Clybourne Park

Really? Clybourne Park? This is the play that won the Pulitzer? That has a good chance at the Tony? That is receiving raves? Really?

Let's take the depiction of the deaf character Betsy to represent the whole play. Betsy is used for all of the usual cheap laughs. People yell and enunciate at her. She misses exactly what author Bruce Norris needs her to miss to set up predictable laugh lines; she is a comic device rather than a character. At one point Betsy's husband is upset that someone has used a curse word in front of her. The other person says, "but she's deaf," and then says "fuck you" to her. Not understanding, she smiles and gives a little wave. And the audience roars.

But it's already been established that she is good at lip-reading. And there are few phrases as easy to lip-read as "fuck you" as anyone who watches sports can tell you. It's a completely cheap joke, feeble, untrue to the character, and lame. And, like I said, it's an apt synecdoche for the whole play. (But the audience did roar.)

The very premise of the first act is unconvincing. It's 1959, and Russ and Bev are unaware that they have sold their house to an African-American family (we know that they are the Younger family from Raisin in the Sun, though it could be any African-American family). Their racist neighbor Karl begs them to stop the sale.  Russ and Bev's African-American maid and her husband are pulled into the fray (based on the dreadful these-people-are-staying-in-a-conversation-they-would-have-left-long-ago trope). There ensues a series of exchanges breath-taking in their lack of subtlety and nuance. The racist neighbor does everything but twirl a mustache. Bev, played as a cartoon by Christina Kirk, flails around and flaps her arms (literally), and her interactions with her maid are ham-fisted in their depiction of white ignorance, entitlement, and neediness. Any ten-second piece of Caroline, or Change reveals more about the race relations of past decades, and with humor, compassion, and complexity.

The second act is less painful to sit through but also less believable. While the Act 1 is far too one-dimensional, it deals with a reality that did exist. The second act features a few characters who come across as actual human beings, but the dialogue and situations are unconvincing and heavy-handed. Norris seems to think that having people make jokes about anal sex and tampons, or call each other cunts, is enough to make a play realistic and hard-hitting (and many critics seem to agree). But without an honest examination of genuine people, Norris's writing comes across as a middle-schooler trying to act cool.

Act 2, which takes place in 2009, reverses the situation of Act 1 as whites are now buying into a black neighborhood. They want to tear down the house from Act 1 and put in its place a building out of proportion to its surroundings. The white couple, their lawyer, a black couple who live nearby, and a mediator are trying to work out a solution that pleases everyone, but they all talk over and around each other (the various characters' ability to go off on tangents is one of the few convincing aspects of the play).

The conversation eventually comes around to race, but Norris seems unwilling to address the actual issues, preferring to fall back on the boring we're-all-savages-underneath trope. Why couldn't they have actually discussed what was going on? Why couldn't the black couple say, "If you gentrify this neighborhood, the people who have lived here for decades will get priced out"? Why couldn't the white couple say, "But we have the right to live wherever we want"? Instead, they tell racist jokes and call each other names and blah, blah, blah.

Another problem is that Clybourne Park has five whites and only two blacks, particularly since the black characters are too similar from act to act: she's the one who's willing to fight, he's the one who wants to make nice. The white people get a variety of personality types--albeit mostly one-dimensional--but the black people get a much smaller palette.

I find it quite sad that Lynn Nottage's excellent play, By the Way, Meet Vera Stark, which dealt with racial issues with subtlety and genuine humor, never made it to Broadway, while this dumb and predictable play is knee deep in kudos. But I'm not surprised. Clybourne Park establishes a white "them" that we white people in the audience can feel superior to and laugh at. It gives us the opportunity to congratulate ourselves that we would never be that stupid, racist, etc. With its cheap writing, it allows us a cheap out.

(tdf ticket, 6th row mezz first act, about 10th row orchesta second act)

Barb Jungr: The Man in the Long Black Coat

Bob Dylan's songs are so closely meshed with Bob Dylan's voice that the idea of a cabaret chanteuse taking them on is like tomato ice cream, both odd and intriguing. Award-winning British singer Barb Jungr is a big Dylan fan (in the way that the Grand Canyon is a big hole in the ground), but she is also an original artist on her own terms, and she's willing (and able) to take Dylan's songs to places they've never been (and possibly never expected to go).

In her current show at the Metropolitan Room, Jungr covers the famous songs (a slow, thoughtful "It Ain't Me, Babe"; a spirited "The Times They Are a-Changing) and the less well know (a jazzy "Trouble in Mind" from Dylan's gospel period, with an exciting piano solo by the excellent Tracy Stark). She changes tempos, sometimes more than is good for the song (in her too-slow take on "Like a Rolling Stone," her relationship with the beat feels arbitrary at best).

Jungr's voice ranges from simple and sweet to growly, and she's fond of sliding along notes in an effect that works better in some songs than others. She is hammy, but not in a bad way. Rather than it being an insult, hamminess is her genre, and she does it well. The important thing is that she gives each and every song everything she's got to give. (And she plays a mean harmonica.)

Jungr's colorful flowered dress over black tights and her reddish hair framed with blonde give her a nicely quirkly mien that works well with her sometimes very funny patter. (She looks quite different in person than in the picture accompanying this review.) Her discussion of Dylan's "deeply opaque" lyrics is quite interesting and well-expressed. For example, she says that he provides "forensic analysis of the very bowels of the human condition." And she's no sycophant. Her story about Dylan and Joan Baez expresses disappointment in Dylan (albeit with an ultimate unwillingness to judge him).

An odd thing about Jungr's performance is the amount of time she spends not making eye contact with anyone in the room. She stares into the middle distance, over the audience's head, which distances her from her listeners. When she does make eye contact, the connection adds much to her performance.

The bottom line? She is never uninteresting.

(center-ish table; press ticket)

You Better Sit Down: Tales From My Parents' Divorce

In a departure from 2009's This Beautiful City and 2010's In The Footprint, this latest Civilians show, You Better Sit Down: Tales From My Parents' Divorce makes a drastic reduction in scope and, under Anne Kauffman's direction, does away with all flourishes, arriving at a too personal (and diminutive) result. That said, there's much to be said for the what the ensemble bravely bares: a sort of living museum that hints at the origins and ends of love. The (tran)script has been lovingly polished by the cast (blemishes and all), and while it's very specific, it's also very sincere. At worst, Tales from My Parents' Divorce will at least encourage children in the audience to call their own divorced parents for a more accurate history lesson; at best, it's an hour spent in the company of charming, distant relatives, here to remind you that we've all got stuff.

[Read full review here]

Alice Ripley at the Metropolitan Room

Stars are generally not low-key people. From Bette Davis to Patti LuPone they are often mannered, fascinating, and almost painfully distinct. They are never generic. Love 'em or hate 'em, you can't ignore them.

As she proved once again at the Metropolitan Room, Alice Ripley is a star. Some of her songs were better than others; her voice was occasionally raspy and/or flat; and some of her interpretations could have used a little more subtlety. Okay.

Meanwhile, she was compelling, passionate, and occasionally quite moving.

Ripley sang some of her songs solo and some with her band , along with Nick Cearley on backup. Her solo songs were raw; her songs with the band were smoother. Her voice was perfectly complemented by Cearley's which shared much of her tone but none of its roughness. The set included songs from Tommy, Rocky Horror, and Sideshow. Ripley mentioned that the latter was added because Bill Russell, the Sideshow lyricist, was in the audience. It was a highly emotional version of "Who Will Love Me as I Am," accompanied only by Ripley herself on guitar.

Mostly she sang her own songs. My favorite was her latest single, "Beautiful Eyes," a bluesy piece about which Ripley said on BroadwayWorld.com, "The lyrics are mysterious, but one thing’s for sure: it sounds like a really fun party.”  It does indeed. (The video is here.)

However, the "mysteriousness" of her lyrics in "Beautiful Eyes" and her other songs is disappointing. While she can turn a phrase, her songs are often unfocused, and some of her rhymes seem to exist only because they rhyme. An example of the mixed quality of her lyrics occurs in "When I'm Olde," which is an entertaining anthem that is hurt by the randomness of some of its phrases (I couldn't find the lyrics online, so I don't have examples to share).

Overall, however, Ripley delivered. The woman is a star, after all.

(press ticket, center)

Peter and the Starcatcher

The delightful Peter and the Starcatcher, the Story Theatre-esque prequel to Peter Pan,  is now on Broadway at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre (my review of the Off-Broadway production at the New York Theatre Workshop is here). As with any move from a smaller to a larger theatre, the first question is, how did it survive the move?

Pretty well.

On one hand, the show has retained its high spirits, silly jokes, and excellent cast. On the other hand, it has not been restaged sufficiently to reach the sides of the theatre--that is, entire bits (very funny bits!) that occur center stage aren't visible to a chunk of the audience due to some of the cast standing in the way. Also, the Brooks Atkinson has some seats that are just too far to the side to begin with; in addition, Peter and the Starcatcher has added a proscenium to the existing proscenium, further limiting the view from the sides. This is unfortunate because Peter and the Starcatcher is so much fun that you don't want to miss a second of it.

Luckily, Peter and the Starcatcher comes to Broadway retaining its most important asset: the fabulous Christian Borle. (Many thanks to the otherwise-dreadful TV show Smash, on which Borle appears, for making it possible for him to stay with Peter.) As the somewhat-pathetic villain Black Stache, Borle reminds me of Kevin Kline in The Pirates of Penzance, which is serious praise indeed! His slapstick is elegant and perfectly timed, and he raises empty bluster to an art form. Kudos also to Celia Keenan-Bolger for her lovely turn as Molly, the Starcatcher-in-Training. Her heartfelt performance provides the show with the emotional anchor that makes it more than just excellent fluff.

Peter and the Starcatcher is a treat for children (fart jokes) and adults (Ayn Rand jokes), and it uses theatre's unique strengths to provide an experience that could not be equaled on TV or in a movie. (Okay, I would shave about 15 minutes from it, but otherwise . . .)  It's a wonderful starter show if you want to introduce your kids to theatre, and it's a delight for someone who has seen dozens, even hundreds of shows.

(press ticket, 4th row, audience right, three seats from the aisle)

Peter and the Starcatcher

There's a star being caught in Peter and the Starcatcher, and it ain't the unnamed Boy (Adam Chanler-Berat) who will, by play's end, become Peter Pan. Which is not to say that Chanler-Berat and his cohorts, Carson Elrod and David Rossmer ("We're lost!" "Boys!" runs one of the knowing quips in the show) aren't entertaining. But in this prequel, lovingly and creatively adapted by Rick Elice from the loving and creative novel by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, the star is, as ever, our delightfully villainous Captain Hook -- or should I say, Black Stache (Christian Borle), since it's not until a remarkable, scene-stealing moment late in Act II that he is "disarmed." Not only does Borle enhance any ensemble he's a part of (there's a delirious mermaid sequence), but he solidifies all of his solo sequences, making quick work of the script's alliterations and even quicker work of his character's own perpetual flubs ("Abandon spleen!" he cries, as the Neverland begins to sink). It takes an expert at physical comedy to appear to be so effortlessly clumsy, be it his attempts to strike a pose or simply to rhyme in verse, and though he jests that iambic pentameter would be box-office poison, I expect that a healthy dose of Mr. Borle is antidote enough to salvage any scene. (That explains why Peter and the Starcatcher is so much honest-to-goodness fun: there are no scenes in need of salvage.)

Peter Pan brags that he'll never grow up; with theater as good as this, audiences will never have to.
[Read full review here]
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