Shakespeare's Slave

If you are going to create a play about Shakespeare, it better be about the writing. The Resonance Ensemble’s production of Shakespeare’s Slave is all about the writing; and in this production, the costumes, designed with genius and ingenuity by Mark Richard Caswell. This is not to say the actors, especially David L. Townsend as the Bard himself, and director, Eric Parness, aren’t providing powerful support. They navigate some jolts in the script, some limitations of the space, and some inherent challenges in a contemporary telling of a period tale with nimble focus.

Along with Mr. Townsend, actors Chris Ceraso and Romy Nordlinger are standouts. Shaun Bennet Wilson, in a central role, has struggles that are not entirely of her creation. She is playing a theatrical device that has been written for function more than character, which brings me back to the writing.

For good and bad, this new script by Steven Fechter, is the star of the show. The best part of the script is merely that it exists, that the company commissioned it, and that this production could lead to revisions that can only make future productions stronger. Seeing a play of this quality and this potential in its infancy is a gift. It isn’t perfect, but to discover it is reason enough to see it. And to discover the Resonance Ensemble and their commitment to producing a classical play and a modern play with a common theme in rep was a treat for me.

In its current stage the play resembles a graduate school honors thesis, and I don’t mean that pejoratively. It is well thought out, well written for the most part, and well conceived. The idea of deconstructing characters from Shakespeare’s writings and casting them as acquaintances and intimates from his life isn’t a revolutionary concept, but it makes sense and provides dramatic fodder. It worked effectively for Shakespeare in Love, and works here, or is beginning to work. The dark lady of the sonnets is brought to life, into Shakespeare’s life, and changes it to the benefit of his writing and generations who might have missed out on his brilliance had these two lives and hearts not crossed.

Casting the dark lady as an African slave actually creates more problems than it solves, not the least of which is that it isn’t believable and borders on offensive. By making this slave feisty and defiant with the ability to sneak around freely, glosses over the reality and humiliation of being owned. The play is left to tell you how bad slavery is and relegates all that badness to an intellectual exercise rather than forcing the audience to confront it or feel it. The script simply tells us that many things are bad: slavery, rape, grief. All three are subjects with the power to move and compel, but there isn’t much compelling and absolutely nothing moving about the treatment of these particular subjects here. They are devices, nothing more.

With tweaks and tightening (too many short scenes, many dramatically unnecessary, too much homage, too much focus on Shakespearean references, too little focus on Mr. Fechter telling his story, and trying too hard to be significant), Shakespeare’s Slave could be liberated and soar. I personally hope the first tweak is to change that dreadful title—perhaps if the creators took slavery seriously, understood the effect of being owned, they wouldn’t apostrophize and could transform a pivotal device into an affecting character. Shakespeare’s Slave is good enough that it (and she) deserves it.

Shakespeare’s Slave is running in rep with H4, a modern, multi-media telling of Henry IV that I did not see but wish I had.

(Press seats, 5^th row, aisle in a small house with no bad seat)

Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo

Photo: Carol Rosegg

No one is happy in Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, regardless of whether they are Iraqi or American, soldier or civilian, human or animal, alive or dead. The living are tormented by guilt, and ghosts, and their own morally questionable actions; the dead can’t figure out what they’re supposed to be doing other than roaming around town, pondering morality, and driving the living insane. Whether specter or living being, everyone wandering around Baghdad is a half-mad, restless soul.

Of course, the fact that no one is happy in Baghdad in 2003 makes sense, since, as we all know, war is hell. But then, in Rajiv Joseph’s interesting, engaging, and flawed play about Operation Iraqi Freedom, so is everything else: loss, acquisition; bondage, freedom; Western culture, Iraqi culture; life, death; religion, atheism; and—still with me?—heaven. Does heaven even exist, come to think of it? Is it so bound up with the notion of hell that one becomes the other? Is it possible that God—if there even is a God—is less a benevolent force than a vicious, uncaring, neglectful punk? If so, why do we attempt to understand ourselves and others? To be kind? To even pretend that we are anything but brutes?

This is meaty, compelling, absolutely enormous stuff to ponder, and the play demands a lot of its audience in asking it. The problem is not that Joseph offers no resolutions; it’s that his play doesn’t tangle deeply enough with any one of them, which leaves the spectator hanging, and curiously detached about it, to boot.

That’s not necessarily an excuse not to see Baghdad. For its shortcomings, I was impressed by many aspects of it: it is exceptionally well-acted, beautifully lit, gracefully directed and as deserving of an award for sound design as anything I’ve seen all year. Also, how many shows get to boast about the fact that audiences may come for Robin Williams, but end up staying for Uday Hussein?

It's Maye in May: Marilyn Maye at Feinstein's

I love Marilyn Maye.

Really, what's not to love? Maye is an American Classic, a jazz-cabaret singer who started singing professionally in the Great Depression, an 83-year-old who swings with the energy of someone half her age, a lady who is also a broad (or vice versa?), a woman who has seen and done it all with her sense of humor intact. When she sings "I'm Still Here," she ain't kidding!

In her current show at Feinstein's, It's Maye in May, Maye stays largely on the sunny side of the street. She starts with "Young at Heart" and "You Make Me Feel So Young" (which, coincidentally, is the name of the show her sister octogenarian Barbara Cook is bringing to Feinstein's on June 7). Her emphasis on youth makes sense; she is absolutely young at heart. Her other songs include a charmingly bawdy "Honeysuckle Rose," a rollicking "Get Me to the Church on Time," and a poignant "Wouldn't it Be Loverly?" She includes some medleys, and while medleys usually annoy me (they're series of teases), hers flow beautifully (kudos to musical director Tedd Firth for that!). She kicks butt with her Fats Waller medley, and her rainbow medley is thoroughly delightful.  The band--Firth on piano, Tom Hubbard on bass, and Jim Eklof on drums--is outstanding.

So here is Maye, in a sparkly black top, 83 years old, doing an amazing set, even dancing a bit (in high heels!), and giving a show that is, simply, as good as it gets. If you have any interest in cabaret or jazz, do yourself a favor: check her out.

(Press ticket, to the side, nice seats.)

The Best Is Yet to Come: The Music of Cy Coleman

In his director's note for The Best Is Yet to Come: The Music of Cy Coleman, David Zippel aptly refers to "the dazzling depth and breadth" of Coleman's work. Dazzling depth and breadth indeed--in fact, you might believe that the wonderful songs in this 90-minute show were the work of half a dozen composers.

The band is small (eight men) but robust, and the orchestrations by Don Sebesky and musical direction by Billy Stritch (who also sings) are excellent. Lillias White raises the roof, as always, and Sally Mayes turns each number into a well-told story. These are the pluses, which are major.

The minuses, unfortunately, are also major. Zippel's direction is so cutesy-smarmy that I wondered if Lonny Price had directed the show. To both men, I say the same thing: Trust the songs! They can stand on their own! That's why you're honoring this composer with an entire show! Also, Rachel York is so on that she seems to be doing a take-off on herself. And Howard McGillan and David Burnham give imitations of lounge lizards worthy of a Saturday Night Live skit.

Still, it's hard to fault a show that includes "The Best Is Yet to Come." And "Nobody Does It Like Me." And "Witchcraft." And "If My Friends Could See Me Now." And "Hey, Look Me Over." And "Little Me." And "Big Spender." And "Hey There, Good Times." If only all the songs had been performed as well as they were written!

(Reviewer ticket, eighth row on the aisle.)

The Normal Heart

The most poignant character of Larry Kramer’s incendiary The Normal Heart appears silently throughout the action: the growing count of AIDS victims. Character, perhaps, provides an insufficient descriptor, but the presence of this trail of death (41 as of 1981 to today’s count of 35 million) projected on the darkened set at intervals, permeates the play with the resonance of those lost. By the end of the show, the relentless of the disease takes over the front of the theater as the magnitude of the names overwhelms the audience.

Death may saturate this show, but it is the vividness of love and friendship, in all of its foibles, that provides the heart of the play. The story, based on the playwright’s early days as an AIDS activist, follows Ned Weeks (Joe Mantello) as he tries to grapple with a disease few want to address and no one understands. Although charismatic and intelligent, Week’s no-holds-barred passion for the cause alienates those unwilling to match his fervor. Mantello shows us this duality beautifully, overtaking the stage with magnetic earnestness as he first organizes his AIDS awareness group; later turning strident and angry, a performance full of frenetic gesticulations, as ideologies clash. “Of course, we have to tell people how to live,” he insists to his friends. Ned wants AIDS stopped at whatever expense. Others, more afraid of losing their jobs, their status, and other things, want to remain under the radar. For instance, Bruce Niles (Lee Pace), who sports the good looks of a Marlboro man, won’t go on Dan Rather to represent the group—an opportunity Ned can’t understand missing. Moments like this send Ned into hair-pulling diatribes as he continually attempts to seize every possible moment to publicize the viciousness of this worldwide plague. For him, there is only black and white.

The polemic script has the potential to seem more lecture than story but it is the relationships that elevate this play into a visceral expose that leaves audience members crying at the end. There’s a real poignancy in the coupling of Felix Turner (John Benjamin Hickey) and Ned, from the awkward initial embraces to the fear of losing one another as the disease progresses. Ned’s brother, Ben (Mark Harelik), struggles with Ned’s homosexuality and as a consequence words never spoken aloud cloud their camaraderie—something that hurts both of them. Directed by George C. Wolfe and Joel Grey, who played Ned Weeks in the original version, the show contains the Broadway debuts of Jim Parsons (Sheldon on TV’s “The Big Bang Theory”) and movie actress Ellen Barkin, who plays the no-nonsense wheelchair-bound Dr. Emma Brookner with tart preciseness. Parson excels as well, bringing top-notch comic timing and an impish grin to Tommy Boatwright. The amazing set by David Rockwell offers a flexible landscape, moving from the bricklike texture of a hospital to the Venetian blinds of Ben Week’s law firm with a mere readjustment of light (designed by David Weiner). Near the end of the play, an audience of spectators join the main cast onstage, with characters such as Emma and Ben, sitting in shadow observing the action, a symbol of all those, perhaps, who merely watched themselves. The 12-week run ends July 10.

(Purchased ticket, ORCH, row L, seat 101)

Book of Mormon and Sister Act: A Second Glance

With friends in town wanting to see the two best musicals of the season, I got a chance to revisit Book of Mormon and Sister Act. I also got a chance to see both from a different vantage point--the last row of the theater. (I had seen Sister Act from the first row center with rush tickets and BOM from fourth row right back when they offered discounts.) After a couple of attempts at the Mormon lottery, my friends finally won, so I not only got to watch the show from the back of the theater, I also got to watch the back of my friends' heads.

My first viewing of Book of Mormon was thrilling, a complete religious experience--I was enriched, enlivened, shared a connection with souls searching for a common gladness. But the show was an avalanche of anticipation, each moment building on the next, no time to luxuriate because something new and surprising and hiliarious was about happen. It would have been like watching one domino as the rest fell. I saw the show before it opened so I didn't write about it at the time. Thereafter, when I tried, all I could muster was a vomit of superlatives because the moments had blurred into one collective memory. A wonderful blur, but I needed to see it again to sort it out, reinspect each golden plate.

On second viewing, the show not only held up to my internalized hype, not only hit the ball as far out of the park, it was exponentially more entertaining overall. Because I knew what lay ahead, I wasn't suffocated by my own held breath. I simply savored each moment, wallowed hog hungry in its brilliance, laughed until I hurt, and then laughed myself out of pain. Despite whatever controversy the content might spark--and it certainly doesn't seem to have sparked much--and in spite of its contemporary themes, the creative team (Trey Parker, Matt Stone, and Robert Lopez) have created a very traditional musical, and a finely crafted one at that. The songs are beautifully and thought-provokingly constructed: memorable, singable, both telling a story and supporting the bigger story. Minus the acid on the tongue-in-cheek, the musical could stand alongside the standards of the 50s and 60s.

The actors are universally excellent and perfectly cast. I wouldn't want to be the deciding vote for the Tony Awards, choosing between Andrew Rannells and Josh Gad (a point, not a prediction). They are so different but equally effective. Rannells is a more complete performer, but Gad's performance is no less affecting because he doesn't tap dance. I suspect Mr. Gad is a latent schtick milker, but he was disciplined at my viewing. Nikki M. James has the unenviable task of sustaining innocence and keeping it interesting. There is no hint of caricature or stupidity. She is all heart, hope, and honesty.

That the show gets a bit preachy for a moment as it makes its point about the absurdity of faith in all its forms is forgivable. Most South Park episodes that I have seen dissolve into a similar, momentary sentiplicity right before they yank the rug out from under you just for emphasis. You are the pratfall, collapsing into laughter one last time.

Enough of the Mormons, now for the Catholics. Sister Act was a solid, fun show the first time around. It, too, was better on second chance. The last row of the Broadway did me no favors, nor did the two idiots texting toward the end of Act 1. The sound was better in the balcony. All of the men were vastly improved, especially Chester Gregory who was flat out good (whereas before he was just flat.) Victoria Clark, who seemed to be doing the best she could with some lousy melodies the first time, had perhaps been having a bad night. During Friday night's performance, she sang beautifully. Her songs were still the weakest in the show; but the numbers, taken as a whole, were poignant and textured and great counter-point to the energy and intensity of the rest of the show. Patina Miller was a joyous treat both times, but she is settling into the role and is now owning the full stage, hell, the entire house, instead of just the lit portion beneath her feet. She was infectious to the back row. She is giving the best performance by an actress in a leading role in a musical this season, bar none (a fact, not a prediction.)

I suspect I will see Sister Act again. It is well-suited for out-of-town guests with a low tolerance for offense. I will, without a doubt, see Book of Mormon again and again. I am not a Catholic or a Mormon, but I am a fully-converted fan of both shows.