July 2 – Seeing the revival of August Wilson’s Fences at the Cort Theatre – where the audience has to line up down the block, that traditional way of signifying “blockbuster hit” – reminded me that I was present for the very first public presentation of the play, at the O’Neill Conference in the summer of…1986? It’s still the same play as it was then: a somewhat long and rambling backyard play with lots of realistic two-black-guys-shooting-the-shit dialogue, chaotic-household action, a little too heavy leaning on the baseball metaphors, and the kind of choppy second-act wrapping-things-up sequence of events that bespeak “novice playwright.” Plus an awkward last-minute leap into non-naturalism, which would show up again in other plays (like Joe Turner’s Come and Gone). Wilson wrote much better, less derivative plays later. I didn’t love the first Broadway production, with Lloyd Richards’ leaden direction and James Earl Jones’ ponderous performance as Troy Maxson, the would-be ballplayer turned bitter garbageman, brightened by the spectacular Mary Alice as Rose. The new production directed by Kenny Leon is much better, partly thanks to the high-voltage cast: Denzel Washington of course, with Viola Davis, Stephen McKinley Henderson, and Russel Hornsby. (Chris Chalk was fine as Cory, the Biff Loman-like son, but Courtney Vance was better in the original production.)
Having a star of Denzel’s magnitude in the role, though, does a wacky number on the audience. Throughout most of the play, the audience (I’d say a third to a half black, much much higher than average for a Broadway show) was primed to greet every utterance, move, and gesture of Denzel’s as an opportunity for riotous laughter and excited response, as if they’re watching an episode of The Jeffersons. It disrupts the play and kinda throws the actors off. It takes an awfully long time for it to sink in that Troy is not an especially likable character. Then when that becomes manifestly clear with the announcement that he’s fathered another child with someone other than Rose, the audience starts responding with gasps, as if they’re watching a Tyler Perry melodrama – which Leon’s direction, with what you could call realistic savvy, joins and exploits rather than trying to fight. I could help monitoring some of the play’s clunkiness, how two scenes in a row ended with the same tag line (“Don’t strike out!”), how Troy’s awkward soliloquies echoed a little too closely and a little too faintly the blazing monologue addressing God that made Roc Dutton a star in Wilson’s previous play Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (“Don’t turn your back on me, muthafucka!”). Nevertheless, the last scene finally kicked me in the guts. I’m such a sucker for father-son dramas, and I totally related to the experience of a young man unable to mourn the father who he felt never really liked him, and his rage/grief at learning about the affection toward him that his father expressed to other people, never to him directly. The thirtysomething black man behind me, who belly-laughed a little too loudly throughout most of the play, was still limping out of the theater with tears running down his face after the show – guess that scene snagged him, too.
Archive for the 'performance diary' Category
Performance diary: FENCES
July 4, 2010Performance diary: ON THE LEVEE
June 28, 2010June 28 — I don’t know what to say about On the Levee, the new musical produced by LCT3 at the Duke Theatre, except: Ghastly. Beyond. Belief.
Performance diary: OUR TOWN
June 26, 2010
June 23 – My friend Tom Dennison (above) loves to see shows repeatedly. He gets on a kick and goes back again and again, bringing friends, spreading the word, spreading the love. He was a huge fan of Spring Awakening and saw it 7 seven times in the last few months of its Broadway run. Some of his favorite movies ever are Shortbus and Lars and the Real Girl, and he’s turned several dozen of his friends onto them. His latest theatrical fixation is David Cromer’s production of OUR TOWN – he’s seen it six or seven times and recently corraled a posse of friends into going again, including Andy, who’s never seen or read the play before. I decided to tag along at the last minute and had a good time, a surprisingly emotional time. Cromer’s production is so devastatingly dry and pitiless – the emotional impact is inversely proportionate to the emotional expressiveness of the actors. I had such a strong reaction the first time I saw the production that my feelings came lunging back as soon as the show began. Especially seeing James McMenamin, the young actor who plays George Gibbs. He is responsible for the heart-ripping last moment of the production, so seeing him again I knew where he was headed and found myself on the edge of tears watching him in the earlier scenes of the play. The Stage Manager is now being played by Michael McKean, who’s very good – not quite as dry and brusque as David Cromer was originally…in a certain way, he seems more poetic, like some Irish poet, or an overgrown version of Tom in The Glass Menagerie. But I liked his performance very much, and for some reason was especially attentive and struck by the third act: his speech about eternity hit me in a way it never had before, and this time I got the sense that the Stage Manager has been speaking to us from the graveyard the whole time. I didn’t quite get it until this time because I was sitting in a seat where I could see his face and see that he was in the same thoughtful timeless placeless space as the dead characters.
This time, too, I was extremely aware of how much my experience of Our Town is inextricably bound up with the Wooster Group’s version of it, embedded in their controversial but nevertheless brilliant 1980 production ROUTE 1 & 9. That production juxtaposed scenes from Our Town (presented on video in black-and-white close-ups as if it were a soap opera) with a Pigmeat Markham vaudeville routine, performed by the same actors live in blackface. And the Stage Manager role was played on video by Ron Vawter, replicating an educational television lecture by literary scholar Clifton Fadiman, who explicates the themes of the play in a way that’s undeniably astute but also slightly risible in its obviousness. But I will apparently always remember the way Ron/Fadiman highlighted certain lines in the play: “Why, Julia Hersey: French toast!” and “The moonlight is so terrible!” Anytime I think of Ron Vawter, I feel pangs of great joy and great sorrow. One more doorway into the bottomless pit of AIDS grief….
Besides the famous third-act coup de theatre, one of the best things about Cromer’s production is that you spend the whole time looking at other people in the audience, the other citizens of Our Town. At this show in the front row was a young black woman wearing a black t-shirt that said in big bold letters, “Do I Look Like a FUCKING People Person?”
It was fun to revisit OUR TOWN with our gang (above: Andy, Scott, Tom, me and my Andy) and talk about the play afterwards sitting on the patio at Tanti Baci sharing pasta and a good bottle of Super Tuscan. Oh, and I guess everybody knows by now that Helen Hunt will be taking over the role of Stage Manager in a couple of weeks, and then David Cromer will come back for two weeks just before the production finally closes after almost two years.
THIS TIME, TOO, I WAS EXTREMELY AWARE OF HOW MUCH MY EXPERIENCE OF OUR TOWN IS INEXTRICABLY BOUND UP WITH THE WOOSTER GROUP’S VERSION OF IT, EMBEDDED IN THEIR CONTROVERSIAL BUT NEVERTHELESS BRILLIANT 1980 PRODUCTION ROUTE 1 & 9. THAT PRODUCTION JUXTAPOSED SCENES FROM OUR TOWN (PRESENTED ON VIDEO IN BLACK-AND-WHITE CLOSE-UPS AS IF IT WERE A SOAP OPERA) WITH A PIGMEAT MARKHAM VAUDEVILLE ROUTINE, PERFORMED BY THE SAME ACTORS LIVE IN BLACKFACE. AND THE STAGE MANAGER ROLE WAS PLAYED ON VIDEO BY RON VAWTER, REPLICATING AN EDUCATIONAL TELEVISION LECTURE BY LITERARY SCHOLAR CLIFTON FADIMAN, WHO EXPLICATES THE THEMES OF THE PLAY IN A WAY THAT’S UNDENIABLY ASTUTE BUT ALSO SLIGHTLY RISIBLE IN ITS OBVIOUSNESS. BUT I WILL APPARENTLY ALWAYS REMEMBER THE WAY RON/FADIMAN HIGHLIGHTED CERTAIN LINES IN THE PLAY: “WHY, JULIA HERSEY: FRENCH TOAST!” AND “THE MOONLIGHT IS SO TERRIBLE!” ANYTIME I THINK OF RON VAWTER, I FEEL PANGS OF GREAT JOY AND GREAT SORROW. ONE MORE DOORWAY INTO THE BOTTOMLESS PIT OF AIDS GRIEF….
STILL, IT WAS FUN TO REVISIT OUR TOWN WITH OUR GANG AND TALK ABOUT THE PLAY AFTERWARDS SITTING ON THE PATIO AT TANTI BACI SHARING PASTA AND A GOOD BOTTLE OF SUPER TUSCAN.
Performance diary: THE GLASS MENAGERIE, Keith Hennessy, FELA! and roller derby
June 15, 2010June 10 – John Lahr’s scorching review of Gordon Edelstein’s production of The Glass Menagerie scared me away. But thanks to a last-minute urging by David Savran, I decided to go anyway, and I’m glad I did. The production, which started at the Long Wharf in New Haven and traveled to the Roundabout’s Laura Pels Theatre (which I will always think of as the American Place Theatre), is high-concept Tennessee Williams. Edelstein sets the play in a hotel room where Tom is holed up with a bottle of whiskey and a manual typewriter composing his “memory play. It starts with him alone reading pages aloud and conjuring the images of his mother and sister, who are first glimpsed behind a scrim and eventually come to inhabit the room with him. It’s kind of ingenious and it works just as well as the traditional staging, where Tom inhabits some kind of poetic/theatrical space when addressing the audience that’s separate from the family-life reality. I didn’t love Patch Darragh’s performance as Tom – he’s a little bland, his Southern accent is atrocious, and he way overdoes Tom’s crush on Jim (the Gentleman Caller). There are things he does pull off, like the scene where he gets as close as he can bear to telling his mother he’s gay, underneath all the talk about “going to the movies every night.”
Now Judith Ivey’s Amanda – loved every minute of her beautifully created, minutely detailed performance. Often actresses don’t quite know how to play all the different colors of Amanda and so settle for a kind of average emotional tone, but Ivey dives right into every one of Amanda’s many moods without needing to create smooth transitions. She’s fake-treacly, she’s desperate, she’s furious, she’s insanely vain, she’s loving, she’s uncontrollably controlling. It’s been clear for some time that Ivey is one of the great stage actors of her generation, someone it’s always worth seeing. Keira Keeley is very good as the turned-in Laura, and Michael Mosley is terrific at capturing the callous after-bite of the Gentleman Caller’s high-octane charm.
June 11 – Keith Hennessy was back in town for a one-night-only performance at the New Museum called “Almost Nothing, Almost Everything,” an hour-long improvisation. Talk about a high-wire act! He sang, he danced, he gave Tarot readings, he changed costumes several times, he talked, he jumped, he stripped guest performer George Stamos down to his underpants, and he managed to pull a number of arresting images out of the air and then let them go. See below.
June 12 – I really wanted Keith to see Fela! and Andy wanted to see it again, so I got us good seats for the Saturday matinee. This show’s been playing for almost nine months, and you’d think they’d be slacking off a little bit by now, but just the opposite – everybody seemed to be working at 125%. It turned out that Sahr Ngaujah’s father was in the audience (he introduced his two fathers, his blood father and his heart father, at the curtain call), which might have had something to do with it. Keith was very impressed, and in my fourth time around I was still dazzled. What keeps me going back? I think it’s the way the show generates gigantic joy that is paradoxically fueled by massive amounts of grief, rage, and mystery. And I heard some things I hadn’t taken in before. I’d forgotten the whole teacher number and was struck hard by this line: “A bad teacher tries to make sense of everything.”
After an early supper on the roofdeck of Trattoria Toscana, we headed over to Hunter College for Gotham Girls Roller Derby. It’s not the sort of thing I’d go to on my own, but having a sporty boyfriend means being exposed to new experiences, and I like that. In advance, I was inclined to avoid roller derby because I associate it with campy costumes and faux showmanship, a la World Wrestling Foundation. At the actual event, I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t more showy. The players all have crazy stage names (Beyonslay, Angela Slamsbury, Anne Frankenstein, and – Andy’s favorite – Em Dash, whose number is – ), but their uniforms are simple and functional, and for the most part they take their sport seriously. I knew nothing about jammers and blockers and still find the scoring and the skills a little elusive, but I came away with a new female sports hero: Bonnie Thunders of the Bronx Gridlock, a skinny blond speed demon who literally skated circles around everybody else on the court. The Bronx team played Manhattan Mayhem, who scored almost 50 points in the first 10 minutes…and then fell apart (there were a couple of injuries so maybe they pulled back) as the Bronx gals whomped them 141-59. The audience was a funny mixture of friends and family with jock-geek fags and dykes.
June 13 – Not much to say about the Tony Awards, except that when Douglas Hodge was named Best Actor in a Musical I wanted Kanye West to run up onstage and say, “We all know who really deserves this award!” And Memphis…really?
June 14 – Adam Baran and Ira Sachs’ really smart Queer Art Film series this month invited witty Wayne Koestenbaum (above left, with his boyfriend Steven Marchetti) to pick the movie, and he selected one I’d never heard of: Tony Richardson’s black-and-white 1966 Mademoiselle with a story by Jean Genet about a repressed schoolteacher (played by Jeanne Moreau at her witchy best) who wreaks havoc on a small-town with a series of perverse crimes that only Genet could dream up. She crushes four bird’s eggs in her hands and dumps the mess back into the nest. She holds a lit cigarette to the end of an apple branch. She stalks an itinerant Italian lumberjack (hot hot hot Ettore Manni) and eventually spends an outrageous night in the woods fucking him and playing S&M games before she has him destroyed. It’s a fascinating film about the sheer exhilarating power of pure unmotivated evil. Fun and sexy.
Performance diary: THE METAL CHILDREN
May 24, 2010May 21 – Having read a couple of Adam Rapp plays, I’ve never been too keen to see one. For me, he falls in the company of straight-white-guy writers like Neil LaBute and Eric Bogosian who dwell on dark, downbeat, edgy, nasty subject matter and bad behavior by low-life guys, as if that was enough to make a playwright Brave and Artistic. I made it a point to see The Metal Children at the Vineyard Theatre because I was dazzled by the cast of good New York character actors: Billy Crudup, David Greenspan, Susan Blommaert, Guy Boyd, Betsy Aidem, Phoebe Strole, and Halley Wegryn Gross, among others. The play centers on Tobin Falmouth, a writer – already a bad start for me, because I know there’s going to lots of people telling him what a great writer he is, the biggest cliché of art-about-artists – who’s down in the dumps: his wife left him, he’s depressed, his tiny New York apartment is a total pigsty, and he’s suffering writer’s block. Suddenly a book called The Metal Children that he wrote that acquired the status of cult novel for young adults has been banned at a school in “a small community in the American heartland,” and he follows his agent’s advice and shows up for the town meeting where his book will be discussed. The kids in school have started to re-enact portions of his novel, and because there’s a certain amount of lurid sexual content the Christian right and associated crazies have begun terrorizing anyone who supports the book. They run around in pig masks vandalizing cars, burning down homes, and attacking the author.
I was somewhat fascinated by the play’s ambition to imagine living under a Taliban-like system in the U.S., where religion-based lifestyle restrictions are violently enforced by self-appointed citizen gestapo. (And we all know that school boards and libraries around the country have dealt with exactly this sort of battle between “freedom of speech” and “community values,” usually with ugly Orwellian results.) But for the most part, The Metal Children is a loathsome, narcisissistic, self-aggrandizing pile of clichés. That mess of a writer – guess what? He’s redeemed in the end and changes his ways. His agent is – guess what? – a hysterical queen. The gay high-school teacher who championed his book is – guess what? – a nervous nellie. The Christians are – guess what? – stupid and bigoted. The fans of the writer are – guess what? – supernaturally eloquent and physically brave. Sixteen-year-old Vera Dundee (played by Strole) is the ringleader of a gang of girls who revere the book and emulate its characters by getting themselves pregnant. Vera understands Tobin. She sees the purity of his hopelessness. She goes on at considerable length about “the novelist as cultural revolutionary.” She echoes her teacher in praising the novelist’s “courage to take an unflinching swing at the status quo.” And she bestows upon him the honor of impregnating her. Whew! How many straight-male fantasies can you visit onto one character? Rapp directed the play himself so, as you can imagine, every word is treated reverentially. Crudup, bless his heart, throws himself into the role wholeheartedly and plays every moment with terrific integrity. I was aghast at David Greenspan’s performance as the agent (he also plays a couple of other small parts) – I thought it was a tribute to Rapp as director that he could make the great Greenspan look terrible…but then it occurred to me that Greenspan’s egregiously over-the-top performance might itself be a sly critique of the play’s ludicrousness.
In this month’s issue of The Atlantic, Caitlin Flanagan writes about the culture of teenage girls, covering some of the same territory as The Metal Children. I rarely agree with Flanagan’s reactionary politics and her conservative variety of feminism, but I can’t help admiring her writing and her way of facing hard truths. I recommend reading her essay, called “Love, Actually.”
another eye opens 