Slowgirl

Slowgirl is a lovely piece of theatre, small, quiet, simple-yet-complex, and real.

Photo: Erin Baiano

A 17-year-old goes to visit her uncle in the jungles of Costa Rica. She hasn't seen him since she was eight, and she's completely unprepared for dealing with nature. Why is she there? That's the story that unfolds over the smart and involving 90 minutes of Greg Pierce's excellent play, well-directed by Anne Kauffman.

The cast is a playwright's dream come true. Sarah Steele plays the girl, and her evolution from obnoxious to vulnerable (while still pretty obnoxious) is beautifully done. The uncle is the always-brilliant Željko Ivanek, who is one of the best actors working today. Actually, he has been for decades (his award-winning performance in Cloud Nine remains among my all-time favorites). Ivanek is a subtle, unshowy actor who totally inhabits each character he plays, never displaying even a hint of acting machinery.

The set by Rachel Hauck, costumes by Emily Rebholz, lighting by Japhy Weideman, and sound by Leah Gelpe are all evocative and impressive. And the new Claire Tow Theatre is a treat, intimate and comfortable. I suppose it's too much to hope that all its shows turn out to be this good, but one can always hope!

(Row G--the last row--for $23. All seats at the Clair Tow are $20; the rest is fees.)

The Last Smoker in America

When it comes to making theatre--or any sort of art--sometimes "no" is even more important than "yes." Take The Last Smoker in America, an amiable, mediocre musical that opened last night at the Westside Theatre. Peter Melnick's music and Bill Russell's book and lyrics have much to recommend them, but there are so many songs--more than a few completely unnecessary to the story--that they begin to feel relentless. (At one point the impressively talented John Bolton comes on stage with a guitar, and, even though I enjoyed his work a great deal, my gut-level response was, "Please don't sing another song. Please." Never a good sign at a musical.)

The Last Smoker in America is the story of, well, guess. It includes some nice satire of the "nanny state" but it also includes jokes and songs that were outdated years ago. I suppose their datedness may be related to how long it takes to get a show on nowadays, and perhaps the songs were more timely in their youth. But they are no longer in their youth, and that's where the word "no" would have come in handy. For example, should they have kept the painfully annoying song about the white teen who wishes that he were a black gangsta? No.

Belcon, Alvin, Boyd, Bolton
Photo: Joan Marcus

Then there's all the shtick and costume changes that make up much of the show. Why does the anti-smoking robot only respond sometimes when the last smoker tries to light up? Is it because consistency would have been inconvenient to the book writer? Why do the father and son wear Osmond-family-esque costumes at one point? Did the writers, along with director Andy Sandberg, really think it was a good idea? Why?

In all fairness, some of the shtick is genuinely funny. But the mood of the show is never established, and as it goes hither and yon, I kept thinking, what is this? And why should I care?

I then found myself thinking of Little Shop of Horrors, which establishes its tone from the first note and honors it throughout (I'm referring to the original Off-Broadway production). We know immediately that Little Shop is offering silliness with an emotional undercurrent. With Last Smoker, all we know is that some talented people threw in pretty much everything they could think of, without keeping track of the big picture.

To the extent that he keeps things moving and helps the cast calibrate their various incarnations, director Sandberg does an excellent job. But shouldn't/couldn't he have offered an objective eye and some guidance to Russell and Melnick? Or does he genuinely like the show as is? I wonder.

The four-person cast brings great commitment and energy to the proceedings. Farah Alvin, in the lead, is likeable and funny. Natalie Venetia Belcon switches moods on a dime, and her voices, from hypersweet squeaky to scary deep, add much humor to the show. I liked Jake Boyd, which is quite a compliment, since his role is deeply obnoxious and poorly written. And Bolton is consistently entertaining.

A playwright friend of mine once told me that she doesn't get real actors to do early readings of her plays, because "They can't help but make even bad writing sound good." The cast of The Last Smoker of America almost succeeds in hiding most of its flaws, and if the show were 75 minutes with a third fewer songs, it might have worked. But it's over 90 minutes and relentless. More "no" was definitely needed.

(third row, press ticket)

Nice Work If You Can Get It

If you're interested in watching a middle-aged woman bring the house down merely by glancing up at a chandelier, then Nice Work If You Can Get It is the show for you. The production received mixed reviews, largely because of the miscasting of Matthew Broderick as the romantic lead, but the slapstick-heavy luncheon scene that takes place in act II--and specifically the energy and dedication of Judy Kaye and Michael McGrath in it--is just one of many reasons to see the show, anyway.

It's sort of bizarre to think of "The Gershwins" and "jukebox musical" in the same flash, but Nice Work if You Can Get It really fits the bill. Which kind of makes sense, the more you chew on it. Lots of Gershwin shows--and those by their contemporaries--were pastiches in the first place. Songs that worked well in one show were often inserted into others; books were often secondary to a string of good songs, and thus utterly ridiculous; sight gags, slapstick, and quick, hilarious verbal exchanges glued the whole thing together. That Nice Work is being billed as a "new" Gershwin musical is perfectly apt, in this respect: the Gershwins, after all, were doing jukebox musicals before jukebox musicals had any idea what they were.

But then again, Nice Work would never have existed back in the Gershwin days--its nod to gender politics and its winking, self-referential humor are both just too contemporary. Its plot, while rooted firmly in the traditionally madcap, is just tight enough to resolve nicely, neatly, and without too many gaping holes. Some of its numbers are almost Berkeleyesque in their weird, carefully constructed randomness--the bathtub scene in the first act comes to mind--but, at the same time, winkingly conscious of their links to the past. So too is the whole show, which works nicely for the most part, if not all the time. Some of the numbers seem particularly shoehorned into specific scenes--and yes, I know this was the practice once, but it's not, now, so certain greatest-hits numbers (like "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" and the act I closer, "Fascinating Rhythm") seem to have been inserted primarily because--well, because they're greatest hits, and thus they HAVE to be shoved in there, somewhere.

And Broderick? Whatever, he's certainly watchable, if sort of stuck in a kind of Leo Bloom persona. He doesn't quite cut it as the romantic lead, here, but then again, the character he's playing is something of a sniveling cypher, overly coddled by his endlessly disapproving but enormously wealthy mother, and fully aware of how a schmuck like himself is fine as long as he has access to his family's ludicrous amounts of cash. Still, paired with the absolutely luminous Kelli O'Hara--as well as a remarkably strong supporting cast of wacky, high-energy men and women--he really seems to be phoning it in sometimes. Then again, really, who cares? He looks like he's having fun. Who wouldn't?

Also, again, he's playing an opportunistic schmuck who treats women poorly, is morally and ethically weak, and doesn't much think about the rest of the world or how it works. How else to treat him in the modern era? Especially in a show cast with exceptionally strong female roles, directed and choreographed by Kathleen-effing-Marshall, and produced in part by a number of individual women and all-female producing teams? Broderick seems perfectly fine to stand aside and let 'em run the show. Nice work, indeed.

Evita

Ricky Martin gives good lean—posing against a wall, languishing next to a pillar, and climbing a ladder, tilting his body precariously away from the rungs. Despite a voice that merely hits the notes, and arms as stiff as cardboard, Martin charms as Che. Part of that is due to the sex appeal that brings so many “livin’ la vida loca” fans to the Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice revival. Martin’s clothing hangs effortlessly, with his white opened shirt and tight pants emphasizing the parts that make him worthy as a pin-up. Yet his physical beauty never disarms since he plays Che more as a friend than intense subversive. When the show opens with the First Lady of Argentina’s funeral, he wanders through the crowd, one of the people, as he offers a handkerchief to one grief-stricken person, and places a hand on another mourner’s shoulder. He seems as accessible as Eva Peron herself. It is unsurprising that a decline in ticket sales coincided with his summer vacation.

Evita first appeared on Broadway in 1979 and propelled rising actors Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin, into theater stardom, nabbing them both Tony Awards for the Eva and Che roles. The casting in director Michael Grandage’s version feels less balanced: a stratospherically popular Latin singer/actor, a Broadway stalwart in Michael Cervaris’ (Assassins, Tony Award) Juan Peron, and Argentine actress Elena Rogers as Eva, known more for dancing than singing abilities. I can’t comment on her work, though, since the Wednesday matinee performance I saw featured Christina DeCicco (Wicked), but the Martin fan behind me (on her third visit) said assuredly that the audience was lucky for the substitution since, “Rogers can’t sing.”

Casting a celebrity in a Broadway show creates a double-edged sword. The market brightens with the possibility of fans coming to multiple performances (see above), but that sometimes makes a show more about the star than the well-calibrated group effort good theater takes. And, in a show about Eva Peron, who inspires a recurring line about providing “just a little bit of star quality,” DeCicco needs to offer more luster than the other characters. With Martin’s omnipresent sparkle, she can’t. Cervaris does offer some competition as Eva’s general-with-president potential, partnering the calculating, standoffish presence of the rising politico with an underlying raw emotion, intimating that the power coupling was also about love. Rachel Potter as the Mistress out shines them all though, standing plaintively on the stage as the social-climbing Eva moves upward in bed and steals her paramour. The sweet resonance of Potter’s voice and its trembling vulnerability in “Another Suitcase in Another Hall” haunts all the remaining scenes. It is not a good sign when a few stanzas in the first act surpass the famous “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” number.

The revival follows the original plot, beginning with the end of Eva’s life and effectively uses newsreels to show the state funeral before time traveling back to her humble beginnings, to Eva’s time as an actress, and, finally, her rise to the near top of the Argentine government. The sets (by Christopher Oram, who also designed the costumes) beautifully change from a piazza where mourners congregate to a local tavern to the sweeping majestic marble columns of a palatial estate with the aid of Neil Austin’s lighting. Particularly pleasing are the sudden patches of light let in when the building doors burst open, acting as a spotlight of sorts for flamenco dancers or the crowds of citizens who enter.

The hummable score by Lloyd Webber is augmented by the addition of “You Must Love Me,” written for the 1996 film with Madonna, and also used in the 2006-07 London revival version. Rice’s lyrics still offer little depth—more chuckle-providing than sharp observation, such as the line, “Her only good parts are between her thighs,” sung in “Peron’s Latest Flame.”

When Evita opened in April, reviews were all over the place (see Huffington Post or Show Showdown May 14th or 21st reviews for examples), and it is easy to see why. Much of Evita offers enjoyment, but it never coalesces into memorable theater even though you’d like it to do so.

Clybourne Park

Bruce Norris's Pulitzer-, Tony-, Olivier- and Evening Standard- award winning play Clybourne Park, which has been running since late March at the Walter Kerr Theater, is not perfect for all its accolades. There are some cheap jokes, played for belly laughs. Some of the characters are more well-developed than others. And some of the connections between characters from different eras are just a little too convenient. But the show works well for its flaws, which somehow manage, in some ways, to reinforce the playwright's grasp of and attempt to wrestle with race, class, gender, and language over several decades. Aren't we all sometimes sort of two-dimensional, crass, or even brutish in particular settings? Aren't we all as closely connected to the past as we are eager to push it behind us? Are we ever truly capable of real collective social change, or does our present always end up latching stubbornly onto the wriggling snake's tale of the past? Despite occasional missteps--which are maybe not missteps after all--Norris makes debate about this stuff seem easy, breezy, and often very, very funny.

Clybourne Park is set in the same house during two different eras. Act I takes place in 1959. A middle-aged white couple are preparing to move to a new neighborhood. As the nervously quirky, overly chipper Bev and her relentlessly downbeat husband Russ banter about the move, the derivation of the word "Neapolitan," and a footlocker that needs to be moved downstairs, they are gradually joined by their black maid, Francine, who is getting ready to go home; their pastor, Jim, who wants to talk with Russ about his depression; their neighbors, Karl and Betsy, who want to talk with Russ and Bev about the sale of their house; and Francine's husband, Albert, who has come to pick his wife up from work. While the white characters initially join Bev and Russ's light banter, talk soon gives way to deeper, more painful issues: a grown son who did terrible things before killing himself; a pregnancy that yielded a stillborn baby; the ways a community can uplift and foster; the ways a community can abandon and alienate. And there is a great deal of talk about the fact that Bev and Russ's home has been sold to a black family. It is only when the white characters begin this conversation in earnest that they take any real interest--and "real" is pushing it--in Albert and Francine.

Act II takes place in the same house--now empty and thoroughly dilapidated--in 2009. Now a historic, predominantly black neighborhood, Clybourne Park is attracting the interest of young, upwardly mobile white couples who covet the spacious homes and proximity to downtown Chicago. One such couple, Lindsey and Steve, have purchased the house and submitted plans to tear it down and build something taller, more ostentatious, and--you can just tell--way uglier in its place. The same cast members, in different yet overlapping roles, meet again in the house to go over the ordinances, discuss the plans, and air their concerns about the demolition and new construction. Light conversation--again, stemming from the derivations of words related to different geographical locations--results in a few asides that connect some of the characters to those in the first act: the lawyer representing the couple is the daughter of Karl and Betsy. Lena, who, with her husband Kevin, serves on the community board, is the niece of the woman who bought the house from Bev and Russ in 1959. Soon enough, the conversation turns again to race.

Morris draws a number of parallels between the first and second acts, while at the same time keeping both rooted in their time periods. In act I, race looms larger than gender and class in the minds of the characters, even as the playwright gently reminds us of the many ways they intersect. Talk is more direct when it touches on race in this pre-Civil Rights world; the white characters don't think twice about neatly erasing the black characters from the discussion--or from the room--until it becomes convenient to include them, whereupon they are blithely condescended to at every turn.

The second act is set in 2009, a year that the now-quaint term "postracial" was used most frequently in this country. The act is also, however, rooted in the post-Civil Rights--and post-second wave, post-Stonewall, post-PC, and postmodern era--and so language, perception, and discussion about race has become touchier, more nuanced, more layered, and thus, Morris implies, a lot harder to negotiate for pretty much the same ends. In light of the new complexities of language and meaning, Morris's use of cheap jokes and easy characterizations end up taking on a lot more weight in performance before a contemporary audience: what are we doing when we laugh at the racist jokes the characters hurl at each other in act II? Just how layered and informed are our reactions? Are we laughing ironically?

Morris concludes, quite cynically, that we haven't really changed at all, even though the ways we talk about race have become more nuanced, sophisticated, guarded. His play ends up back in 1959, just prior to the actions that take place in act one: For all the changes we've pushed for in this country, he deftly tells us, and for as often as we like to pride ourselves on being blind to class, gender, and racial differences, our big old snake of a culture just won't release its rattling tail from its iron-clad jaws.

Baby Case

Thirty-two separate characters are listed in the program for Baby Case, and I didn't care about any of them. The show is a descendant of Chicago, Ragtime, and Assassins, but without any center. Since it tells the story of the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, you might assume that Charles and Anne Lindbergh would be the main characters, but they're not. In fact, neither even gets the big "our baby's been taken" song--the baby's nurse, a character we know nothing about, gets it. Perhaps America is supposed to be the main character, but that's a concept, not a character. Chicago, Ragtime, and Assassins are about America, but after they're about people and desire and obstacles and arcs and journeys. (It's kind of mean to compare a new show to Chicago, Ragtime, and Assassins, since they are three of the finest shows of the past 50 years, but Baby Case invites the comparisons.)

Michael Ogborn, who wrote the book, lyrics, and music, is undoubtedly talented and has much to say. None of it is new, however, at least in Baby Case, but that's okay. Everything really has already been said; the challenge is to be fresh and compelling while re-saying it. Ogborn doesn't meet that challenge.

Some of the lyrics are interesting, a couple of songs are beautiful, and Ogborn's ambition is admirable. But he is not a good book-writer; he lacks the all-important ability to efficiently bring characters to life. And the more characters you have, the more efficient you have to be. (I know and care more about the Emma Goldmans of Assassins and Ragtime--even though she is a minor character in both--than about anyone in Baby Case.)

To the extent that Ogborn is showing how society and the press make a circus out of tragedies, he almost pulls it off, and he is definitely helped by director Jeremy Dobrish and choreographer Warren Adams. There's a jazz-hands moment when the chorus is singing "Someone's Taken the Lindbergh Baby" that has a zip and point of view that might have invigorated and defined the rest of the show.

The cast is uneven. Will Reynolds is weak as Lindbergh but better as Bruno Hauptmann (odd double casting!). Anika Larsen, who can be excellent, is unimpressive here, except in the scene where she is told that her son is dead; she's simultaneously heart-breaking and technically impressive. Michael Thomas Holmes is an effective Walter Winchell, and Jason Collins does well with a variety of roles. Eugene Barry-Hill is outstanding, bringing real dimension to a neighbor who may or may not have seen Hauptmann on the Lindbergh estate.

The set and costumes by Martin Lopez are attractive, and the lighting by Zach Blane gives the exactly right hyper-focused glow to the proceedings. The sound is iffy; people's voices drop out when they stand at certain locations onstage. (There was also some sort of interference at the performance I saw; it sounded as though someone off-stage was coming through the speakers.)

The audience response seemed mixed. There was a fair amount of friends-in-the-audience hooting and hollering. Some people didn't come back for act two (including the friend I went with). At the end, some people clapped politely while some people stood.

The advance buzz on Baby Case was quite positive, and I can sorta see why. The show has energy and some humor and a certain shine. But until and unless it gains a center, the whole will remain less than the sum of its parts.

(press ticket, 2nd row on the aisle)