Spring roundup: Mean Girls, Our Lady of 121st Street, Paradise Blue, Dance Nation

Mean Girls
Mean Girls is cute and funny, well-staged, a little too long for what it is, occasionally miked too loud, and ultimately better than getting a cavity filled. I wish I'd been thrilled by it, but again, it was hardly an ordeal. Some of my tepid reaction has to do with my own preferences, one of which is not to shell out serious buckage to see something from the rear balcony that I saw from a better seat in a movie theater fifteen years ago. I also didn't dig the score, which struck me weirdly as a thin interpretation of Broadway musicals in some vague generic sense but without a real grasp of the blood and guts that make some representations of the genre work way better than others do. And honestly, some of it was just that I was knee-deep in the end of my semester when I saw it, and thus even more overwhelmed and grumpy than I usually am, especially when it comes to encountering such sweet, well-meaning baubles.

The performers were game and some of them were really terrific. The audience I saw it with seemed to love it. It's apparently selling very, very well. And truly, whatever, it was fine, I've never written a film or adapted one into a Broadway show, so what the hell do I know? I can't help but wonder how it would have fared had Fey and her husband not been behind it, but we'll never know, and anyway, that's just not how show biz works.


Our Lady of 121st Street
Stephen Adly Guirgis's Our Lady of 121st Street, in colorful revival at Signature Theater, is an imbalanced work, but ultimately its strengths win out over its weaknesses. I wish like hell I'd known before I'd seen it that it's wonderful when it comes to affectionate, deft character analysis, but that it doesn't tie up all its loose plot threads in nice little bows by the end of the swift two hours. Or maybe I'm just a moron for having expected such a sprawling piece to resolve so completely in the final minutes. Either way, I felt momentarily disoriented when the play just kind of ended.

So I'm doing you the favor I wish someone had done me, whether you want it or not: Go. See it. Enjoy the very fine production and the numerous three-dimensional characters (as well as a few two- and one-dimensional ones who are still worthy of your time and consideration). This is a very good episodic, day-in-the-life play. It is well acted, insightful, and often genuinely hilarious. Enjoy the ride, don't expect resolution, and you'll have a wonderful time.

Desperate Measures

I love meaningful musical theatre. I adore Sondheim. Caroline, Or Change is one of my favorite shows. But sometimes an old-fashioned, well-done, energetic, deeply silly musical is the perfect way to spend an evening. As in: Desperate Measures.

Joseph Wallace, Lauren Molina, Justin Rothberg
Photo: Carol Rosegg

Desperate Measures is sorta, kinda based on Shakespeare's Measure by Measure. Most of the plot is gone. It takes place in a Old Western world of saloon girls and handsome, rugged sheriffs. All the characters have different names. In fact, it's so little like the original that I suspect that the creators just wanted an excuse to use iambic-pentameter couplets. And that's fine with me: they are extremely funny iambic-pentameter couplets (book and lyrics by Peter Kellogg; the listener-friendly music is by David Friedman).

Shows of this sort live and die by the direction and performances, and both are swell. Director Bill Castellino paces the show perfectly, and the cast throw themselves whole-heartedly into the crazy goings-on. I recently learned the phrase "commit to the bit": these performers commit to every single bit with fervor and skill. They are Gary Marachek, Lauren Molina (particularly fabulous), Sarah Parnicky, Conor Ryan, Peter Saide, and Nick Wyman; beside their comic talents, they all sing beautifully. The wonderful musicians are Anthony Festa, Celia Hottenstein, and Tom Souhrada.

As a woman in the lobby after the show summed up Desperate Measures, "You may get here grumpy, but you won't leave grumpy."

Wendy Caster
(discount ticket; 7th row)
Show-Score: 95

This Is Modern Art

As a reviewer, I get invited to dozens of shows each month, and it can be difficult to decide which to see. Sometimes the choice is almost random. I picked This Is Modern Art because (1) it was called “irresponsible” and “potentially damaging” by Hedy Weiss of the Chicago Sun-Times, and (2) I wanted to see the new theatre space being used by "Next Door  at NYTW."

Clockwise from top left:
Andrew Gonzalez, Landon G. Woodson,
Nancy McArthur, Shakur Tolliver
Photo: Maria Baranova

I really lucked out on this one. This Is Modern Art is compelling, thought-provoking, sometimes funny, and often sweet. The writing (Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval) is subtle and smart; the direction (Jessica Burr) is creative and smooth; and the acting (J. Stephen Brantley,  Andrew Gonzalez, Ashley N. Hildreth, Nancy McArthur, Shakur Tolliver, and Landon G. Woodson) is excellent. I found it neither irresponsible or potentially damaging. In fact, I found it necessary and important.

the hollower

I saw Liza Birkenmeier's the hollower three days ago and I have been avoiding writing a review because I don't know what to say. Well, yes, I know that the cast is excellent. And, yes, I know that the writing is often wonderful. But I can't figure out what the damn thing is about, and that's even after reading the script. However, I need to write a review, so here goes.

Patrena Murray, Reyna de Courcy
Photo: Hunter Canning

The show starts with a middle-aged African-American woman staring into a window and maybe talking to herself. This is Otto (Patrena Murray) who is sweet, forgetful, and strangely passive. In totters Bit (Reyna de Courcy), on insanely high heels. Bit lives with Otto. She is white, 16, creative, needy, and damaged; she dresses in bright and odd combinations of clothing and wears candy-colored wigs. The relationship between Otto and Bit is unclear. What is clear is that Bit needs Otto's attention desperately and that Otto gives her as much as she can, in her foggy way. It is not enough for Bit.

Hello Dolly

About 15 minutes into Hello Dolly, I thought, "I love this stupid show." By the end of the first act, I had eliminated "stupid." Hello Dolly has a silly plot, yes, and some of the songs come out of nowhere, yes, but, damn, it is an unstoppable joy machine. And while I don't think that musicals must have instantly hummable melodies, it is great fun when the audience comes out singing and, yes, humming the songs. There were a lot of women not letting the parade pass them by while in line for the ladies room.

Photo: Julieta Cervantes

And then there is Bernadette Peters. When I saw the show with Bette Midler, I enjoyed it immensely, but Midler didn't even make believe she was playing Dolly (link to my review here). Bernadette Peters plays Dolly, and it raises the show a whole level up. I don't think she's a great actress, but she's warm and likable, and I love her voice, and she's Bernadette Peters. (In a scrapbook I have from my early teen years, I have an interview with her from 1969. I've been a fan for nearly half a century.)

Peace for Mary Frances

Lily Thorne treads familiar ground in her new play, Peace for Mary Frances. Estranged members of a family gather due to the death of a parent. Old grudges are revisited, old wounds are reopened, and, well, you know. In this case, however, instead of assembling after the death (e.g., as in August, Osage County, Crimes of the Heart, and many more) they come to care for Mary Frances while she's still alive. Mary Frances, tired and in pain, is ready to die; she has decided to refuse further treatment. The family accept her decision, but they don't accept much of anything else.

Johanna Day, J. Smith-Cameron, Heather Burns 
Photo: Monique Carboni

One daughter, Fanny--the official fuck-up and ex-heroin user--has been living with Mary Frances but supposedly not taking good care of her. The other daughter, Alice--the quirky, angry one, who works as an astrologist--is jealous of the Fanny's relationship with their mother and neither trusts nor likes Fanny in general. The son, Eddie, who charges Mary Frances for helping with her paperwork, is largely oblivious. Alice's adult daughters are there too: one, a mother, is loving and able to push herself to do uncomfortable care tasks; the other, a famous actress, spends more time crying than helping.