Painting Churches

Kathleen Chalfant, John Cunningham
(photo: Carol Rosegg)

It's hard to know how to respond to Tina Howe's 1984 Pulitzer-Prize-nominated play Painting Churches in 2012. It's not the play's fault that the past three decades of theatre have been stuffed full of adult children coming home and fighting with their parents. (Recent example: Other Desert Cities, which resembles Painting Churches in some significant ways, right down to the petulant daughter who learns, gasp, that her parents aren't quite what she thinks.)

Painting Churches's plot is simple and familiar: artistic, unappreciated adult child visits. Fights are fought; old wounds are reopened; a form of reconciliation occurs.

To work to full advantage, Painting Churches requires a balanced triangle, with mother, father, and child having strengths and flaws, legitimate grudges and sympathetic blind spots. In this production, however, due to the casting and awkward direction by Carl Forsman, the parents come across as difficult but likeable while the daughter comes across as a loud, overgrown, whining baby.

John Cunningham does nicely as the father sinking into dementia, but he also has the most consistent--and most consistently sympathetic--character. Kathleen Chalfant does well with the quiet moments but seems less comfortable being "quirky." Both Cunningham and Chalfant mostly come across as real people, but Kate Turnball, in the least sympathetic role, declaims and emotes and suffers and acts. Forsman has done her no favors in allowing her to (or asking her to?) completely unbalance the triangle. In addition, the threesome is not physically convincing as a family.

The set is handsome. The costumes are effective. The lighting is odd (but I think they were having tech troubles the night I went). The musical choices are a bit heavy-handed.

And the title is flatout odd. The family's last name is Church, and the daughter, an artist, wants to paint her parents. Painting Churches. Get it? But why?

(press ticket; fourth row on the aisle)

An Iliad

The Poet is exhausted, and why shouldn't he be? He has been telling tales of man's inhumanity to man for years, maybe centuries. If a poet can have post-traumatic stress disorder, he does. Or perhaps it would be better termed intra-traumatic stress disorder, since the trauma never ends. He's a bard of war, and there has always been a war and it seems there will always be a war. And each time he tells his stories, he relives them, poetic flashbacks that break his heart and stir his blood, even though he knows that rage is a disease.

He also knows that we have heard many tales of war--so many, in fact, that we have probably distanced ourselves from the horror. He cuts through the distance. He tells us that the men at Troy are not from Coronea, Haleartus, Plataea, and Lower Thebes, but rather

. . . from every small town in Ohio, from farmlands, from fishing villages…the boys of Nebraska and South Dakota …the twangy boys of Memphis…the boys of San Diego, Palo Alto, Berkeley, Antelope Valley…You can imagine, you can imagine, you know, um…there are soldiers from Kansas. There are soldiers from Lawrence, Kansas. There are soldiers from Springfield, Illinois. Evanston, Illinois; Chicago, Illinois; Buffalo, New York; Cooperstown, New York; Brooklyn; Queens; Staten Island; uh, the Bronx; South Bronx.

And he asks us, "Do you see?" Because he wants very much for us to see, to understand, so he won't have to keep singing of dead boys and mutilated bodies and rape and infants with bashed skulls. Again, he reminds us:

. . . and uhhh the battlefield was just littered with bodies and when you look at it you think, “Oh, well these are a bunch of bodies” but they’re not just bodies cuz this is this is Jamie and this is Matthew and this is Brennan and this is Paul, this is Scottie he was 19, he was 21, he was 18, Brennan was meant to go to Oxford – he had gotten a scholarship because of his writing – his father was a postman he would have been the first child in his whole family ever to go to University -- but he didn’t..

And again he asks, "Do you see?"

"Every time I sing this song," he says, "I hope it’s the last time." But he's not really hopeful. There have been too many wars, too much destruction, too many cases of rage poisoning. Too many people poisoned by pride as well. Too many people in too deep to pull back.

Yes, The Poet doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to tell the story again. His memory is going. He's profoundly burnt out. But he's a poet and an old pro, and even while he wants to teach us, shock us, he also wants to enthrall us. And he does.

Director Lisa Peterson and actor Denis O’Hare have done a magnificent job streamlining The Iliad (based on Robert Fagles's translation) and making it speak to the 21st century. It's a bit too long, and it can be hard to keep track of who's on whose side and why, but these are small complaints in light of the brilliance of what they've accomplished.

And, of course, it takes a village to raise a one-man show. Director Lisa Peterson, bassist Brian Ellingsen, scenic designer Rachel Hauck, costume designer Marina Draghici, lighting designer Scott Zielinski, and composer-sound designer Mark Bennett all contribute enormously.

So now we get down to the performers alternating as The Poet: Denis O'Hare and Stephen Spinella. Both are excellent; both give performances of olympian stamina and memory. But Denis O'Hare brings more depth to the story. Spinella comes across as an actor who wants to be loved and wants to impress us. O'Hare comes across as The Poet, burned out, heartbroken, wanting only to make us see.

(press ticket, third row center)

Hurt Village

I don't doubt the accuracy of the picture Katori Hall paints of the former Memphis project she's titled her play Hurt Village after. Though many of her characters come across as stereotypes, I don't believe them any less: there's a reason stereotypes exist, whether that's fair or not, and the ensemble embodies them well. But there's a reason theater is a different medium than photography or painting: it's a three-dimensional, living art form, and must do more than simply show a moment in time. It must breathe life into its characters long enough for us to care about them, not just their social circumstances, otherwise it's just a rawer sort of propaganda. It's a little telling that I felt more uncomfortable at the talk-back following Hurt Village than I did during the production itself -- uncomfortable with how shocked the audience was that parts of America look and sound like this. (In that sense, however, Hurt Village is a success.)

But while Hurt Village may have achieved its goal to shock people -- a shallow goal, if you ask me (look at the difference between the gruel of Thomas Bradshaw and the manna of Young Jean Lee) -- it misses out on opportunities to nurture empathy and provoke outrage. The script jumps around far too much, settling on all of the things that it is not rather than any one thing that it is: it is not a coming-of-age story for Cookie (Joaquina Kalukango), a thirteen-year-old girl who has said fuck the village and decided to raise herself; it is not a tale of the neglected soldier Buggy (Corey Hawkins), whose dishonorable discharge after ten years of service has all but forced him to once again start dealing drugs with his buddy Cornbread (Nicholas Christopher); it is not about the inadequacies of the welfare state, in which Big Mama (Tonya Pinkins) discovers that despite the government's choice to evict her from a one-bedroom project where she works night shifts and lives with her unemployed daughter-in-law Crank (Marsha Stephanie Blake) and granddaughter Cookie, she makes roughly $400 too much to qualify for Section 8 housing, and therefore may end up on the street. There's no real resolution or development to any of these characters or situations, just an emphasis (well-enhanced by set designer David Gallo and the raw direction of Patricia McGregor) on how awful all of this is.

[Read on]

Judy Kuhn at Feinstein's

This is a golden age of musical leading ladies. Donna Murphy. Audra McDonald. Marin Mazzie. Tonya Pinkins. Christine Ebersole.  Bebe Neuwirth. Laura Benanti. Patti LuPone. Victoria Clark. Kelli O'Hara. Alice Ripley. Kristin Chenoweth. To name a few!

Although she hasn't had their careers or received similar amounts of attention, Judy Kuhn belongs on that list. Her voice is splendid and her acting is subtle and smart. And in her cabaret act, currently at Feinstein's, her talent soars. You want gorgeous singing? Listen to Kuhn's versions of Sondheim's "Happiness" and "In Buddy's Eyes" or her sinuous take on Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love." You want heartfelt, complex acting? Watch Kuhn provide a woman's entire being in Billy Barnes's "Something Cool" and a heartbreaking demonstration of, well, heartbreak in Randy Newman's "Losing You." How about sexy fun? Try Kuhn's delightful takes on "I Love the Way You're Breaking My Heart" (Louis Alter and Milton Drake) or Oscar Brown Jr.'s "Forbidden Fruit."

And what about her range? She's comfortable, excellent, in pop, jazz, Broadway, folk, American Songbook, art songs, novelty songs. You name it, she can sing it and express it and live it.

Kuhn is also smart enough to work with a truly amazing band. Percussionist Greg Joseph, playing cajon and djembe rather than a traditional drum kit, does a remarkable job of providing intricate, enticing rhythms that are both necessary and subtle. Peter Sachon's cello playing adds emotional depth and smooth radiance. Musical director Dan Lipton on the piano has a sure hand (sure hands, I suppose) in both his elegant playing and his impeccable direction. Any of these musicians would be a treat as a soloist; making up a seamless foursome with Kuhn, they are even greater than the sum of their very impressive parts.

After the show, I chatted with a couple at the next table. They said that they were from Atlanta and that New Yorkers are incredibly fortunate to be able to go to such high-quality performances. Who could argue?

(By the way, Feinstein's is working to be more accessible, and Kuhn's shows have $30 non-premium tickets--which are really more like $40 tickets with the insane fees and taxes--with a $25 minimum.)

(Press tickets, extreme audience right)

Once

Even after a show runs for 2 months off-Broadway, you might expect it to take a little time to find its legs in the new space of a Broadway house. As of its third preview Once has found its wings. The cast is just as thrilling as it was at New York Theater Workshop, but they’ve made a small adjustment—well, not so small actually. Each has managed to retain the intimacy of their performances in a 200 seater while filling a space with five times the capacity.

There is no need to wait to see it. Disregard the opening date. This show has opened. And it is worth every penny.

I saw the show twice off-Broadway, from the first and third rows, and felt achingly close to the drama. From one of the worst seats in the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre, I was orbiting around the bubble surrounding this unexpected love story, which made it feel all the more dangerous, waiting for the bubble to burst.

Steve Kazee has an effortless charm that seems to only be contained by the amount of space around him. Cristin Milioti is simply perfect. I could single out every other member of the cast for excellence. So, to be completely fair, David Abeles, Will Connolly, Elizabeth A. Davis, David Patrick Kelly, Anne L. Nathan, Lucas Papaelias, Ripley Sobo, Andy Taylor, McKayla Twiggs (who was off the night I saw it, so I can’t vouch for her), Erikka Walsh, Paul Whitty, and J. Michael Zygo are excellent.

I attended with a friend who was seeing the show for the ninth time and another seeing it for the first. They both had the same reaction: barely containable joy.

Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová have created a score that is a beautiful as it is moving. Enda Walsh adds a book that is a master class in simplicity. Finally, John Tiffany directs with surgical precision and a glass blower’s artistry, creating a gorgeous show that is exactly what it should be.

How I Learned to Drive

Photograph: Joan Marcus

Li'l Bit--one of the two central characters in How I Learned to Drive, Paula Vogel's funny, smart, deeply disturbing memory play currently in revival at Second Stage--comes of age in rural Maryland during the 1960s and early 1970s, at a time when the country stopped making much sense. This is fine, really, because Li'l Bit's immediate world doesn't make much sense, either. She is enormously intelligent, but seems only to be noticed and appreciated--by friends, acquaintances, and family members alike--for her particularly large breasts. Her mother and grandparents, with whom she lives, are uneducated and crass, and if her mother is not a full-fledged drunk, she has, at the very least, a complicated relationship with alcohol. Li'l Bit's entire family has serious boundary issues, especially when it comes to gender and sexuality; all of their nicknames for one another have something to do with genitalia, and nothing is considered off-limits during conversations at the dinner table. Li'l Bit's grandfather is an ignorant misogynist; her grandmother has internalized the most traditional of gender roles; and her mother is a little too forthright in offering Li'l Bit a more contemporary perspective. Li'l Bit has no father. Complicating matters is that her sister's husband, Uncle Peck--the only person who really seems to understand, connect with, and attempt to protect her as she grows up--can't keep his hands off her breasts. Many members of her family are aware of this, but they choose to keep their mouths shut, anyway.

How I Learned to Drive explores a number of dense, interconnected themes in following its angry, damaged narrator through a series of hazy childhood and adolescent reminiscences: the shifting mores of an embattled, rapidly changing country; family bonds and family dysfunction; gender roles; alcoholism and addiction; and the ways in which close relationships can simultaneously heal and destroy, weaken and empower. To say that I liked the play is something of an understatement: I felt positively cold about the play upon leaving the theater late last week, but it's wormed its way under my skin, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Like my fellow blogger Wendy, whose review of How I Learned to Drive appears here, I am not fully convinced about the structure of the show. But I think I'm getting close. I don't think Peck ever stops molesting his niece, and the jumbled way in which Vogel delivers bits and pieces of Li'l Bit's past works effectively in keeping the audience engaged and perpetually uncomfortable. Also, I am enormously compelled by the idea that one addiction can take the place of another. In How I Learned to Drive, Peck neatly substitutes alcohol for Li'l Bit; in turn, Li'l Bit learns to manipulate Peck in ways that suit her needs, all the while remaining his victim. One of the more fascinating aspects of the play is the clear-eyed way it depicts two people who are perfectly capable of simultaneously destroying and sustaining one another in a relationship that is at once disturbingly parasitic and yet weirdly understandable for its rules, structure, and mutual negotiations. This makes perfect sense to me: relationships are never as clear-cut as all that; there is often only a razor-thin line between a relationship that is healthy and one that is rotten to the core.

The cast is strong, but the show very clearly belongs to Norbert Leo Butz, whose portrayal of Peck, the benevolent, manipulative pederast, is superb. Much has been written about the lengthy, increasingly unsettling monologue during which Peck teaches a nephew how to fish for pompano; that, too, was a high point for me. But so was a much smaller, shorter scene, during which Li'l Bit, at age 13, strikes a bargain with her uncomfortably inebriated Uncle Peck: if he stops drinking, she will agree to visit with him, alone but in public, once a week. Butz's reaction to Reaser's suggestion is so deeply, movingly appreciated, so choked with conflicting emotions, that Peck's entire damaged, disturbed psyche flashed vividly before my eyes. The scene, simple as it was, took my breath away.

The ensemble, too, as Li'l Bit's friends, family members and various acquaintances, was uniformly strong. I was initially bothered by the fact that so many of the supporting characters are portrayed so two-dimensionally, while Peck is depicted in such sharp relief. But then again, I think that's precisely Vogel's point: Hazy memories play funny tricks on a person after a while.

I wish I could rave about Reaser. Don't get me wrong: she did a fine job as Li'l Bit, and her icy distance through the show can certainly be (and has been) interpreted as a strength. Li'l Bit was molested as a child, so why should the actor playing her as a grownup be warm, fuzzy, and approachable? Reaser is not, but her studied distance, which didn't let up through the show, did not always work for me. I am not sure if this was the function of the character or the woman playing her, but I was left feeling like I understood Peck far more than I did Li'l Bit, even though this was her show, her past, her conflicted, complicated youth.

That being said, I suppose leaving the theater wanting to know more about the characters you've just spent an evening with is not necessarily the worst criticism you can fling at the production of a play you just can't get away from.