets, unfortunately in the theatre.)

Anything Goes

In the past few years, the Roundabout Theatre Company has had a lot of trouble delivering the goods when it comes to musical revivals. Their productions, last year, of Pal Joey and Bye Bye Birdie both suffered as a result of poor casting and odd directorial choices. But their current revival of Anything Goes, directed by Kathleen Marshall, more than makes up for past mistakes. The cast is anchored by a particularly strong Sutton Foster, who makes everything, from singing “You’re the Top” to breaking into wild tap sequences, seem easy as pie. But the entire cast looks like it’s having a blast with the madcap plot, goofy ensemble numbers, nutty scenarios, and rapid-fire corny jokes. Their collective embrace of the material is infectious.

Perhaps most importantly, this production uses its bodies beautifully: the costumes are exceptional (kudos to you, Martin Pakledinaz), and Marshall’s direction is consistently sharp. But her choreography is what takes the cake. Many of the duets and smaller ensemble numbers pay direct homage to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. And the big dance numbers—especially the title song, which closes Act I, and “Blow, Gabriel, Blow,” which opens Act II—are particularly well-executed. These also serve as humbling reminders that back in the 1930s, “spectacle” referred not so much to moving scenery or to stage mechanics, but to bodies in motion. This is a respectful revival, but one that is also beautiful to look at—and giddy as hell.

Arcadia

Arcadia is one of my three all-time favorite plays (the other two are Cloud Nine and A Streetcar Named Desire), and all I can say to David Leveaux, director of the current Broadway production, is shame on you. Arcadia is by Tom Stoppard and it's all about the language--except that in this production, it's hard to hear what people are saying. Arcadia is Stoppard's most emotionally realized play--except that in this production, it's impossible to care about anyone, including Thomasina,  the heart of the play. Arcadia is extremely funny--except that in this production, many of the actors don't know how to phrase a laugh line (and half the time you can't hear them anyway). Arcadia is thought-provoking--except that in this production, it provokes the wrong thoughts, things like "will the first act ever end" and "what did he say?" and "why did Wendy tell us to see this?" (That last thought was indeed thought by the people to whom I recommended Arcadia. In a just world, we'd all get our money back, not to mention the three hours of our lives.)

My niece's high school recently did The Drowsy Chaperone. If you saw their production, you genuinely saw The Drowsy Chaperone. In contrast, if you saw this production of Arcadia, you did not genuinely see Arcadia. (And the poster is lame.)

(Saw this twice with tdf tickets, in the mezz. Didn't use the third, more-expensive ticket I had bought before the show opened, in what turned out to be an excess of optimism.)