Love Goes to Press

Imagine that someone told you that you were about to see a play about female war correspondents in World War II, written by Martha Gellhorn and Virginia Cowles, who had actually been female war correspondents in WWII. What would you expect?

Chances are that you wouldn't expect Love Goes to Press (a title not chosen by the authors and described by Gellhorn as "odious"), a three-act play that combines, not always successfully, war, romance, comedy, and farce.

Heidi Armbruster (top), Angela Pierce
Photo: Richard Termine

The play, which was a hit in London just after the war, was a flop in New York soon after. When Gellhorn read the reviews, she wrote, "I must say I agree with them that it was a very minor piece of work, but what I can't quite understand is why they seemed so angry about it." Years later, she wrote "Everyone in those London audiences knew about real war; they had lived through it, either in uniform or as embattled civilians. Knowing the real thing, they were free to laugh at this comic, unreal version of war. . . . Laughter was lifesaving escape. Theater tickets were inexpensive, and a theater was warm because of all the bodies in it. New York was something else."

Some 65 years after its premiere, how does the play hold up? In The Mint's strong but uneven production, Love Goes to Press is a pleasant evening in the theatre,  perhaps more rewarding historically than theatrically. And although I know it is my role to evaluate what Gellhorn and Cowles actually wrote, instead of what I wish they had written, I still wish they had given us a less "minor piece of work." It turns out that they didn't pen this play to express themselves in any real way--they wrote it to make money. Which they didn't. Oh well.

The plot, such as it is, is simple: Annabelle Jones and Jane Mason are war correspondents who have been friends for years. Currently they are in Italy, trying to cover the Allies' attempt to break through the German line at "Mount Sorrello," a fictional version of Monte Cassino. In contrast to many of the male correspondents, who seem happy to stay at the press camp, the women want to go where the action is and provide actual first-hand reporting. They utilize a combination of smarts, wiliness, and manipulation to try to achieve their aims. However, each is bothered by a man who gets in her way (Mason's is head of the press camp; Jones's is her ex-husband) . . .

. . . and, despite the men's intrusiveness, disrespect, and general annoyingness, the women love them.

This is played for laughs, and it is often funny--but it's also kind of bizarre. Even by the mores of the day and the setup of the play, these women are much too smart to be that stupid--particularly the one whose love interest has the bad habit of stealing her stories.

It doesn't help that director Jerry Ruiz's direction fails to set a consistent tone. The storyline is challenging, granted, with its combination of "those boys are so brave," and "I'm a giggling actress visiting the front lines," and "I want to make a difference in the world but I love you," and "I love you but I want you to be a completely different person," and so on. But, for example, the addition of sudden sappy music every time two particular characters meet is distracting, and I wish Ruiz had not allowed (or asked) Rob Breckenridge to play his role as a cartoon (it's a legit interpretation but doesn't mesh with the other performances). On the other hand, the love scene while bombs are exploding nearby is nicely done, and Ruiz's pacing keeps the show energetic and interesting.

The cast has a lot to offer--in particular, Angela Pierce and Heidi Armbruster as the two leads. Steven C. Kemp's set manages to be quite attractive while also being realistically raw and rundown. Andrea Varga's costumes are just right for the people and time period--and becoming as well--and Christian DeAngelis's lighting is appropriately evocative.

To learn about the realities of being a female war correspondent from the 1930s on, your best bet would be to read Cowles's and Gellhorn's reporting and books. For a fun and silly riff on the same topic, you could do worse than Love Goes to Press.

(fifth row center; press ticket)

Introduction

Howdy! I'm Jamie Fuller and I'm thrilled to be writing for Show Showdown!

A little about me - I'm getting ready to start my MFA in Stage Management at the University of Illinois's Krannert Center. So far, my theatre experience has been community and college theatres, as well as writing reviews on my own theatre blog, so moving toward both Krannert and writing for Show Showdown is a lot of exciting changes at once! I've stage managed (obviously), crewed everything, acted a bit, and, just this February, directed my first show and loved every minute. I adore anything to do with theatre and if it's on stage, I probably have something to say about it.

My reviews will be a bit different from the typical Show Showdown fare because 1. I've only been to New York once and 2. I live in Illinois. I'll be covering traveling companies, some Chicago theatre, local Illinois theatres, and wherever my summer internships take me.

Rock of Ages

Hey, kids, remember the '80s? Hair metal ruled MTV! The Sunset Strip was one big wild party! Banging your head was cool, and so were long, teased, wild hair and blue eyeshadow and thigh-high boots! Also, Reagan was president, greed was good, there was that Where's the Beef commercial, and that movie Ghostbusters was, like, totally hilarious! Remember?

I have long avoided seeing Rock of Ages for a couple of reasons, the largest being that when it started its run Off Broadway in 2008, I was at the tail end of a self-imposed break from rock musicals. This break started in 2006 when I finished my first book, which is all about rock musicals. By the time the book went to press, I was so tired of seeing, thinking about, and researching rock musicals that the very thought of visiting one made me agitated. And rock musicals are supposed to be fun and rockin', and I knew that if I went to any, I'd be sour and overly critical. So I stayed away. The break worked--I'm back to thinking about rock musicals, wondering how they've been doing, even considering writing about them again. In short, I've missed them, much the way one starts to miss a dear friend they had a falling-out with so long ago that they can no longer remember why they fought in the first place. I picked a good time to return to my old scopic stomping grounds, I guess: the movie version of Rock of Ages is about to open, and the hype has resulted in sold-out houses--and highly enthusiastic crowds--at the teeny, beautiful little Helen Hayes Theater on 44th street, where the Broadway version has been running since it moved from the larger Atkinson in March 2011. I'm not gonna lie: I had fun and was glad I finally saw it. [Editor's note: Liz's book is The Theatre Will Rock.]

But I'm also not gonna lie about how unbelievably stupid and sloppy and occasionally, if inadvertently, offensive it is. Especially since what I say won't matter: no one would ever go to this show for a deep, inspired night at the theater. Nope: this show promises that you'll get "nothin' but a good time," and there's ample energy expended toward that end. The Hayes is plastered with posters of hair bands, booze, and scantily clad women with big hair draped over various shiny cars. Bars on both the orchestra and mezzanine levels remain open during the show, and at least last night, many members of the audience took appropriate advantage of that fact. The cast works hard at having fun and entertaining, and while many chorus members seem to have been cast for their dancing ability and not for their voices, there's a lot of talent up on the stage.

Also, there are a lot of laugh-out-loud funny jokes and self-referential humor about how ridiculous and excessive the '80s hair metal scene was, and also about how ridiculous a Broadway musical about hair metal is, if you bother to think about it. Which some of the characters do, at length, smack in the middle of the show, at about the time the plot falls to pieces. Not like there is much of a plot anyway. Actually, that's not true--there's a ton of plot. Too much, maybe, to be carried by the generous handful of earnest rockers and pop-metal ballads that cram the show. But for what it's worth, here's what happens. Spoiler alert! Nah, fuck it, just kidding.

Drew, a nice kid with big hair and a dream, works as a busboy at the Bourbon Room, a divy bar on the Sunset Strip owned by the slightly sleazy but ultimately goodhearted Dennis Dupree. Dennis's right-hand-man, the similarly icky-but-ultimately-cool sound- and light-man, Lonny Barnett, narrates the story. The Bourbon originally nurtured the now-famous metal band Arsenal, fronted by wildman Stacee Jaxx. When Sherrie Christian, an innocent young blonde from Kansas, arrives on the Strip to follow her dream of becoming an actress, she lands a waitressing job at the Bourbon, and she and Drew develop feelings for one another.

But wait! Many, many, many problems arise! The mayor of LA is visited by a German guy named Hertz and his son, Franz, who propose ridding the Sunset Strip of its evil rock and roll, and building strip malls there instead. The mayor goes for it, but the city planner, a career protester named Regina, gets upset and chains herself to the Bourbon. Dennis refuses to close the Bourbon despite the offer of a lot of money from the city, so the Germans take the deed to the place by force. Dennis invites Stacee Jaxx and Arsenal, which has just announced their breakup, back to give their last concert. This, he figures, might generate enough money and attention to save the Bourbon.

Stacee shows up to the strains of Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory." He is insufferably arrogant, rapacious, and utterly depraved--and he sweeps Sherrie off her feet. Just as Drew takes the stage to open for Arsenal, thereby getting his big break, Stacee leads Sherrie off to the men's room for some meaningful intimacy. After having sex with her and before taking the stage, he demands that Sherrie be fired, because he's decided that "her energy is totally toxic and she shits on my soul." Lonnie fires Sherrie who, with little convincing, accepts a job offer from Justice Charlier, the owner of the nearby strip club. Drew is signed by a record producer who changes his image and makes him part of a boy band. As Act I ends, Lonnie explains to the audience that everything is always pretty fucked up by intermission when it comes to musicals.

But in act II, as expected, everything ends up ok: Hertz and Franz begin to destroy the Strip, but when Franz falls in love with Regina, they decide to return to Germany and follow their dreams instead. Stacee Jaxx shows up for a lapdance from Sherrie, whom he harasses enough that she punches him and runs off, whereupon Justice encourages her to reunite with Drew. Drew disses his record producer and takes a job as a pizza delivery boy. He and Sherrie run into one another and, after a few more twists and turns, live happily ever after. Lonnie and Dennis realize their secret love for each other as they contemplate the loss of their club, but then Hertz and Franz give the deed to the Bourbon back, and the Bourbon, too, lives happily ever after. Stacee Jaxx hits on a middle-school girl and is then forced to flee the country. PAAAAAAAARTYYYYY! ROCK AND ROLLLLLLLLL!

Sounds fun, right? It is. It's cute, if a little plot-heavy for such a light, sweet confection. I found the whole Regina-Hertz-Franz plotline expendable, in particular, and suspect that the show could be cut down significantly without anyone missing much. Rock of Ages felt a little too long for what it was.

What bothered me the most about Rock of Ages, though, was not its messy, multi-tentacled plot, but its almost aggressive social conservatism. The show makes fun of the time period: the overly wrought anthems, the big hair, the spandex and gaudy makeup. This is stuff that's totally ripe for the mockery, and Rock of Ages mocks it with appropriate, gentle good humor. What it never does, however, is question the fairly rigid gender constructs of the time, which are, I think, also well overdue for some mockery. But Rock of Ages inadvertently swallows, part and parcel, the notion that the tight clothes, big hair, and even the androgyny was a means toward a particularly hypermasculine, hypersexual end. Some of the aging characters--particularly Lonnie and Dennis--are teased, affectionately, for being aging horndogs who seem increasingly pathetic surrounded by a sea of youthful testosterone, but this same sort of commentary is never really extended to the female characters, who usually seem to drive the action forward merely by writhing, gyrating, and undulating for the men on the stage (and, of course, for the audience) like so many Tawny Kitaens. Even Sherrie, the romantic female lead, spends most of her time mooning over Drew or Stacee, or, when she joins Justice's strip club, humping a pole.

The two women who don't engage in such antics depart from the groupie stereotype only to embrace other stereotypes: Regina is the Shrill, Angry, Misguided Leftist, who impedes progress with her tree (or in this case, Bourbon Room) hugging. (And, yeah, I know it's all in fun, but the wacky joke about her self-immolation at the end of the show is beyond not funny.) Justice, too, embraces a stereotype that I'm sick to hell of seeing, and wish would stop on the Great White Way: The  earthy, soulful, big black mamma, who seems to exist solely to sing a bluesy shouter late in act II that helps young white people fix their lives.

The show also included a serious throwback in the character of Franz, who is a particularly hateful prototype: the flailing, lisping, limp-wristed fairy. The big joke with Franz is that he turns out to not be gay...just German! Hi-fucking-LARIOUS: One small-minded empty threat, neatly replaced for another! He ain't no faggot--he's a furrner, ain't that cute? I'm all for having fun--and as I've said, I did--but the reaction to Franz by the audience, which just screamed with laughter at his every hissy, prissy flail, genuinely made me uncomfortable. The implication that Lonnie and Dennis secretly love one another was slightly subtler, but only in the way that those particularly horrible seasons on SNL that featured some sort of juvenile gay joke or agonizingly extended gay punchline in every single sketch were subtle.

I get the sense from the previews of the film that Hollywood has addressed the overt sexism in the show by making Sherrie the aspiring rocker, and not Drew. I don't expect Hollywood to do anything to improve the depictions of gay characters, and while it's promising that Justice is played by the ass-kicking Mary J. Blige, I'll withhold judgment on that front, too. I really hope for some softening of this stuff, and I intend to see the film to find out. Because at the end of the day, and after all of my obligatory gripes about the social implications of Rock of Ages, I think it's only fair to acknowledge that as I've been writing, I've been listening without a break to music by Bon Jovi, Journey, and Poison. So what the hell do I know? I guess every rose DOES have its thorn.

Musings on the Tony Awards

As awards shows go, the Tonys have always been especially dear to me, not only because I am an avid theatergoer who researches and writes about the stage musical, but because the members of the industry who gather to recognize one another always seem, at least to me, like some of the realest celebrities you ever get to see on television. The Emmys, Grammys and Oscars focus on the famous, the mega-famous, and the mega-mega-famous; people who are expected to spend weeks in advance preparing for the events, who get picked to shreds if they end up in the wrong outfit or if they say the wrong thing or if they seem somehow off-kilter during the course of the evening. I read once that many film industry people believe Cuba Gooding Jr's career ended when he gave that over-enthusiastic reception speech for Jerry Maguire. I don't know if that's true, but I wouldn't be surprised in the least if it were.

When it comes to the Tonys, though, the stakes are traditionally just not that high. Not nearly as many people are watching, because not nearly as many people care. This is what has always made the Tonys special: It's cool to come off a little shabby, or a little crazy, or a little distracted at the Tonys. It's cool to swear, or to make tons of inside jokes, or to ramble on a titch too long during reception speeches. Long before the rest of television caught up--and it's only just beginning to--it was also cool for Tony winners to kiss their same-sex partners, on the mouths, on national television. For a long while, the Tonys struck me as the most subversive television viewing you could find.

I'm not sure that last night's ceremony held up on this front. Don't get me wrong: the 2012 Tonys were just great, as award-giving goes. There was some genuine competition, for once, and while I didn't always agree with who got what, I was consistently impressed with the lineup. Best actress in a play? Good Lord, what a category! Best actor? Ditto. So many good, new plays! So many small, innovative shows getting recognition! Granted, I remain a little concerned by the musicals: Ghost? Kill me now. Newsies and Once? Wonderful, wonderful...but also, like the failed Leap of Faith, once movies. I'm hardly thrilled by the fact that of the four Best Musical nominees, only one, Nice Work If You Can Get It, was truly--um, ok, only sort of--original. That said, the inherent musicality of both Peter and the Starcatcher and One Man, Two Guv'nors strikes me as promising and interesting, and there is certainly no lack of talent behind even the most derivative of productions. There were also a few moments of genuine surprise, last night: Porgy and Bess? Right ON! Take THAT, Stephen Sondheim!

As always, Neil Patrick Harris was great as an emcee. The show he hosted moved swiftly, was engaging and entertaining, and, all bitchiness about movie musicals aside, did not make me feel like Broadway was on its last legs, struggling desperately and pathetically to establish itself in a world of mass-mediated entertainment forms. Rather, I got the feeling last night that Broadway is doing pretty damned well for itself; is drawing locals and tourists alike in record numbers; is extending its brand to new audiences and in new ways (cruise ships? really?); and is even still making creative, innovative--dare I say risky--artistic choices, which is a lot more than I can say for a number of seasons past.

But last night's Tonys also felt, to me, closer to the Emmys, the Oscars, and the Grammys than I've ever noticed before: glitzier, more serious, more moneyed, more conservative, a bit straighter in every sense. I'm not sure how to put my thumb on this; I just felt something changing or shifting, ever so slightly, while I watched last night.

Maybe it was just me. And maybe the subtle shift I detected, if there even was one, is not such a bad thing. Maybe, after decades of trying desperately to regain the entertainment street-cred it lost when Tin Pan Alley died and Elvis Presley burst on to the scene, Broadway has finally started to figure out how to piss with the big boys. And maybe that new awareness results in an awards show that's more professional, bigger in size and in reach, and thus just a titch less real and local and raw than it once was. Maybe this is the price we have to pay for a healthy, widely appealing, endlessly varied theater culture. I suppose if that's the price, I'll miss my ragged old Tonys, but I'll ultimately be comfortable paying it.

NYTW Rocks the Tony Awards

If anyone had any lingering doubts that the real theatrical action is Off-Broadway, the New York Theatre Workshop's well-deserved 13 wins last night (eight for Once and five for Peter and the Starcatcher) should put them to rest.

Other Thoughts on the Tony Awards [updated in red]

• I wish Neil Patrick Harris hadn't started with a gay joke. Enough already.
• In general, though, Harris was a charming host.
• The opening number about "what if life was like theatre" was almost good--there was just a spark of some sort missing.
• For me the most surpising award of the evening was Judith Light over Linda Emond. I would have bet money on Emond. Glad I didn't.
• The camera work on the Newsies number managed to suck much of the energy away by interrupting any chance for the dance to build.
• I found many of the jokes throughout the evening lame, although I did like the idea of a musical called My Left Footloose.
• It was nice to see the old pros Michael McGrath and Judy Kaye win. They are two of the most reliably excellent people in theatre.
  
• Of all of the songs in Follies, "Buddy's Blues" was the one I'd least like to see. Burstein was fine, but the two women managed to overdo two roles that require overdoing.
• The song from Ghost  was boring.
• The song from Jesus Christ Superstar was unimpressive.
• I was thrilled that Christian Borle won.
• I guess Matthew Broderick is a star, and I guess he brings in audiences, but I have no idea what anyone sees in him.
• The End of the Rainbow number was horrible. Ick. Double ick.
• The Porgy & Bess excerpt tried to accomplish too much, I think.
• I loved "Walking on Moonbeams" from Once. I wonder, tho, how many tickets it sold, if any. I wish there were a way to judge. Here it is: according to this article, Once's ticket sales went up 500% today!
• The scene from Evita reminded me yet again that Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin are stars. Ricky Martin was okay. I guess.
• Godspell number: eh.
• The Leap of Faith number was pretty entertaining, I thought.
• All Audra McDonald needs is a Best-Actress-in-a-Play Tony and she will have won in all four acting categories. I find her ability to win in both plays and musicals to be even more impressive than the fact that she already has five Tony awards (which is in itself pretty damn impressive).
• The closing song was funny, and I am glad CBS let it run.
• It would be fine with me if Harris continues to host the show indefinitely.
• All in all, not a bad show. It moved along pretty quickly, and there were some lovely moments.

Show Showdown Reviewer Sandra Mardenfeld Wins PCLI Award

We're proud and excited to announce that our own Sandra Mardenfeld won first place in the "Online, Arts" category of the Press Club of Long Island Media Awards for her wonderful review of Snow White. Sandra recently completed her PhD, and she is Assistant Professor and Director of the Journalism Program at Long Island University C.W. Post Campus.

The rest of us here at Show Showdown happily congratulate Sandra on this well-deserved honor. 

Sandra Mardenfeld With Her
Husband Ruben Quintero