As I upload this seaon-end roundup, I offer many apologies for the delay between Aisle Say editions; for the omission of reviews I intended to write, but couldnÕt in time (I salve my conscience a littleÑonly a littleÑwith having also attended them as a Drama Desk voter); and finally for the consolidation of what follows below into one big file.
Aside
from the normal run of Real Life concerns and preparing to go into rehearsal
for the Montreal world premiere of The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz (by me and Alan Menken, directed by Austin
Pendleton)Ñrehearsals starting on MayÑI got slammed with a
hearth-and-home situation that had to be dealt with immediately and took
several full-time weeks out of my life that excluded directing my attention toward
anything else. The good news is that, so far, Real Life and Show Life are going
as well as they mightÑand that the emergency situation ended very
favorably indeed.
Also on the happyish front, regarding the reviews youÕre about to read: Because once I start to pontificate, I canÕt help myself, most of the notices below arenÕt that much shorter than the ones IÕd have written with more time; and some of them are the usual length; mostly, my strategy for brevity (when I was in brief mode) was to cut right to analysis and opinion, with only minimum required contextual setup, under the assumption that most of you dear readers, as theatre aficionados, are already in-the-know about certain Òbackstory detailsÓ like well-known plorts and certain involved personnel.
But
I did selectively Ògo capsuleÓ with a few of
the reviews, and opted for this roundup presentation to save me the
several
hours it would take to process, index and archive individual pages.
(YouÕll
even note I donÕt have the usual full show-header info above, nor links
to production websites. Forgive me for that, but I have faith you can
navigate the internet briskly enough to get to those on your own when
interest is piqued.)
Because
of Duddy and other obligations, I expect
the next edition of the Ôzine will occur upon my return from MontrealÑsometime in mid-to-late July.
And as always, I thank you for your patience and for hanging in.
And now letÕs get to it.
There are those who are enjoying
the ÒrevisalÓ of Lerner and LeoweÕs Gigi, so I canÕt assert that it isnÕt worth
your time. But I nonetheless have to say that it may be the goofiest
updateÑin this case not of era, but of sensibilityÑthat IÕve ever
seen. And this because itÕs so stunningly transparent.
Gigi
is a difficult story to put over with
contemporary audiences because itÕs about a young girl in early 1900s Paris,
being trained by two aunts to be a courtesan. And somewhere along the way, a
30ish fellow named Gaston, who has watched her grow up, realizes that she has
(at the grand age of 16) matured from girl to woman and that he is in love with
her.
As
originally dramatized by Alan Jay Lerner in his screenplay adaptation of ColletteÕs novel, itÕs a fairly static story, but film
allows for a certain amount of up close leisure and treats stories of the
Romance genre much more kindly than stage musicals do (in which, usually,
romance is the secondary story, or the trigger for larger events, since stage
musicals tend to require plot muscle and a narrate motor to keep focus from
sprawling). His subsequent stage adaptation of his screenplay was thus
attenuated and kind of sleepy and forgettable; but a revival at Paper Mill in
the 90s managed to perk it up a little, via faster pacing and fudging the ages
of Gigi (cast a bit older) and Gaston (cast a bit younger).
But
in this new production, with libretto by Heidi Thomas and directed
by Eric Schaeffer, it has been
transformed into a story about a young girl rejecting the tradition of her
training, claiming her independence and insisting that love be mutually chosen
by both partners. Gigi is suitably old enough to be Òlegal,Ó and Gaston is now
young enough that he might have watched her grow up from the vantage point of a
surrogate older brother. Virtually all the choices in the new libretto spring
from this.
The
cast is generally fine, as are production values, choreography and etc. And
while you might have heard or read quibbles with one performance or another
(which one varies), itÕs because every character and his/her portrayer is
somewhat victimized by the alterations, which sacrifice verisimilitude on the
altar of political correctness. It renders fundamental changes in every single
character, to the point where, despite ostensible similarities, the show simply
isnÕt Gigi anymore. Nor is it anything
else because itÕs so flagrantly anachronistic in attitude. If itÕs far less
dull (and IÕll give it that), itÕs because so much energy has been put into
renovating it, which really only draws attention to the attitudes itÕs
eschewing, rather like an apologia.
****************
In an interesting bit of
universal confluence, another musical that has just opened is also a stage adaptation of a Lerner musical screenplay.
This time, though, the screenplay is an original: LernerÕs construction of a
storyline around, and ultimately ending with a ballet based on, George
GershwinÕs symphonic trail-blazer An American in Paris, also utilizing songs from the George
and Ira Gershwin canon.
The
production will have its proponents and its detractors, because the source film
casts such a large shadow, but in this case, the update of sensibilityÑmade
manifest in the new libretto by Craig LucasÑis a fairly smart one. For, you see, he doesnÕt try to renovate
the storytelling universe into something itÕs not. Rather, he adds substance
and a soupcon of gravitas to the historical settingÑParis at the end of
World War TwoÑand reshapes the characters within that. Subsequently they
donÕt come off as more aware of progressive thinking, but more aware of their
socio-political surroundings, which deepens them enough to think humanistically
without also behaving anachronistically. Well, not overmuch, at any rate.
Under
the direction and choreography of Christopher Wheeldon, the cast is excellent and the dancing is delivered
superbly. Add an excellent design team plus top flight musical direction by the
redoubtable Rob Fisher and you
have that rare stage adaptation of an iconic film musical that, at the very
least, earns its keep and carves out its own unique identity.
******************
I find myself distressed at many
of the reviews for It Shoulda Been You, because theyÕre sniping at the show for being part of a
genre that the critics find cornball, old hat and outdated. Which seems to me
utterly beside the point. Since the show makes no bones about being a one-off
wedding day sitcom with archetypal characters, it makes no objective sense to
knock it down because you donÕt like the category into which it fits. You have
to take it on is own terms, as a representative of that category, and then assess how well it delivers the goods. And
in that regard, It Shouda Been You works
like a Swiss watch. It does exactly what
it sets out to do, and the audience responds like crazy. Not reflex pop-culture
crazy, but with well-earned laughter and applause for an enterprise delivered
with consummate skill. ThereÕs no faking that, no mistaking it, and I find it
shameful that the negative reviews IÕve seen donÕt at least report that
audience response as a primary component of the experience.
For
a more detailed assessment by me, click hereÑand youÕll go to my review
of the original tryout engagement two seasons ago at the George Street
Playhouse. My opinion is pretty much the same, and the only bit of
data-updating you might do is to swap in the name of current cast member Chip
Zien for his predecessor, Richard Kline. Bear
in mind, IÕm not saying the show is perfect or high of aspirationÑbut I
am saying it unequivocally succeeds, and itÕs an eminently respectable,
well-crafted and well-earned success.
******************
My late review of Hamilton owes its delay not to my
life-and-career overload as particularized above, but to the fact that the
Public Theatre press office mandated a rescheduling: the performance I was
originally booked to see, early in the run, just prior to the showÕs press
opening, happened to be the one that
composer-lyricist-librettist and title role star Lin Manuel Miranda decided to sit out
and watch from the house, with his standby performing, the better to update his
assessment of the show from a pure authorÕs-eye view. And at that point, the
show had become such a massive sellout
that my alternate date would be quite a ways off (just a few weeks ago, in
fact).
As
most of you know by now, itÕs a pop-music-flavored look at early American
political historyÑone might glibly think of it as the unofficial rap
Òmusic videoÓ sequel to 1776Ñusing
the life of Alexander Hamilton as a touchpoint and focusing lens.
Though
the negative voices seem to have been so overwhelmed by the
approbationÑand though some of the most unlikely people (i.e. ÒoldiesÓ
and traditionalists, not normally prone to admiring the way pop music tropes
are employed in musical theatre) are among its most ardent fansÑHamilton
has nonetheless split audiences, if not
quite down the middle, into two camps.
For
me, the truth lies somewhere in the
middle.
Unequivocally,
it should be seen, because it is so bold of spirit and approach. Also highly
entertaining, as delivered by a multi-ethnic cast under the spirited direction
of Thomas Kail. As to the claims that
itÕs a game changer and an (as yet unquantifiable) bellweather for the future
of musical theatreÉwell, IÕm not so sure about that.
First
of all, itÕs so uniquely its own thing that I donÕt see the path to
emulation. Imitation, yes (and
thatÕs a no-sum game); but emulation toward absorbing its techniques toward development of the form, not so
much.
Secondly,
those techniques are themselves drawn from tradition. As I say, much of the
musical staging and choreography (Andy Blankenbuehler) has its roots in music video tropes, those tropes
often cleverly put through a traditional musical theatre filter in the service
of enhancing story and intensifying thematic focus.
As
to the play itself: To me Act One doesnÕt seem much different in sum and
substance than the stuff Tim Rice did in Evita and Jesus Christ Superstar; it
presents an overview of a life in quick snapshots that amount to a summary
record in verse with a lot of style and not much depth. Well, there is one
difference, and it does matter: Miranda is a lot hipper than Rice, and his rap Ôtude is genuinely witty
rather than strained, moralistic and sophomoric. He doesnÕt editorialize (or if
he does, not with moral superiority, and usually through irony raher than
declamation), which allows the audience to be more active participants who can
draw their own conclusions. Act Two presents the eponymous hero in a more
personal light which, not having been earned by dint of Act One, makes it hard
for you to suddenly care about
the guy (which seems to be the intent), rather than just find his trajectory
fascinating. (Ironically, the musical makes it much easier to care about
HamiltonÕs compatriot-cum-nemesis [and eventual killer] Aaron Burr [Leslie
Odom Jr.] because what he wants from the start is clear, not diluted
by a mandate to overview his life, and his portrayal never wavers from that
specific focus.)
As
to MirandaÕs having achieved a synthesis of rap and musical theatre
stylesÉthatÕs also following in tradition. Musical theatre has always been late
to the pop music party, but there is always eventually a younger voice that
will find a way to update its sensibility. Mr. Miranda, in that context, is the
natural successor to Stephen Schwartz, who likewise brought the vocabulary of
rock into mainstream theatre with Pippin in
1972.
In
short, Hamilton, though it
isÑhowever you may feel about itÑas engaging and provocative as
itÕs cracked up to be, seems very much a thing of its time. And I donÕt see it
changing the art. Where it may change
the game, though, is in its stock-and-amateur licensing future. In high schools
and urban areas where blacks, Latinos, Asians and others who arenÕt really minorities any more predominate, Hamilton may well (and deservedly) be embraced as a vehicle
that lets everybody play equally
in the sandbox of both American musical theatre and American history. And that would be a notable and major cultural achievement.
****************
ThereÕs only one reason to mention the woefully misbegotten and spectacularly inept Iow@, a surreal musical playing under the Playwrights Horizons banner, and that reason is you need to be warned against giving it so much as a cent of your money or a second of your attention. Beyond that, discretion is the better part of consumer advocacy. Trust me on this.
******************
When I first saw David HareÕs Skylight, almost 20 years ago, it seemed to me
a fairly schematic play about a love affair between a schoolteacher and a
business mogul that was doomed to fail (the affair, that is; not the play). But
the production came as a highly touted import from he UK with a star of note
(Michael Gambon) and another just making her mark (Lia Williams), and it was a
limited-run success. And I guess thereÕs something about the play that UK audiences respond to, because
its first major West End revival has also been imported after much approbation, and is now in residence at the
Golden Theatre.
ItÕs
a difficult play to assess objectively, as there are those who like it far
better than I (obviously), but I can say that I liked this incarnation, directed
by Stephen Daldry, better than the
debut. I re-read my old review to see if (a) there was any text worth recycling
(there wasnÕt) and (b) if I could determine why I liked the play better second
time around; and while the too-faint memory from the two-decade gap prevents me
from being absolutely certain, I think itÕs because the love
affair seesaw seems more even with the two current performers; Carey
Mulligan may not be feistier, per
se, but her brand of feistiness makes a more distinctive impression; and while
Mr. GambonÕs mogul came on like a roaring power broker, Bill Nighy takes the tack of playing the guy as if he worked
his way up from lower-class roots (you can hear it in the accent, and see it in
his manner), which makes the characters more interesting foils for each other,
and more complex. So I had a better experience spending time with them, and the
mechanics of the play didnÕt feel so exposed.
More
than that I canÕt offer, save that the audience seems to enjoy it. But that
should be enough to let you get a feel for whether or not youÕll be rewarded by
attending.
**********************
After all the hype and
expectation I found Wolf Hall to be terribly disappointing and even a little bit dry.
Adapted by Mike Poulton from the
first two novels of Hilary MantelÕs
Thomas Cromwell Trilogy (whose
third novel has yet to be published) it comes in two parts, each adapting a
volume: Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies.
The
first part seems like a conflation of every famous historical drama about the
period with the quirk of some revisionist personality portraits (i.e. instead
of being stoic and noble [a la Paul Scofield in A Man for All Seasons], Thomas More [John Ramm, a squat
sparkplug of an actor] is an extreme
right wing conservative who flagellates himself in private in penance for his
sins. And especially if you know the history, there are few (if any) surprises
to the court intrigues.
Those
intrigues, by the way, have to do with Henry VIII and his wives, and how lawyer
Thomas Cromwell (Ben Miles) learns to
navigate around the controversy. Cromwell is the main character and in Part One
mostly an observer, stepping away from personal; controversy as
much as he can, thus also making him a cipher, so for all the narrative there
is precious little drive at the center.
In
Part Two, Cromwell has learned the game so well that he has become a sort of
anti-Doctor WhoÑhis mantra might well be: ÒDonÕt trust me; IÕm the Spin
DoctorÓ)Ñubiquitous and with fingers in all pies, manipulating perception
and sacrificing lives on the alter of the KingÕs best interests, gaining power
as he goes. The problem here is that
since we never truly get inside Cromwell in Part One, heÕs not much of either a
rooting interest or a fascinating villain in Part Two. And again, if you know
the history (perhaps even if you donÕt), even his deadliest maneuverings convey
only mild tension.
My
guess is that the problems have more to do with PoultonÕs adaptation than Ms.
MantelÕs source novels, since when I got home after a full day of Wolf Hall on stage, I decided to sample the first episode of
the miniseries, and Peter StraughanÕs teleplay, approaching the same novels and
the same history quite differently, manages to draw you in instantly. Even
allowing that on film, a character like Cromwell starting out only as a cipher
is much more easily made dynamic than onstage, Straughan frames it in such a
way that Cromwell is perceived as a ticking time-bomb. We wait for him to Ògo
off.Ó
But
back to the play; as a colleague of mine quipped, ÒItÕs not the dullest historical drama IÕve ever seen,Ó and that about
sums it up. It has its moments, some wit, some laughs, a few gasps, itÕs well
acted by the large ensemble and cleanly directed by Jeremy Herrin.
But it doesnÕt deliver that crackle you
so want an event like this to have. (Or, to be perfectly fair: Obviously the
theatrical Wolf Hall has its
proponents. But based on the number of people, at the performance I attended,
who refused to participate in the
standing ovation that is usually de riguer these daysÑabout halfÑitÕs at least safe to say that IÕm
nowhere near alone in my ambivalence.)
****************
Speaking of ciphers, there has
always been a big one at the center of The Heidi Chronicles, and itÕs the title character, who
seems to have been a stand-in for her creator, the late playwright Wendy
Wasserstein. And she seemed more
interesting when the play first debuted in 1988.
The
play is about the changing role of women via the feminist movement, as observed
by Heidi over two decades, from her vantage as a high school senior through
having established herself as a successful art historianÑand an adoptive
mother. Basically, the play (which is primarily a comedy) clocks HeidiÕs
interaction with various types of feminism; but while she remains a passionate
proponent, she also increasingly finds herself feeling left out of the
movement, which consistently seems to marginalize her very modest, very
conventional aspirations.
In
the era of the original production, this was somehow more potent,
because HeidiÕs retrospective POV was from the world of 1988. 27 years
beyond that POV
as a touchpoint renders the play not exactly dated, but something of a
historical reference point unto itself; an artifact that hasnÕt the
same timely
urgency. That said, itÕs still a solid enough piece of writing in the
sense of
its mechanics, because it still gets (and earns) its laughs.
Indeed,
it may be even moe solid than it appears, because the usually redoubtable Pam
McKinnonÕs direction has pushed the
playing style into a somewhat hyper mode that calls attention to actors at work
and compromises the illusion of spontaneity. Happily, she doesnÕt push quite so
hard as to compromise decent comedy delivery and timing; but she does seem to
be doing a gloss on a certain kind of sitcom acting, rather than let behaviors
seem natural and personalities uncontrived. Elizabeth Moss, in the title role, manages to avoid being affected
by thisÑthen again, as the hub-cypher-observer-foil, she would naturally
be the reactive, lower key characterÑbut the others, particularly Bryce
Pinkham as her gay best lifelong friend
(an audience favorite, just so IÕm not misunderstood; I donÕt mean to say he
isnÕt doing work of quality), are putting way too much visible effort into
showcasing the intrinsic qualities that got them cast in the first place;
qualities that would be apparent if Ms. McKinnon hadnÕt imposed style on the
play, and simply let the text and the actors Zen into Òwell-timed naturalism,Ó
as she has, and quite successfully, before.
********************
Since IÕm in a kind of
time-saving mode, I wonÕt go into too much detail about the Roundabout revival
of On the 20th Century, save
to say that itÕs about as delightful as can be, and while not being a
replication of Hal PrinceÕs original production, it is nonetheless very
reminiscent of tone and spiritÑand in the case of a musical based on a
1930s screwball romantic comedy, about a down-and-out Broadway producer trying
to woo a movie star and former flame back to the stage, set on train bulleting
from Chicago to New York CityÑthatÕs precisely what it ought to be. Kudos
to Scott Ellis for knowingÑas he
usually does in musical revival modeÑhow to assemble the machine, make it
go and (in the best sense) otherwise stay out of its way. Kristin
Chenoweth, Peter Gallagher, Andy Karl, Mark Linn-Baker, Michael
McGrath and Mary Louise Wilson are every bit as grand, glorious and goofy as their
predecessors in the original, and while I might take exception with a moment
here and there, IÕd have to say that, on aggregate, this is one of the very few
musical theatre revivals IÕve seen that ought to deliver an experience worthily
comparable to the originalÑand does.
********************
From the Irish Rep (in its temporary home in the DR2 Theatre on East 15th, while its West 22nd home is being
renovated) comes The Belle of Belfast, wich has all the earmarks of a
slightly quaint Irish import, but is in fact a new(ish) American play by Nate
Rufus Edelman, in a NY debut, following
its world premiere in LA a few seasons ago. In an interview, the author
characterizes it as a tragedy, but itÕs more along the lines of a bittersweet
comedy (arguably a romantic comedy) set against the violent background of
Belfast in 1985 (though I hasten to add, onstage violence is not a component of
the play; rather, the play examines lives that have been irrevocably changed by
violence and how the affected people stumblingly grope their way forward.) The
principal characters (of the playÕs five) are an orphaned teenage girl on the
cusp of adulthood (Kate Lydic,
who, with the right breaks and connections, might well have genuine stardom
within her grasp) and a thirtysomething priest (an effectively understated Hamish
Allan-Headley) who takes his vows and
vocation seriously. You can pretty much guess the development.
Though that part is fairly predictable (and a fairly long time in coming), the consequences follow a less schematic path (not surprising, but not by-the-numbers, either) and the result, though negligible in the Grand Scheme of Things, is a sweet little play that gives five actors some very nice roles to delve into, and the audience a fair share of solid laughs and a soupcon of pathos. Workmanlike direction (in the best sense of being efficient and unobtrusive) is by Claudia Weill.
*****************
Though perhaps it shouldnÕt be
surprising, the nonetheless big surprise about Larry DavidÕs comedy Fish in the Dark was, for me, the realization that
it was a solid enough stage comedy to survive without its author in the lead
role. In fact I even had a moment of prescience watching it: I predicted that Jason
Alexander would probably take over DavidÕs
role, and sure enough, at the top of June, through its announced six-week
extension, he will. I predicted that only to myself, however. But IÕll go public
and say nobodyÕs going to close a laugh-riot Broadway comedy while itÕs still
selling out; itÕll keep going at least as long as thereÕs an equivalent-name
(and delivery) comedy expert in the lead role.
The
lead role is that of a middle aged Norman Drexel (David) in the midst of a big,
eccentric Jewish family who start the play visiting the hospital, on death
watch for their elderly father (Jerry Adler). Dad pops off early and a number of issues, such as who is meddlesome
Mom (Kate Houdyshell) going to
live with, then have to be faced.
As
befits a Larry David script, self-interest is pretty much the order of the day
for everyone, and thereÕs not an ounce of sentiment or reverence to be found
anywhereÑwhich makes it all the funnier. Unsurprisingly fine comic turns
are delivered by those mentioned above, as well as Lewis J. Stadlen, Ben Shenkman and Rosie Perez; but a
revelation is Rita Wilson as
NormanÕs wife, Brenda. She brings to bear a lay-down-the-law and
take-no-prisoners cool burn thatÕs perfectly timed match (and foil) for the
madness around her. I hope we wind up seeing a lot more of her, because sheÕs a
serious (funny) theatrical asset.
Crisp
comic direction in the expert tradition of Mike Nichols and Gene Saks is by Anna
D. Shapiro.
*****************
Imported from the UK and the National Theatre, political playwright and screenwriter Peter MorganÕs The Audience is an unusually light entry for him; not to imply that his work is without humor (for it often contains much) but the sum and substance of this one is comparatively a trifle. Writing for the second time about Queen Elizabeth IIÑhis first such foray was his more serious screenplay for The Queen, likewise starring Helen Mirren as the monarchÑhe views her more in the manner of a canny hostess. Which in a sense, here, she is; the play, spanning her reign, focuses on her weekly visits from her Prime Ministers; a long-standing tradition in which an elected official with actual political power (the PM) confers with the non-elected official who doesnÕt (the Queen) yet who holds a certain amount of influence that can be to the PMÕs benefit or not.
For the most part, though The Audience isnÕt about political maneuvering, jockeying for power or collaborationÉitÕs more about the personal relationship between the Queen and each of her PMs, and about the different dynamics. Churchill (Dakin Matthews), who appears for an audience only once, is clearly there to instruct her on the realities of the relationship and its protocols; John Major (Dylan Baker) seems there for a kind of therapy; Harold Wilson (Richard McCabe) becomes a friend and confidant (also, it would seem, her favorite), and etc. The play doesnÕt follow the linear time-line, but rather introduces the ministersÑalso including Margaret Thacher (Judih Ivey), Anthony Eden (Michael Eden), Gordon Brown (Rod McLachlan), James Callaghan (Tony Ward), David Cameron and Tony Blair (both Rufus Wright)Ñin an order that skips around and back, as needed to round out the picture.
ItÕs a little bit dishy, a little bit historical, a little bit speculative and a bit of a primer on how the relationship between the elected government and the royal family works; and great fun. Excellently acted under the direction of Stephen Daldry.
********************
IÕm one of those people for whom the posted lobby warnings about realistic gunshot noises exist; I can just about bear them and I hate being startled by them. And it says something for the mildness of the musical based on Boris PasternakÕs epic Russian novel, Doctor Zhivago, that itÕs full of things that go bang and boom and they hardly made a dent in my equilibrium. ItÕs hard to believe that so many talented peopleÑlibrettist Michael Weller, co-lyrcists Amy Powers & Michael Korie, composer Lucy Simon and director Des McAnuffÑcould have made so many rookie mistakes in structuring the show, but make them they have; the two most egregious being a panorama opening number that paints a generic picture of a country in a historical eraÑbasically a travelogue and a history lesson, straight informationÑwithout the filter of attitude or dramatic theme, just about the worst way to open a musical in general but absolutely the worst way to open a complex story, because it doesn't tell you how to focus your attention; and a narrative treatment that takes a cram-it-all-in CliffÕs notes approach, sans tone or point-of-view, such that we never really get to meet the characters before weÕre made to go on their ride (hence not caring a fig about them), and are often being told things in retrospect that we havenÕt really seen dramatized (several times, Zhivago sings of his regrets and his revised, braver outlook; and IÕm like: when was this ever an issue? am I supposed to buy into this existential crisis retroactively?).
No pun intended, everything is treated by-the-numbers, from the song of revolution to the trio for the three guys fascinated with the same womanÑwho, by the way, isnÕt all that fascinating as portrayed here. Lest I seem to castigate poor Kelli Barrett, saddled with the role, the musical doesnÕt give her anything interesting to play. Every character is reduced to his blandest trope; and of course with that reduction comes the lack of subtextÑin scene and song, all simply geschreid heart-on-sleeve feelings.
Doctor Zhivago is very interesting source material in another wise too. The Russians donÕt much like the way Westerners have dramatized it, and think of the David Lean movie as the na•ve posturing of a creative team who have no grasp of the cultureÕs authentic nuances, perspectives, attitudes or even general physicality. (A few years into the new millennium, the Russian film industry produced its own adaptation, a miniseries, with one of its most renowned actors, Oleg Menshikov, in the title role; and it is bracingly different.) The musical seems to follow suit, to the point of interpolating the filmÕs signature theme song (ÒSomewhere My LoveÓ) and echoing some of the Lean film charactersÕ signature physicality. OhÑand half the characters delivering their dialogue with various British accents. So on top of everything else, whatever book-and-photo research has been doneÉit doesnÕt seem like anybody really bothered to ÒgetÓ Russia. So thereÕs that, as well.
As a postscript: I donÕt share the general cynicism about the ubiquity of standing ovations; itÕs one of those cultural shiftsÑall it really comes to is a change of meaning. Rather than the audience collectively saying, ÒWe are in the presence of greatness,Ó theyÕre now (mostly) saying, ÒWeÕre happy and satisfied and upliftedÓ (no pun intended). And thereÕs nothing wrong with that. But with that acknowledged, ItÕs fascinating to note that at the musical Zhivago, even the biggest power ballads are greeted with only perfunctory applause, and at the curtain call, the majority of the audience stays stubbornly seated.
And
if thatÕs not a barometer for the times, I donÕt know what is.
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Writing a play based on another play that didnÕt quite finish its creative journey (or so we may believe) is an interesting idea, and web browsing reveals an interesting gestation process behind Joe di PietroÕs Living on Love, a reworking of the late Garson KaninÕs comedy Peccadillo, which never continued to Broadway after two (different and differently cast) regional productions. Further browsing reveals, from script excerpts of the original (thanks to Google Books) and a YouTube clip of a rare mid-90s revival, that the original and the reworking are very different in tone.
The premise, though, is basically the same: itÕs about a renowned, highly temperamental orchestra conductor (Douglas Sills), his equally renowned-and-temperamental opera diva wife (RenŽe Fleming), and the poor young ghostwriters (Jerry OÕConnell and Anna Chlumsky)Ñnot the firstÑwho have inherited the hopeless task of writing their contractually long overdue autobiographies. Where the two plays diverge is that Peccadillo tends more toward a comedy of manners, and, set in its then-present 1985, has more knowing characters; Living on Love tends more toward screwball comedy and, in collusion with director Kathleen Marshall, has been repositioned to the 1950s, when characters like the Maestro and the Diva were at the height of their international celebrity, and two young, aspiring writers might believably still hold onto a certain highly contrasting innocence.
Neither approach seems particularly on target. The premise, though its characters seem fun in thumbnail sketch, yields a plot that lays itself out schematically and goes through very familiar permutations (i.e. a little marital discord leads to harmless flirtation between the generations, but ultimately the older coupleÕs bond is reinforced more strongly and ever and the younger couple become romantically involved). ItÕs tough to save that, even delivered as self-aware pastiche. Add to this that the casting is not always ideal. Mr. Sills, always a razor-sharp comedy specialist, is excellent (and excellently accented) as the maestro. But though RenŽe Fleming, an actual famous opera diva herself, has enough self-possession and stage savvy to hit her marks intelligently and engagingly, youÕre still very aware of a performer at work, because her lack of straight dialogue acting experience is nonetheless apparent. (She, however, came with the source material as part of the package, having been sent the original play by the Kanin estate.) It is, however, far easier to make allowances for her than for Jerry OÕConnell, a decent, personable actor with a certain sense of humor, but nothing like the easy comedy chops it takes to pull off such a role; and for Anna Chlumsky, who acquitted herself quite well as replacement for the ingŽnue in the recent revival of You CanÕt Take It With You, but has such a difficult task being anchored to OÕConnell as a foil that she canÕt find her zone, even with this very similar role.
Blake Hammond and Scott Robertson as the household butlers are pretty much their own double act, and have the showÕs best, most inspired moments. But alas, Òthe hired helpÓ isnÕt why you go to such a comedy, unless the comedy itself is about the hired help. These guys, good as they are, are but an occasionally refreshing color, and a respite.
Oh,
heavens, thatÕs a tragic thing to say, isnÕt it? That supporting players
provide an amusing break from the struggling primary comedy. But so it goes,
and so it isÉ
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If your sense of pop culture goes back far enough, youÕve clocked that every few generations storytellers rediscover the story of puppet vs. puppetmaster; is the puppet truly evil, or is he the voice of his owner-operatorÕs split personality? And how evil can the evil puppet be?
The latest variation on the theme is Robert AskinsÕ Hand to God, which takes place in a Texas town church, one of whose programs is a puppet ministry, the brainchild of Margery (Geneva Carr), recently widowed (her husband having committed suicide). ItÕs hard enough that she has to fend off the advances of Pastor Greg (Marc Kudisch), and deal with the bullying, lustful teen Timothy (Michael Oberholtzer)Ñbut her shy, sweet son Jason (Steven Boyer) seems to have taken a back seat to his foul-mouthed puppet Tyrone (voiced and operated by Boyer); and Tyrone sees all, notices all, calls everybody on everything and takes no prisonersÉwith the possible exception of the compassionate teen puppeteer Jessica (Sarah Stiles), who isnÕt daunted by his malign influence and finds an ingenious way to deal with it. Tyrone, though, is not merely the iconoclast who exposes hypocrisy. HeÕs as problematic as he is without pretense, because heÕs enraged, incorrigible, out of control and destructive. And his relentlessness threatens to overwhelm and destroy Jason.
As you might imagine, the play is a riff on the potentially corrosive influence of organized religion, and the comedy is both very funny and very darkÑbut where the play takes you by surprise is that in the crunch, it is also unexpectedly compassionateÑand sometimes chilling enough to make you gasp.
Under the direction of Moritz von Steulpnagel, the entire cast is excellent, with, of course, Steven Boyer, as Jason/Tyrone, making the favorite audience impression; but thatÕs not to say he Òsteals the showÓ; there are extravagantly written roles for all, and all get to shine; or whatever one does in a dark universe. My only caveat, and itÕs a small one (so far) is this: because of the nature of the play and the Jason/Tyrone dynamic at the center, a lot of it happens at a high pitch, and keeping that in check, so that it doesnÕt become relentless, is no easy task of maintenance. And Hand to God, right now, is just a little bit more shouty (as the Brits say) than it was off-Broadway, and not just because itÕs in a bigger house. Before this excess leads to even more, it could do with a tune-up, for a bit of fine modulation.
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Something Rotten seems to have divided audiences down the middle if you go by word of mouth and social media, possibly because those forums can spark debate; but once youÕre in the theatre, itÕs very clear that the ayes unequivocally have it, and that the mantle of Funniest New Musical in Town has been passed on. Conceived by a couple of brothers, from the worlds of Hollywood/animation screenwriting and pop recording (respectively, Karey and Wayne Kirkpatrick), written by them in collusion, I mean collaboration with a screenwriter/novelist Brit (John OÕFarrell), its only creative team member with pervious theatre pedigree is director/choreography Casey NicholawÑbut it would seem Nicholaw provided, if not the key ingredient, at least the keys to the kingdom (literally; the show is set in Renaissance London) because Something Rotten is right in his wheelhouse; like The Book of Mormon (which he co-directed) and The Drowsy Chaperone (which he directed directed), Something Rotten is a meta-musicalÑyes, I fear it has become its own genreÑa musical whose existence is built upon the backs of previous, popular non-meta musicals, borrowing and sometimes giddily quoting their signature tropes and indicia for satiric effect.
And it comes close to being the best of them sometimes. IÕll often think something is funny without having actually had the physical response of laughter, but Something Rotten took me by surprise more than anything IÕve seen in quite some time.
And then thereÕs Act Two.
The show is about two struggling writer brothers (further deponent sayeth not), the Bottoms (furtherÉ) who are struggling to keep their theatre company alive, especially in the wake of superstar William Shakespeare (Christian Borle) stealing everybodyÕs thunder (and stories). Nick Bottom (Brian dÕArcy James), the ÒideaÓ brother is paralyzed and blocked, so overwhelmed with envy at Shakespeare (a former actor in his troupe whom he dismissed with the advice that he take up writing); Nigel Bottom (John Cariani), the younger ÒwordsÓ brother, a poet, is a more sensitive soul who wishes Nick would follow the heart rather than the marketplace. IÕd rather not say much else but also involved is NickÕs smart, resourceful wife Bea (Heidi Blickenstaff); a soothsayer who can genuinely foretell the future, but only in odd, misleading fragments (Brad Oscar); a repressive Puritan with his own repressions (Brooks Ashmanskas); his sexy, poetry-loving daughter (Kate Reinders)Ñand a very nice Jewish moneylender named Shylock who wants to be in show business (Gerry Vichi). And the various plot configurations lead to NickÕs big-deal theatrical offering to steal ShakespeareÕs thunder: a musical.
How he gets there and what itÕs about I leave for you to discover. But whatÕs clear (and it is no spoiler to say this, the very title Something Rotten preps you) is that, when we see it in Act Two, it will be awful.
And therein lies Something RottenÕs Act Two problems.
Those of you whoÕve read William GoldmanÕs brilliant book The Season: A Candid Look at Broadway, may remember his chapter on Carl ReinerÕs play titledÑcoincidentally?ÑSomething DifferentÑin whichÑcoincidentally?Ña playwright is struggling to complete his new play, which, when we see it in the third act (comedies sometimes had three acts back then) is awful. Problem was, Reiner could never solve that conceit: the notion of showing the audience something thatÕs objectively supposed to be awful, but that is really entertaining. It so flummoxed all involved that finally the decision was made to jury rig the end of Act Two and just drop Act Three.
Something Rotten doesnÕt quite have that option, but it has sure inherited the problem. The ÒawfulÓ musical is neither horrific nor splendid, itÕs just a hodgepodge of comic hyperactivity, some of which lands, some of which doesnÕt. And thatÕs why Act Two gave the authors so much trouble in previews; theyÕd saddled themselves with an impossible idea.
In
The Producers, ÒSpringtime for HitlerÓ
isnÕt the realization of the
awful show our heroes scheme to put on; itÕs a reversalÑso magnificently overboard in its bad taste
that itÕs perceived as a consciously intended big-hit satire, and backfires.
That you can do. But bad on bad that weÕre
supposed to find objectively goodÉ? You see the creative cul de sac.
Hence, Act Two, which is amusing enough to float on
the good will (no pun intended) of Act One, never quite gets the mojo back. But
you say so what and go with it.
The
score is very lively and tuneful without breaking new ground; the lyrics are
often very clever and would be better still without the false rhymes (not so
many as to be overwhelming, just enough to signify carelessness; and I
distinguish false rhymes from what I call Òstupid rhymesÓÑlike Europe with syrup [my favorite one of the evening]Ñwhich are right in the spirit
of this kind of humor); Casey NicholawÕs direction confirms his rep as the
go-to guy for turning insider humor into an outsiderÕs joy; and the cast, as
the expression goes, can hardly be bettered, as brilliant at musical theatre
technique as they are with comedy timing and getting the most out of a Òbit.Ó
Oh
by the way, I should add, the show has gotten a bum rap for an abundance of
crudeness, and it truly isnÕt that crude at all. Certainly thereÕs a profusion
of low humorÑbut itÕs of a very high order and employed in a manner that
one might even call tasteful. But donÕt tell the creative team I said soÉit
would just ruin a good review for themÉ
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At the risk of sacrilege, you donÕt really have to attend the Lincoln Center Theatre production of The King and I, not if youÕre both familiar with the show via happy memories of prior productions, and watching your pennies in a bursting and busy theatre season that demands prioritizing. In that wise and that context, it wonÕt offer anything too new. For all director Bartlett SherÕs being a dab hand at infusing Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals with nuanced, humanist performances that break with a stagier tradition, heÕs not the first to work that magic on this particular show in a mainstream production; that honor goes to Christopher Renshaw, who directed the Õ96 revival. And the show itself has undergone no changes in terms of the writing or the version; in sum and substance it is now what it has always been.
ButÉif you want to treat yourself to some genuine design spectacle and the opulence only a very wide, very deep playing space that is as much thrust as proscenium can provide, along with, of course, a nicely sensitive interpretation in the Sher traditionÑnot to mention a blessedly open orchestra pit, allowing you to hear every nuance of Robert Russell BennetÕs orchestration with audiophile clarityÑand particularly if The King and I is not well known to youÑthen the Vivian Beaumont Theatre is a fine place for you to spend a few hours. That acknowledged: Kelli OÕHaraÕs interpretation of Anna isnÕt a revelation, but itÕs a fine, fine leading lady turn in the realistic mode, with warmly memorable moments.
As for Ken WatanabeÕs KingÉHe has his moments, too; but despite his Tony Award nomination he is, in the KingÕs vernacular, a puzzlement. Oh, I know exactly why he was cast: Japanese star of international renown, right age, right type, close enough personaÉand thereÕs also a rawness about his style thatÕs free of musical theatre gloss, which to some sensibilities really brings home the East-West conflict, and I wouldnÕt argue with that in theory. But I was always aware of a guy delivering his lines in the manner of one still finding his way around the characterÕs own broken English idioms, delivering an impression of what he thinks they might be like, rather than inhabiting the languageÉand even in the tradition of great character actors who donÕt really sing so much as carry a tune and tell the story, heÕs a rough go; as a vocal musician there are parts of his range where heÕs palpably uncomfortable, and you simply canÕt understand most of his lyrics. No mistake, heÕs a very acceptable King; he at least has stance and charisma to compensate for the shortfalls. But, man, if your King canÕt sell the royal ass off that ÒPuzzlementÓ number, you have a performance without its defining centerpiece. And thatÕs a real piece missing.
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The musical based on Friedrich DŸrrenmattÕs The Visit is a strange experience based on a strange play; but the strangenesses are not precisely congruent. The story takes place in Brachen, ruined town in postwar Switzerland, where the citizens are gathering for the return of a former citizen, Claire Zachanassian (a still sharp, still poised Chita Rivera) now world-famous and spectacularly wealthyÑsurely, they think, to be their savior. Upon arrival with a strange coterie, she is in fact very willing to rescue the town from disaster; all she demands in return is the death of Anton Schell (an uncommonly lackluster Roger Rees), owner of the townÕs general store and her former lover. And despite the outrageousness of the demand, Claire is willing to wait for the townÕs moral indignation to morph into legal rationalization.
Terrence McNallyÕs book captures a certain amount of the originalÕs eerie tone, but there are some curious choices as well; when we meet Anton, heÕs rather down-and-out personally as well as financially, and the mayor (David Garrison) treats him dismissively. In the play, Schell is the most popular man in town. The choice to change such a detail in a musical adaptation by an A+ creative team (the songwriters are John Kander and Fred Ebb, and this was the last show they completed before EbbÕs death) is not one made without conscious deliberation and reason, and as a musicals writer myself, I cannot declare it ÒwrongÓ without some knowledge of why the original dynamic didnÕt play, or was thought not to. But as an audience member, I have to wonder at the loss of what seems a crucial irony. Getting the town to turn on a fellow who is already negligible isnÕt that much of a challenge. Getting them to turn on a favorite son requires a true cynicism about human nature; and watching them progressively rationalize murder into acceptable community behavior should be the stuff of the living nightmare from which there is no waking. (It was that when Hal Prince directed the original play in 1973 for the late, lamented Phoenix Repertory Company).
But on Broadway, in 90 intermissionless minutes under the typically brisk, lean, shorthand direction of John Doyle, it never quite gets past the funhouse mirror reflection. The weird is taken care of, but the deep unsettling chill never materializes. In some ways, the score may be complicit in this; less because whatÕs falls shortÉthan because whatÕs missing, the stuff that makes matters of life and death into, well, matters of life and death, that takes you beyond the dark and into the soul, would have been the transformative juice.
No mistake, The Visit is certainly worth a visit. It will almost certainly intrigue you and possibly even entertain you, in its dark way. But if such material is to be ultimately fulfilled, it should rock you. And that it does not.
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The Red Bull Theatre production of ÔTis Pity SheÕs a Whore, a Renaissance-era tragedy by John Ford is one of those occasional productions by a highly-respectable, well-intentioned small company that has an unfortunate stock-rep feel to it. ItÕs designed adequately but not brilliantly; it features some well-cast performers next to (I assume) veterans of the company who arenÕt always well-cast (those ranging from the-best-you-can-do-given-the-limitations-of-keeping-it-in-the-family to inappropriate-enough-to-leech-any-semblance-of-verisimilitude) and directed without commitment to a specific tone (well, without apparent commitment to one), which lets several different acting styles mingle, rarely achieving cohesion. A bloody revenge drama with an incestuous (brother and sister) romantic couple at the core, presented by the author within an innocent haze that is less unsettling to us in the audience than to others in the drama, requires more than just keeping the narrative aloft (although thatÕs no mean feat, and props to director Jesse Berger for that at least); it requires a real sense of mood and atmosphere. If youÕre happy enough just to see the play as a rare experience, you may well be as happy to make allowances. But if you want your Guignol genuinely Grand, you may be disappointed.
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If I have a big regret about what
unavoidable delays have cost me in terms of timely reviewing, itÕs not having
been able to tell you sooner about The Mystery of Love and Sex by Bathsheba Doran, directed by Sam Gold, that just ended
its run at the
Mitzi Newhouse Theatre in Lincoln Center. But I make a point of this
postscriptin the interest of its future life in the regionals and with
stock and amateur companies.
I
wonÕt go into detail save for the only details that really matter. It comes
under that dread categoryÑÒrelationshipÓ playÑand is one of the
very, very few not to be supercilious or insular or meaningless outside a
contemporary urban venue or meaningful within one five years from now. ItÕs
about a young woman (Gayle Rankin), the
young man she loves (Mamoudou Athie),
and her parents (Diane Lane and Tony
Shalhoub) and it takes them through a
number of years.
Not
one of them is a familiar archetype, TheyÕre specific, unique, layered,
surprising characters, highly flawed, often confused, touching, funny, sad,
victoriousÑyet above all desperately human. You grow to love and care
about what happens to them because you identify so stronglyÑnot with the
specifics that make them distinct theatrical creationsÉbut with their yearning
to understand and find ways through crisis toward resolution, because, as
always, the specificity brings out the universal touchpoints. ItÕs a lovely
play; here in NY, it was charmingly acted and directed with subtle grace by Sam Gold. It can doubtless meet with similar grace, if handled with care, in many other venues to come.