Macbeth

Experimental approaches to well-known plays can sometimes pay off in enormous ways. The National Theatre of Scotland's production of Macbeth, currently at the Barrymore, made me think of a whole bunch of productions that have, at some point or another, thrilled me with their wonderful weirdness. There was the production of Ibsen's Ghosts that I saw as a kid at Carnegie-Mellon University, which scared the shit out of me, and which featured life-sized voodoo dolls, a stage filled with dirt, and a huge, creepy, empty auditorium. There was the Mabou Mines production of Ibsen's A Doll's House, cast with men under four feet tall and statuesque blonde women (one of whom got totally naked at the end, and turned out to be bald). There was The Donkey Show, Diane Paulus's hilarious 1970s take on A Midsummer Night's Dream, set in an abandoned dance club in the very westernmost reaches of Chelsea. There was John Doyle's Company, which highlighted Bobby's isolation by having every character but him play their own musical instruments. I recognize that some of you might've hated some of these productions, and it's fine with me if you did, but they all totally bent my brain in really good ways.

Then again, new twists on old favorites can end up feeling gimmicky and pointless, and I've sat through plenty of those productions, too. I still can't figure out the production of Measure for Measure that I saw, also at CMU, which featured a cast of actors clothed in smeary, filthy tatters and wandering blankly through the audience as they delivered their lines in near monotones. A production of Tosca set during World War II was....Tosca with 1940s style suits and dresses. I understand what Baz Luhrmann has been trying to do since, like, he was born, but I've never really connected with his work nonetheless. Last year, I saw a college production of Pippin that re-imagined the title character as a soldier suffering from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which was way, way more adorable than its overly committed cast of very young adults clearly intended it to be.

And then there's this production of Macbeth, which I'd place somewhere squarely in the middle. The gimmick: it is set in a mental institution, where Alan Cumming--a severely disturbed patient who has experienced (maybe caused?) something horribly traumatic that has resulted in a psychotic break--has been committed. A man and a woman in white coats observe him, and occasionally take part in his delusions, as he portrays every major character in the Shakespeare tragedy.

Macbeth

In his one-man Macbeth, the protean Alan Cumming orates, cries, hits his chest, yells, whispers, throws things, and tries to drown himself. What he doesn't do is define characters or tell a coherent story. Now and then you can catch chunks of Macbeth flying by, and Cumming does well by the famous bits: out, out damn spot; a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage; Macduff was from his mother's womb untimely ripped; and so on. But when he's acting out a conversation among a variety of characters, good luck figuring out who's saying what to whom.The framing story is sort of interesting, but obscure; for no apparent reason, Macbeth has become the rantings of a man with blood on his hands (neck, torso, arms, etc). Overall, Cumming's performance is impressive, but in the way that running a marathon is impressive.

I'll grant you that it's a cheap shot, but this Macbeth is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Full disclosure: most of the people in the audience jumped to their feet cheering when the show was over. 

(eighth row center, press ticket)

Nice Work If You Can Get It

I had no intention of seeing Nice Work If You Can Get It. I'm not a Matthew Broderick fan, and word-of-mouth made the show sound lame. Then nicely discounted tickets became available, and Jessie Mueller was cast, and I've always adored George Gershwin, and I figured, "What the hell. Even if the show stinks, I'll get to hear the music."

And damned if I didn't have a wonderful time. And damned if I didn't love Broderick's performance, weird voice and all!

Judy Kaye
Photo: Joan Marcus

The storyline is hardly worth summarizing--playboy meets girl bootlegger, playboy loses girl bootlegger, playboy gets girl bootlegger--but Joe DiPietro (the playbill says "Inspired by material by Guy Bolton and P.G. Wodehouse) has filled the script with delightfully silly jokes that are nailed by the fabulous cast. When an exchange about someone not being able to count to two is actually funny, you know you're in good hands.

And oh, what hands: Judy Kaye as an anti-alcohol crusader, Michael McGrath as a crook proud to be a good butler, and Chris Sullivan as a lunkhead with a sweet heart bring a divine sublimity to the proceedings. Kaye in particular gives a master class in perfectly calibrated insanity. Is there anyone like her? Fabulous voice, excellent acting, supreme likeability--I luv her.

The scenery by Derek McLane and costumes by Martin Pakledinaz are exactly what they should be, with style. In particular, the striped vice squad suits are a delight. And the orchestrations by Bill Elliot are wonderful--in his capable hands, even the scenes changes are a treat. The choreography by Kathleen Marshall isn't unique or outstanding--and I really wanted a tap number!--but it does what it needs to do, and her direction moves the show along at the perfect snappy pace.

If you too were dissuaded from giving Nice Work If You Can Get It a chance by the lackluster word-of-mouth and highly mixed reviews, and if you like shows that are sheer fun, get thee to the Imperial before the show closes on June 15th.

(4th row mezz; discount ticket)

The Girl I Left Behind Me

Jessica Walker has a pretty mezzo-soprano voice and a fascination with the male impersonators of the late 19th and early 20th century. With co-writer Neil Bartlett, she has turned these into a one-woman show in which she talks about these women and sings their songs. She looks good in tails and is earnest in her presentation. But she lacks the swagger and polish needed to do full justice to male impersonation, and while her singing is lovely, the patter is often awkward, and she isn't quite an actress. The person I saw the show with called it a "sung essay," and I can't do better than that.

Songs included Don't Put Your Foot on a Man When He's Down (great title!), Down by the Old Mill Stream, Why Did I Kiss That Girl?, Following in Father's Footsteps, Burlington Bertie From Bow, and After the Ball.

(press ticket; table seating)

Honey Fist

It's amazing what really excellent playwrights can pull off. Take the Flux Theatre Ensemble's Honey Fist, by the wonderful August Schulenburg. In a dry description, it sounds like a stew of worn-out tropes and creaky devices: a reunion of old buddies, mourning the friend who died; sparring between the one who moved away and the ones who stayed; the newcomer who doesn't fit in; significant alcohol and drug use; revealed secrets and heartbreaks; and so on. Yet in Schulenburg's deft hands, these rusty old parts become something new and shiny, funny and engaging, sad and meaningful, silly and occasionally wise. He does such a smooth and entertaining job, in fact, that by the time the storyline becomes completely unbelievable, you choose to believe it anyway.

Parquet, Rahn
Photo: Ken Glickfeld

How does Schulenburg pull this off? I believe Honey Fist succeeds because he makes this group of old friends unique, detailed, and vivid; this reunion specific and suspenseful; this sparring real, with high stakes and human failings; these secrets particular to these people and this time and place. In other words, he de-clichés

the clichés and un-tropes the tropes, with deep compassion and gentle humor.

And then there is the language:

Round this time I had this thing for this girl from summer camp, in Falmouth, for my Dad still had his mind and his job in those days; but this was a sweet-ass sleep-over camp and even though half the boys are still thinking girls got cooties, there was this one girl, Margaret Mayer, who even the hard-core cootie-phobes harbored a crush for. You know how it is, girls in the summer, in their soccer shorts, their pig-tails, they make your skin grow up before your mind knows a thing about it.

Or:

Sometimes I think, if Justin hadn’t died, I might’ve been an actual artsy-fartsy artist instead of one hell of a drunk carpenter. Crazy how something like that alters your course forever. Sometimes I feel that other life rubbing up against this one, you know? Like I could just breach that invisible wall and reach into that other life, where he’s still alive, and I’m, you know, finding the shapes in shapes for real. This is reflective pot, are you feeling reflective?

What's even better is the give-and-take of his dialogue, people chatting, bantering, wheedling, fighting, with distinctive voices, in language both lyrical and real.

Director Kelly O’Donnell smoothly leads a strong cast of Flux regulars and one newcomer. They are Matt Archambault, providing a calm center amid a fair amount of insanity; Nat Cassidy, full of nervous energy and desperation; Lori E. Parquet, beautiful, sad, and wry; Anna Rahn, somehow retaining her dignity even while behaving in a deeply undignified manner; Isaiah Tanenbaum, likeable in the least interesting role; and Chinaza Uche, doing his best work yet as man deeply in love and not sure what to do about it.

As I reread this rave review, part of me feels like I'm overselling the show. I don't think Honey Fist will live forever as a classic. I don't think it is Schulenburg's best work. But his brilliance is all over it, and as I see more and more mediocre plays (and I unfortunately see a lot of mediocre plays), I more deeply respect the skill it takes to write a good one.

(press ticket; 4th row)

The Call

When reading reviews, you sometimes just have to wonder, "Did we see the same play?" The Call, written by Tanya Barfield, directed by Leigh Silverman, and currently playing at Playwrights Horizon, was largely well received, garnering an overall B from StageGrade. The reviews called it thoughtful, though-provoking, and sensitive in its depiction of a white couple who decide to adopt a child from Africa and the way it affects their best friends, an African-American lesbian couple. To me, however, The Call is a potentially fascinating essay awkwardly jammed into the lives of cardboard characters who exist only to represent political points of view. And the final crisis, [spoiler] whether the couple should adopt a 4-year-old from Africa, is used to indict the wife as selfish and perhaps mildly racist, when in reality the problems associated with adopting a child of that age are well-documented and serious, whether the child is from West Africa or Westchester. But that's not the only artificial situation in The Call: the lesbian couple have no chemistry, nor do the married couple; the friendship between the white wife and one of the African-American lesbians rings false; and the African next-door-neighbor is an embarrassing and preachy plot device. The scenery was nice.