Godspell

When I was in grade-school--I don't remember which grade, specifically--my classmates and I were taken by yellow bus on a field-trip to see the matinee performance of a local college production of Godspell. While most of my memories of the experience have long since melted into the haze of early childhood, I can remember a few things about it: The costumes were colorful. There was a lot of movement. The woman who sang "Turn Back, O Man" flung herself into the laps of various unsuspecting male spectators as she wended her way up the aisle to the stage, which made a lot of people in the audience laugh.

What I remember with even more clarity, however, was the ride home in the yellow bus: The score had worked its way under my skin, and as we wove back to my suburban grade-school, I pressed my face against the bus window, looking dreamily out at the perpetually overcast Pittsburgh landscape, and singing "Day by Day" to myself, probably fairly tunelessly, over and over and over again. In short: I remember seeing this particular production only vaguely; I can still feel it to this day.

When it comes to Godspell, I am hardly alone, of course. Godspell is one of those productions that evokes comforting, hazy childhood memories in a lot of people from my generation. The musical, which presented parables taken from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, was something of a monster-hit through the 1970s, which only seems ironic in that the musical is in no way a "monster" the way we conceive of spectacles nowadays. Otherwise, its reception history makes perfect sense. The show harnessed the Christian revivalism of the 1970s, and unlike its contemporary, Jesus Christ Superstar (also a childhood favorite for lots of us), was remarkably free of the culture of cynicism that pervaded the times. Teachings from the New Testament, which were presented vaudeville-style in broadly schticky sketches, were updated by means of innovative staging, tons of topical humor and a contemporary setting. In the original production of Godspell, which began Off Off Broadway at La MaMa in 1971 before moving Off Broadway to the Cherry Lane later that year, Jesus's followers are a group of young, contemporary lost souls, and Jesus is a kind, lovable clown in a Superman t-shirt. I suppose it helps to know something about the teachings of Christianity in seeing the show, but then again, it may not. As a suburban Jewish kid, I had no idea about the religious stuff; I just liked the songs, the schtick, and the colorful costumes.

Godspell is easily adaptable to any number of settings: there is no need for lots of scenery or props; emphasis is simply on bodies in motion. An ensemble cast reenacts the parables, engages in lots of slapstick, and sings its guts out, revival-style. The cast members also hug each other a lot. Jesus here is no robe-clad, ancient savior, but a loving, hip good buddy: the nicest, most awesome, most magnetic dude these lost souls have ever met. When he dies at the end, his new hippie friends are sad, but then again, they have internalized his teachings and resolved to live by them anyway, because he has helped them all immeasurably.

It is no wonder, then, that this show, with its joyful, wide-eyed embrace of Christianity, took off as wildly as it did: after its lengthy run in New York (where, despite very mixed reviews it lasted at the Cherry Lane for 2124 performances before moving up to Broadway for another 567 before closing), the show toured nationally, and also spawned countless local productions. When I was a kid, not only did colleges across the country stage Godspell, but so did community centers, professional and amateur regional troupes, and, of course, churches, churches, churches. I made it to college knowing pretty little about Christianity and never having read a word from the New Testament, but I knew every single lyric from every single song from Godspell.

I admit that my interest in seeing the current production--which was received by critics about as iffily as the first run was--had mostly to do with the nostalgia trip. I've seen the show performed a few times since my childhood, and have always appreciated its endlessly variable topical humor, its kinetic energy, and its catchy score. My friend and neighbor, who confessed a similar relationship to the show, suggested that we see it with our children, so she took hers (ages 13 and 8) and I took my older daughter (almost 9). My daughter is now about the age that I was when I first saw the show.

I know, I know, the current revival has been reviewed already, and not always terribly well. I don't feel that I have much to add on that front, so, in short: I agree that the new prologue and the new song in act II don't add much to the show. I agree that this production lays on the topical humor so thickly that it can sometimes suck the energy from the show. There was so much rapping, so many imitations of current celebrities, and so many Republican primary jokes that some of the sketches dragged unnecessarily. On the other hand, I had absolutely no problem with the trampolines that the cast bounced on during "We Beseech Thee".

In general, then, I found the show to be quite enjoyable. Some of this has to do with my feelings about the show, sure, but also, this production was done well by a cast that was good to excellent, and that genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves. They made me enjoy myself, too.

But even more, I enjoyed Godspell this time around because I got to see it with my daughter. And while she doesn't always connect with the show she's watching, this time around, she proved an absolutely terrific audience member. Like I was, she is being raised Jewish, and is just beginning to develop a sense of what that means and how that relates to her overall identity. So seeing this show was an experiment in comparative religions for her; her questions and comments, whispered into my ear during the show, reflected a real attempt to tease out the differences between Judaism and Christianity: "Wait! They're singing in Hebrew!" "Hey! Why did they call Jesus a rabbi?!" "We drink wine in Judaism too!" Finally, near the somber, comparatively talky and heavily liturgical end of the show, a frustrated sigh: "Mommy, Judaism is so much easier to understand!" This last comment was easily her funniest, but was also most reflective of her own experiences: she is learning about all religions through the lens of her own. She worked hard, during the show, to figure out where she fits, not only as an audience member, but as a spiritual person.

She was not alone. There were clearly plenty of other kids who were busily watching the show and relating it to their own developing senses of the world. During intermission, I overheard another mother telling her small son how proud and happy that she was that he "recognized so many of the stories!" Clearly, this little boy is learning all about the parables in Sunday school, just as my little girl is learning to recite the Hebrew blessings in hers.

The long and the short of it is that it's a rare and wonderful experience to be able to relive a happy childhood memory while simultaneously watching your own kid formulating ones of her own. I enjoyed Godspell a lot. I suspect that, like a lot of people in my generation who are taking their offspring to this particular show, I enjoyed watching my child watching Godspell even more.

Russian Transport

Sarah Steele, Janeane Garofalo
Photo: Monique Carboni

At the beginning of Erika Sheffer's intriguing new play Russian Transport, we meet a Russian family who has been living in Brooklyn since the older child, now 18 or so, was a baby. The parents have retained many Russian beliefs and values; the children are totally American. The mother (Janeane Garofalo) is gruff and domineering, even mean, but also quite funny at times. The father (Daniel Oreskes) is gentler, but he is distracted by money problems. The son, Alex (the excellent Raviv Ullman), is impatient, particularly with his sister, Mira, telling her flat-out that he thinks she is ugly. (Mira is played by Sarah Steele, who also plays a handful of other young women; she does an impressive job with all of them.)

In some ways, this could be the beginning of a perverse sitcom, but Sheffer has something a lot more serious in mind. What is the price of loyalty? How far would you go for a family member? Where do you draw the line? These are not sitcom questions.

The plot takes off when the mother's brother, the attractive, sexy, and somewhat menacing Boris, comes for a vist. He is supportive of Mira's desire to go to Florence (her mother is not); he offers Alex (suspiciously) high-paying work. His machinations cause rifts between family members.

The play could fall apart without a good Boris; luckily, Morgan Spector is completely convincing in his ability to charm, manipulate, and frighten people, sometimes switching modes on a dime. (Spector has everything that Chris Rock lacked in The Motherfucker With the Hat. With Spector in Rock's role, the show would have been significantly better.)

Sheffer's writing can be quite funny, and her characters are believable. The plot is compelling, and the story moves right along. I think, however, that the play would be better balanced if a glimmer of affection was shown between the two teenagers and if the mother displayed a bit of real softness.

Scott Elliott's direction could do more to support Sheffer's work. Due to accents and timing, the exposition can be difficult to follow. More importantly, perhaps the most significant scene in the show is a mess. A moment that the audience should feel as a slap in the face instead leads to "Huh, wait a second, does that mean that . . .?" The dialogue is there; the staging gets in the way.

Overall, Russian Transport is quite good. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Sheffer's work.

(press ticket; sixth row, audience right-ish)

Petula Clark at Feinstein's

Let's play a word-association game. I say, "Petula Clark." 

And you say?

My guess is that you say--no, sing--"Downtown." Or perhaps, "Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darling." On the other hand, perhaps you get all Norma Desmond and say or sing, "Just One Look." Or something from Blood Brothers. Whatever your frame of reference, the happier you are to think of Petula Clark, the more you should check her out at Feinstein's at the Regency this week.

Clark's set wanders through her past, from pop to the West End, making sure to hit all the best-known moments. Her voice is pretty much shot, but she uses it judiciously, interspersing stories and even poems to give it a rest from singing, saving the big notes for songs that demand them. (If you can't do Norma Desmond big, why do her at all?) She's no Barbara Cook or Marilyn Maye (who is?), but she's extremely likeable, and while her songs aren't all well-sung or well-interpreted, they are all heart-felt.

While it was clear that dyed-in-the-wool Clark fans were in ecstasy throughout the set, for me it had definite ups and downs. The less successful pieces included "Someone to Watch Over Me," "The Man I Love," and "Miss Otis Regrets," all of which suffered from her reduced vocal range bumping into her not-super-duper interpretative skills. And, unfortunately, although Clark works hard to include the entire audience, her band has electric guitars and bass, and drums, and if you sit extreme audience right, it can be impossible to hear her when they start rocking.

There were quite successful moments as well, however.  The highlight in terms of singing was Clark's lovely, simple, in-French version of "La Vie En Rose," accompanied by Clark herself on piano. And the highlight in terms of overall experience was "Downtown." (The part of me that is still 8 years old was thrilled to pieces to be seeing Petula Clark in person! Singing "Downtown"! And asking us to sing along!) And the highlight in terms of Clark's wry humor was her updating of "Downtown" to reflect the loss of the cool clubs and the invasion of the chain stores.

If you're a Petula Clark fan, you'll have a great time.

(press ticket, extreme audience right)

Wit

Wit is a difficult play. The lead character isn’t particularly likeable on the page, but the audience can’t merely feel sorry for her. The metaphors and deconstructions of 17^th Century poetry are a tricky set up that can take you to places both sentimental and pretentious, simultaneously. The Brecht meets cancer formula flips you two birds and dares you to care.

Playwright, Margaret Edson, litters the page with landmines; but the well-navigated path can lead to a thrilling experience that moves you and makes you think.

I first saw a production at the San Jose Repertory Theatre a few years ago. It was powerful, devastating, personally deconstructing.

The experience of the Lynne Meadow-directed production at Manhattan Theatre Club is too many landmines and the dreaded sandtrap—it’s just plain boring. Cynthia Nixon seemed uncomfortable in the lead role and was all too aware that her character is cold, impersonal, and unpleasant. She works hard to please, begs us to like her, but descends pretty quickly into over-articulated shrieking. She performs. She plays angry, hostile, mean, desperate, and lonely—all with an apologetic tone—even before the character has come to realize she has anything to apologize for. She is actually best (and, yes, she is devastating) in the moments when she has no lines to speak, no sins to confess, and just focuses on the war raging inside her.

I often, admittedly cynically, wonder when so many secondary characters are played ineffectively if they’ve been cast with the intent of helping the star shine. Otherwise, it’s just bad direction. The supporting cast here is mostly mediocre. Suzanne Bertish, however, shines brighter in five minutes on stage than all the lights of Broadway. Her final scene in the play is sublime, gut-twisting, perfection.

If you didn’t see Kathleen Chalfant or Judith Light in the original, you probably owe it to yourself to see the play. While this production doesn’t shine the best light on Wit, there is enough to reflect, to see that none of us can fully deconstruct death, no matter how you punctuate it.

3 Shows With a Black Thread

I didn’t go looking for shows about people of color, didn’t have an agenda in grouping these three together. I simply happened to see them about the same time and, since all had been running a while, decided to review them at once.

Stick Fly

The message in Stick Fly is pretty simple—rich people can be assholes regardless of race; and just because George and Weezie moved on up doesn’t mean they brought anybody else along for the ride— the have nots have been caste aside, left behind, and without a place at the table. The only way into the dining room is through the bedroom. It suggests race has evolved to a white versus black conversation, but economic disparity gets stuck in your throat.

It is a more intriguing idea than it is a play, mostly because nothing very surprising happens. Dialogue is a lot less riveting when you are able to see it coming, pick a side, and write a rebuttal in your head. The best to be said about Lydia R. Diamond’s play is that it exists. She’s done little more than take the Huxtables on vacation and make them hateful. The plot is more edgy but not much more insightful than a sitcom episode. Kenny Leon doesn’t add much as far as mining between the lines for drama.

The star of the show is David Gallo, the set designer. He has created a world that tells you both who and where these people are. Actually, he tells you more about the fictional inhabitants than those cast to inhabit the fiction.

Ruben Santiago-Hudson as the family patriarch who married into money, carried the burden of head-of-household while feeling a guest who could be disinvited at any moment, plays the role as little more than a philandering asshole. Mikhi Phifer, trying to fill his father’s boxer shorts, is a philandering asshole. Dule Hill, breaking the mold, is a philosophizing asshole. The female cast really mixes it up. Tracie Thoms, poor by divorce and discarded by a rich and noteable father, is shriekingly annoying. Rosie Benton, engaging in helping the poor as emotional porn and cleansing conscience through do-gooding, is annoying at inside-voice decibles. Condola Rashad (the daughter of real-life Mrs. Huxtable), is broodingly annoying for three quarters of the play, then unloads for the pivotal twist that comes a couple of hours too late in the evening. She has the chops, delivers the goods, and it might have made for a stronger play had the maid played a bigger role.

Kudos to Alicia Keys for producing. Putting more African American actors to work and putting more African American characters at the center of that work makes theatre better—moving on up to the front of the stage is only a good thing for all of us, on both sides of the proscenium. I just wish there was a stronger play waiting once we all got there.

The Road to Mecca

Photo by Walter McBride

Athol Fugard gives us an opposite view of the character of color in the apartheid-era play, The Road to Mecca—none make the stage and barely make mention. The story is actually only set in the time of apartheid, it isn’t really about that. It isn’t really about much at all. There may be something in there, but it is too convoluted to care.

There isn’t much story, and there is even less drama. It was a thrill to see Rosemary Harris on stage; but neither the role nor the performance is worthy of her legend. Carla Gugino delivers some spark but not much fire. Jim Dale arrives late and leaves early and neither much matter—not his fault. The play sets him up to be the desperately-needed crux of the story, but this lame drama needs a crutch before it is ready for a crux.

The worst I can say about this play is that it exists. It is just boring. Who cares? There’s ten minutes of drama draped in an evening of blather. I am no better for having met these people. No closer to Mecca having traveled their Road. If you need to have your life shortened by a couple of hours, this is the euthanasia for you.

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater

Yes, the show has closed for this winter, but it will be back at the end of the year; and it is never too early to make it a priority. I make it a point to see Alvin Ailey at City Center every year. A year without Revelations is no revelation. This year, I caught it twice.

The first time was less than perfect. The seats were far right, and while I like to move around from year to year for perspective, something gets lost at the extremes. My favorite way to see the show is in the first couple of rows. The tickets are $25, the view is thrilling, the intimacy is eye-opening because you can see the incredible work, talent, and control on an individual basis. You trade shape and scale for individual perfection. That perfection is especially clear when watching the solo number, I Wanna Be Ready, which was performed in rotation this year by two guest artists, Clifton Brown and Matthew Rushing, both long-standing, stand-out members of the company. They couldn’t be more different (two master classes, Brown’s in precision and Rushing’s in personality). If these two dancers are not on your list of not-to-be-missed performers, add them, remember them, and see them.

You can never go wrong with an all-Ailey evening. Someone else bought my ticket on the first visit, so it wasn’t all-Ailey and what could go wrong did. The first number, some assault choreographed by Geoffrey Holder, was barely bearable. It was followed by something forgettable, choreographed by Judith Jamison. Even Revelations was diminished by some ill-advised, “special” event that included members of Ailey II and some children from Ailey Elementary or some such. It was too many people adding little. I’m not a big fan of other people’s children to begin with and certainly wouldn’t knowingly attend their annual recital.

I couldn’t let that be my experience for the year, so I returned, this time sitting in the balcony. It couldn’t have been a more different experience. The evening started with Anointed, choreographed by Christopher L. Huggins. What a thrilling beginning. The final movement of the dance is as emotional and moving as anything I have ever seen. The second, a hip-hop number, Home, choreographed by Rennie Harris and inspired by photos and essays submitted for the Fight HIV Your Way campaign was excellent, although I wish I hadn’t known in advance about the supposed subject matter. I expected more of a connection. It turned out to be a lovely hip-hop number. I just missed the inspiration. Finally, Revelations renewed my faith. Fix Me Jesus was absolute perfection.

Revelations is a quintessentially African American story, but it’s emotions and arc and connection are universal and for me, simply essential.

Menders

Raushanah Simmons,
Ingrid Nordstrom
  Photo: Justin Hoche

Something there is that doesn't love a wall. So begins Robert Frost's well-loved poem "Mending Wall," and so also begins Erin Browne's flawed but compelling new play, Menders, currently being presented by the fabulous Flux Theatre Ensemble. Menders takes place in a future world where a giant wall separates safety and "us" from all that is ugly, wrong, and "them." At least that's what Corey and Ames have been brought up to believe.

Corey and Ames are trainee wall menders. Both are just recently out of school. Ames is nervous, but Corey is confident, gung-ho, and absolutely certain that their side of the wall is the right side. Their trainer is the burnt-out and disappointed Drew, who passes the time telling Corey and Ames stories that seem magical to the young trainees. Their world has been so circumscribed that the tale of a winged woman doesn't seem all that much more exotic than a tale of two women falling in love.

But somewhere along the way, Corey is jailed. We--and she--never find out what her crime is, and the play occurs in flashback as she tells the audience--her jury--everything that has happened since she first became a mender.

Playwright Browne cares about the world. She cares about politics and feminism and self-expression and governmental repression. She sees vividly how today's world could turn into tomorrow's dystopia. In an interview with blogger Zach Calhoon, Browne explains that the play grew out of a "melange" of ideas and that "Robert Frost's idyllic and concrete world of everyday things guided all of those ideas into the first draft of Menders." However, her play goes well past Frost's poem--in fact, the frequent use of Frost's words is distracting and misleading. The people on the two sides of Frost's poem are civil neighbors; they are not "us" and "them." Frost's poem is small and neat; Browne's play is large and messy (messy isn't a criticism here--the wealth of ideas is one of the play's greatest strengths). However, this part of the poem does resonate in the play: "Before I built a wall I'd ask to know/What I was walling in or walling out." Corey doesn't mean to ask that question, but she becomes unable not to.

Browne's play doesn't totally work at a plot and detail level. Corey is perhaps a bit too gung-ho. The stories that Drew tells don't offer enough to justify the time they are given. The characters' growth and changing relationships sometimes seem mistimed. What's actually on each side of the wall is not as clear as it might be. But the play's energy, ideas, and big heart more than make up for its weaknesses. 

Heather Cohn's direction is imaginative and clear and well-paced. Asa Wember's sound design is quietly unsettling, providing just the right emotional effect. Some of Trevor James Martin's video projections work better than others. In some cases, they come across as visual noise; in others, they are just right; and in a few, they are (appropriately) chilling.

As always with Flux productions, the cast is excellent. Sol Marina Crespo handles Corey's development and the play's fractured chronology very well. Matt Archambault as Drew provides exactly the right mix of smooth charm, exhaustion, and manipulativeness. Isaiah Tanenbaum does a lovely job depicting Ames' awakening. And Raushanah Simmons and Ingrid Nordstrom are wonderful as wooer and wooee, though Simmons may be a little too beautiful for the part--it's hard to understand why anyone would say no to her.

Overall, Menders is well worth seeing. 

(press ticket; third row on the aisle)