"Intelligent" Preview

Coming soon to a NY Theater near you.

Abandon all Hope Ye who Enter here

I've been thinking a lot lately about hope. It seems to me that it is always absent in my life, either due to my innate cynicism or the pressures of the outside world. It's hard to have hope when you're constantly in competition with yourself, and everyone else for that matter. It seems we forget about the goal and concentrate only on the means. There's a line that was cut out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly that was subsequently used as an episode title for Weeds: "If you work for a living, why do you kill yourself working?" It's simple (and quirky) enough to describe my predicament. I wish I could just lay back, watch the world go by and do as I please for the rest of time, but it's never possible. Responsibilities set in with age, dictated by the society in which we live; we must work, we must make money, we must be independent by depending on others. It all seems so pedestrian.

And, in spite of this, I constantly feel as if I'm setting myself up for failure. Instead of pursuing some career that is reliable or stable I chose to go into intensely competitive fields that feed on rewarding the "best" and disregarding the "rest". Initially, I chose to participate in "art" because it was what made me happy. It makes enough sense: do what makes you happy and you'll be happy. Not true. Any personal gratification I acheived through expressing myself has been tainted. It's all about profit and showing someone up and proving to the rest of the world that you have something. Perhaps creativity should not be a business, but nevertheless it is. Why is success only attainable through money?

I feel hopeless. I wish I could just be.

The Red Menace.

Yesterday I bit the bullet I had been facing for so long and registered myself with the New York State Communist Party. Difficult as it was, when I returned home that evening I found a package containing a shirt I ordered almost a month ago: tomato red with the word "Communist" silk screened on the chest. Providence or Coincidence?

Now, apparently, I am a communist. Or, at least, as much as one can be in a free market society. But what does this mean? Most people I've told have reacted with horror as if I am going to be brought up before the House Un-American Activities Committee, but the whole ordeal was hardly as unnerving as I had originally planned for. Three individuals from the party have already contacted me, welcoming me and telling me they were there if I had any questions. In fact, I'm supposed to arrange a formal meeting with someone later this week. It all seems perfectly normal. I guess we'll see.

Uncivil Disobedience

THEATER REVIEW|'GOD OF CARNAGE'

“Children consume and fracture our lives. Children drag us towards disaster, it’s unavoidable.” Michael says in Yasmina Reza’s brilliant new comedy. “Brilliant” is a word I despise, repeated ad nauseum and usually applied to all the wrong things, but there is no other word to describe “God of Carnage”. It was unequivocally the best play I have seen all season, and, to be perfectly blunt, the first play since Kushner’s “Angels in America” that has restored my faith in the theatre. Acerbic, thought provoking, and hilarious, it is all that the theatre is meant to be, and comfortably capitulates to the New York sensibility Broadway should provide.

Originally a French play, produced numerous times in Europe (including one in London starring Janet McTeer and Ralph Fiennes), “Le Dieu de Carnage” as it is called, was translated by Christopher Hampton into English. It tells the story of two bourgeoisie couples who arrange to have a civil meeting after one of their children assaults the other with a stick on the playground. The slick set design offers a cold, modern space suspended in emotion. Bright red walls that stretch up into the sky are revealed when a large white curtain decorated with a child’s crayon-rendered family portrait rises. An oblique, stone wall is in the background. The stage is flanked by two perfect crystal vases filled with white tulips (from the Korean Deli up the street, direct from Holland, $40 for Fifty). Lead by an all-star cast (Marcia Gay Harden, James Gandolfini, Jeff Daniels and Hope Davis) the material is never allowed to rest. Discussions turn to arguments, arguments turn to violence, violence turns to despair all in one tense, Albeesque afternoon.

An obvious devolution occurs with each character (although perhaps not as much with Alan, who is a prick to begin with) and their carefully manicured facades crumble when confronted with the realities of existence. Ms. Harden and Mr. Gandolfini in particular deftly transform on stage as the play progresses. Matthew Warchus’s direction is absolutely splendid; the blocking is obviously very calculated and deliberate but appears effortless, and the special effects (namely projectile vomiting on the part of Ms. Davis, another nod to Albee) are well handled and natural.

As Ms. Reza’s words entertain, they simultaneously subvert societal mores, the role of parents, and the relationships we all have. Her play is fabulous. That’s all. Nothing more.

GOD OF CARNAGE
By Yasmina Reza; translated by Christopher Hampton; directed by Matthew Warchus; sets and costumes by Mark Thompson; lighting by Hugh Vanstone; music by Gary Yershon; sound by Simon Baker/Christopher Cronin; production stage manager, Jill Cordle; production manager, Aurora Productions; general manager, STP/David Turner. Presented by Robert Fox, David Pugh and Dafydd Rogers, Stuart Thompson, the Shubert Organization, Scott Rudin, Jon B. Platt and the Weinstein Company. At the Bernard Jacobs Theater, 242 West 45th Street, Manhattan; (212) 239-6200. Through July 19. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes.

WITH: Jeff Daniels (Alan), Hope Davis (Annette), James Gandolfini (Michael) and Marcia Gay Harden (Veronica).

Day in the Life

Morning: Overslept exactly three minutes due to retiring at 2:30am after caring for nervous dog.

Commute: Late train. Arrive in New York at 9:15 for 9:10 class.

Breakfast: Coffee and cigarette.

Class: Art History; discover Courbet and his Realist Manifesto (read.)

Break: Cigarette.

Lunch: Free peanut granola bar from guy on 29th.

Recent purchases: Weeds Season 4 on DVD; Tony Kushner's "A Bright Room Called Day". Both great. Both overpriced.

What's to come: Bio in a medium-security classroom. Work in a medium-security Writing Studio. I hope no one comes in.

What still holds true: I enjoy New York. We'll see when that dissipates.

Sister, Brother, Teacher, Mother.

Imagine having drinks with your teacher. Now, imagine having drinks with your mother. Now imagine the complete opposite of what you would expect.

It all started about a week ago. Finally finishing up with school, I was headed out for a celebratory lunch with the girls when our professor invited himself along. An odd twist on our plans, but, we went with it and had lunch at Bar 89 (and several other locations). Who knows, maybe it improved our grades. So, I did what any perfectly normal young man would do when going out with a man old enough to be his father: I drank. Three beers, two absinthe and a shot of tequila later I felt better than I had in a while. Alcohol cures all. And while no sex resulted from my inebriation, I realized something: here I was, plastered, hadn't paid for a thing, all in front of my teacher. It seemed wrong.

Flash forward to the next day of cocktails at the Algonquin. Too much drinking again, this time martinis, this time with my mother. She had begun to tell me about how she recently got in touch with an old college mate who now does the makeup for "All My Children". She relayed to me how they used to fawn after the same bisexual guy in school. My mother would even smoke to impress him (though she never inhaled). Again, aside from the nausea, dizziness and mediocre piece of theater we ended up seeing, I felt wrong.

Maybe it's just the onset of adulthood, realizing that everyone is more or less a rather complex person whose identity reaches far beyond your perception. But, nevertheless, it is alarming when the barriers break down, considering how much you thought you knew about a person, let alone your purported role models.

Philological Philanthropy

Theater Review|'The Philanthropist'

I am at a loss for words on this one; maybe because the play was light, maybe because I was drunk and slept through the last scene of the first act. In any event, Christopher Hampton's play about a 70's philology professor who's naivete is mistaken for animosity was cute. Not incredibly moving, intriguing, and at some times very callow (Hampton was only 23 when he wrote it, after all), the play managed to illicit a few laughs and smiles. Matthew Broderick was convincing enough, although at times he resorted to being too dry, perhaps mistaking the emotion for the callus simplicity needed for the role. 

Design-wise, the production was decent. The set was very, very tall (which seems to be a trademark of the American Airlines Theater) and minimal. It's saved, though by the illuminating letters across the top of walls, which aided in scene changes by spelling out one of the seven deadly sins (each character is supposed to represent one). The character Celia's costumes were very 60's London Mary Quant-esque, while Braham's multi-colored, bell bottom, three-piece suit was, while charming, a little more late 70's. 

In any event, I have no more to say about this production (mainly because last night is a bit of a blur by now), but I will point you in the direction of the New York Times review. It's harsh, but points out what's wrong with this production.    

Ben Brantley's Review

THE PHILANTHROPIST

By Christopher Hampton; directed by David Grindley; sets by Tim Shortall; costumes by Tobin Ost; lighting by Rick Fisher; sound by Gregory Clarke; dialect coach, Gillian Lane-Plescia; associate artistic director, Scott Ellis. Presented by the Roundabout Theater Company, Todd Haimes, artistic director. At the American Airlines Theater, 227 West 42nd Street, Manhattan, (212) 719-1300. Through June 28. Running time: 2 hours 10 minutes.

WITH: Matthew Broderick (Philip), Jonathan Cake (Braham), Anna Madeley (Celia),Steven Weber (Donald), Tate Ellington (John), Jennifer Mudge (Araminta) and Samantha Soule (Elizabeth)

Do I?

Let me tell you a story: a girl of 27 living life humbly as an elementary school teacher meets a fantastic guy and gets engaged. In two months, they will be newlyweds. She will continue to work, she says, but hopes her husband will make enough money so that she can be a stay-at-home housewife. She seems happy enough, and has truly found a man who seamlessly fits into her family; he's cute, smart, and Italian. And no it's not me, just to avoid any misinterpretation of the story. At this point, it does seem as if they will live happily ever after.

Let me tell you another story: a girl of 29, newly hired as a professor at a New York college, soon to complete her dissertation and receive a PhD. She has already completed her Master's, and apparently has nowhere to go but up. Her students love her, she's an excellent teacher, and she has the potential to go on to bigger and better colleges, where one will no doubt grant her tenure. She seems happy enough, and has found, in my mind, a truly satisfying career. In addition to this fabulous success, she also has a domestic partner. No, she isn't a lesbian. Her boyfriend has lived with her so long that the government has ostensibly married them on their tax forms. When asked if she ever wanted to get married, she replied "Eh."

So what do these two stories tell us? One woman happily satisfied with her husband, not with her career, and another woman feeling the exact opposite. So here's the dreadful question we as a society must ask: Who's happier? 

For a long time now, as most people know, the prospect of marriage and family has never appealed to me, and I have for the most part lived for myself. My ambitions are to buy a Classic Six on the Upper East Side, not to share it with someone. I don't mean to pump out another Carrie Bradshaw-esque post on this sorry little blog, but it comes across my mind as strange that I've never once wanted to meet someone, build a life with him and have children. Perhaps because of my orientation, or my disdain for some of my relatives, I have no impulse to propagate my gene pool. Or perhaps it's because I detest little children and would, if given the opportunity, reject rearing them properly and perform psychological experiments on them just out of sheer curiosity. Such as, oh, let's say showering one with gifts and praise and locking the other up in the basement feeding him cow hooves and old milk and comparing and contrasting the final outcome. Or naming my son "Wendy" and force him to wear girls' clothes to see if it has any effect on his gender identification or sexual orientation. 

As it can be seen, Social Services would be up my ass if I were a parent. At least if I were a parent now, anyway. This doesn't really cover the eternal, lifelong relationship part of the equation that I do not enjoy anymore. Why don't I have the urge to shack up with a guy and share my deepest darkest secrets with him? My friends have boyfriends, my cousins have husbands, so what's wrong with me? Perhaps I should just give a relationship a try. And I mean a real relationship, not the two dates and a blowjob in a public restroom kind of relationship that I---have heard some people have. Maybe. 

So what are we to believe? The woman who might not have the best personal life, despite all of the success she has otherwise, is not really happy? If I concentrate on my studies and just try to get degree after degree, what, I'm not worthy of anyone's reverence because I didn't just go to some bar, pick up some guy, and marry him? And what if, maybe, I will really feel fulfillment in my life if I'm in a relationship? What am I to do?   

Anyway, with the prospect of New York legislature granting gay marriage rights to the masses, maybe I should just consider finding a sugar daddy to marry me, that way I can figure this stuff (re: my life) out while not breaking a sweat about my credit card debt or rent bills in exchange for the occasional handjob. That's the kind of relationship I can picture myself in. For the time being, anyway.                 

There's no Business like Show Business.

The official end to the awards season was last Thursday, and the Tony nominations are out. The Seagull was horribly overlooked, and for some reason Rock of Ages racked up a bunch of nominations (including Constantine Maroulis nabbing one for acting). Billy Elliot unsurprisingly garnered the most nominations, not only because it's an adorable little story with great production values, but also because it's the only good musical that opened up this year that seems to be steering Broadway more towards "Vegas", a detraction that producers seem to like because it means higher ticket sales. Nevertheless, I give my regards to the three "Billys": Trent, the sweet one I sorta know, the token ethnic one, and the bitchy one. They all got one nomination for Lead Actor, and honestly that tickles me. Like, they're each one third of an actual person. And, well, let's face it, that's being a little generous with children in regards to their humanity. Anyway, continuing, Waiting for Godot and Mary Stuart were recognized, both getting the Best Revival nod, and so on and so forth. Exit the King got little recognition, sadly, and cult favorites like [title of show] were overlooked, but who really cares? The New York Times pointed out that among the nominees were mostly shows that are still running; which, of course, now being honored with these nominations, means that they can continue to run a little longer due to the press they are getting. And, so, the glaring light of commerce can be shone upon the Great White Way. 

Ruined, a fabulous Off-Broadway play by Lynn Nottage, (which I unfortunately missed an opportunity at seeing but have boned up on by reading everything about it) is not among the nominees of the Tony Awards, despite winning the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. That seems a little strange, no? Well, it's not. The Tony Awards have long been discriminatory, and, in recent years, it has made less and less sense. As of now, with fabulous productions not only Off and Off-off Broadway, but nation-wide, it's perplexing that the Tony Awards, arguably the highest honor in the Theater, still remains limited to about 40 productions. Although, now, it's not hard to see that its prestige is washing away, and the awards seem less like accolades praising great artistic achievements and more like the producers patting themselves on their backs for making a lot of money this season. When did the Tonys become the Grammys?         

It's just a shame a show is discriminated against merely because of its location/producers, and it’s irritating how much credit they get in this industry. Not to devalue them, because certainly no show would exist without good producers, but all they really contribute is money. Of course, this being America, Theater is a business, so a profit is all that matters in the end. Sure, its a double-edged sword, a great show that accumulates no revenue is unsustainable, and a horrible show that's a cash cow can run for years. Nevertheless, Theater is still a very elitist field, and instead of it getting either all fussy and pretentious or mediocre with a universal appeal, they should just take the stick out of their asses and celebrate talented playwrights who want to enlighten as well as entertain; it shouldn't be about the money or drawing in "different crowds" or what have you. And it certainly shouldn't be about glorifying the producers more than the creative team and actors, because that's what we're watching, not checks being signed.  

Raining Queen.

Theater Review|'Mary Stuart'

During this inclement week of downpours and cloud-strewn skies, I found myself depressed. Not because of the weather, no, but because I was missing out on it. I have always loved the rain, the refreshing tranquility that comes from feeling beads of water massage my entire body. For a long time I thought this was odd, the fact that I have never owned an umbrella, until I saw the incredible revival of “Mary Stuart” at the Broadhurst Theatre, which opened April 19.  

The titular character of Schiller’s classic, played by Janet McTeer reprising her role in the London Production, celebrates her freedom from prison in a spectacularly simulated rainstorm on stage, dancing and acting like a child after a wrongful imprisonment by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I. The play is a constant battle between the two Queens, despite them only meeting once (but what a meeting!). While that little anomaly never did happen in real life, the rest is accurate; Mary, Queen of Scots, being the last legitimate child of King James V, sees herself as the rightful Queen of England, as Elizabeth was the daughter of King Henry VIII and Ann Boleyn, which, of course, means she’s a bastard. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, anyway. England, however, is a Protestant country now, with the Pope being viewed as their mortal enemy. I seem to have much in common with Elizabeth as well.

That’s wherein the drama lies. Two Queens bound by blood and rank, share as many similarities as differences. The cold, rational, selfish Elizabeth, deftly portrayed by Harriet Walter, serves the perfect complement to Mary, the earthy, downtrodden Queen supported in England only by a band of rebels. Among these rebels is Mortimer, played by Chandler Williams, whose infatuation with Mary Stuart leads to hysterics and destruction. Bouncing back and forth between the struggles of the two women (and in fact the men) the play examines not only political struggle, but personal struggles as well.  

The production is seemingly flawless and entertaining, with a spectacularly sparse set design by Anthony Ward and highly emotional lighting and sound. The rich costumes of the two women, also by Mr. Ward, certainly do not disappoint in any way. And the clever dressing of the men in more contemporary garments adds intelligence to a production that can easily be classified as a “costume drama”. It’s the mark of a good designer that every choice has a narrative thought and meaning behind it, not just an aesthetic one. These spectacles, while certainly enhancing to the play, are merely the cherry atop the sundae; it would have been just as rewarding to see the two Queens duke it out with only their acting skills.

It is the now iconic scene that opens up the second act that makes this production of Mary Stuart; two highly concentrated personalities finally have a confrontation, one that brings more ruin than the torrential storm. There are few words that are good enough to describe the emotion felt by the audience, and none that can describe the interaction between the two Queens. It is simply something that needs to be watched. 

MARY STUART

By Friedrich Schiller; new version by Peter Oswald; directed by Phyllida Lloyd; sets and costumes by Anthony Ward; lighting by Hugh Vanstone; sound by Paul Arditti; technical supervisors, Aurora Productions. A Donmar Warehouse production, presented by Arielle Tepper Madover, Debra Black, Neal Street Productions/Matthew Byam Shaw, Scott Delman, Barbara Whitman, Jean Doumanian/Ruth Hendel, David Binder/CarlWend Productions/Spring Sirkin, Daryl Roth/James L. Nederlander/Chase Mishkin. At the Broadhurst Theater, 235 West 44th Street, Manhattan; (212) 239-6200. Through Aug. 16. Running time: 2 hours 30 minutes.

WITH: Janet McTeer (Mary Stuart), Harriet Walter (Elizabeth), Tony Carlin (Courtier/Officer), Michael Countryman (Sir Amias Paulet), Adam Greer (O’Kelly/Courtier/Officer), John Benjamin Hickey (Earl of Leicester), Guy Paul (Courtier/Officer), Michael Rudko (Count Aubespine/Melvil), Robert Stanton (Sir William Davison), Maria Tucci (Hanna Kennedy), Chandler Williams (Mortimer), Nicholas Woodeson (Lord Burleigh) and Brian Murray (Earl of Shrewsbury).

He Never Arrives, BTW.

Theater Review|'Waiting for Godot'

The revolutionary Beckett play, considered a key piece in dramatic literature, is as interesting as it is evasive. Wrapped in repetition and monotony, the Roundabout Theatre’s new production now playing at Studio 54 makes one leave the theatre with more questions to be answered than might be expected. And isn’t that the point of Theater?

It’s been 50 years since the play was produced on Broadway. For a play of such eminence and popularity, it’s dizzying to believe that alarming fact. However, after seeing it, I have an inkling as to why it’s been ignored by producers and actors alike on the Great White Way: it just doesn’t fit into New York sensibility. Or, for that matter, American sensibility. It was originally written in French by an Irish playwright, after all. That must be responsible for some kind of culture shock, especially to Americans. The play is an existentialist’s dream, a sort of nonexistent, purposeless drama that uncomfortably forces one to consider the meaning of life. It does this in the run-around of the superficially meaningless dialogue ranging from theological debate to suicidal desperation, all done in an attempt to counteract the unbearable and inevitable silence that plagues the characters.

This kind of slow, melodic drama is almost unidentifiable to a modern audience. Nothing is spoon-fed, and it’s quite easy to dismiss the material as, dare I say, Seinfeldian absurdity. Probably an unfortunate side effect of being a member of Generation Y, it’s hard to get into the play if one is not willing to do so. Truthfully, the three people I saw it with were appalled, tired and regretful that they wasted their evening—not to mention money—on such a play. I’ll admit my mind wandered a few times, but nevertheless my head is still reeling from the content. 

Nathan Lane leads the play as Estragon, the culinarily named quasi-protagonist, spending most of the play receding into the background in physical exhaustion and misanthropic ambivalence. For the character, it’s expected; for Mr. Lane, it’s not. “Typecasting” is usually comparable to career-suicide in the acting world, but the action of such is not without sense. We expect Mr. Lane to be brash, energetic and hilarious, and Estragon himself is not. As a result, Mr. Lane understandably struggles a bit, doing his best with the more serious material, but obviously over-performing his trademark sense of humor in the small bits of slapstick and one-liners the text offers. He is only half of the main character, though, as I absorbed it. Together with Bill Irwin’s self-evident and heartbreaking Vladimir, the two create a couple contemplating their actions, as well as their own lives, as they wait for a gentleman by the name of Mr. Godot. He never arrives, by the way.

In a world spearheaded currently by twittering and a general sense of impatience at the prospect of anything taking more than two seconds to arrive on our iPhones, this kind of unresolved conclusion may make one want to throw a tantrum right there on 54^th street. I’m sure many would have wanted to, but their sense of decorum from societal pressure impeded these actions.

When Pozzo (John Goodman) enters the scene, led in the antediluvian manner of his servant Lucky (John Glover) on a rope, we are hoping for Godot. And by Godot, I mean the action of the play. Perhaps this jolly, domineering man will bring about some conflict. He does, in a way, with Mr. Goodman at least contributing some physicality to the play, most definitely a result of his immense size and presence. But it is Lucky’s logorrheic monologue, rife with biblical, societal and even scatological references, which hurls one of the play’s most intriguing moments. When we sit back and try to soak up every bit of cryptic or ludicrous speech, we are left moved.   

It is at times hard to concentrate on the play, though. An ominous, Bergmanesque set, akin to the cinematography of “The Seventh Seal” might have been a little more fitting for the material, as opposed to the steep claustrophobic Disneyesque cove in which they now ponder. At the heart of the play is the cyclical pointlessness of life, but this existentialist theory is quite literally overshadowed by plastic trees, plaster rocks and a “sky” that is so clear it looks like a movie screen. I wonder why. Maybe because it is. There, I saved you any interpretation. Jane Greenwood’s costumes were typical of the production (Beckett envisioned only one thing about his characters: they would be wearing bowlers), although Mr. Goodman’s jodhpurs were most intriguing, perhaps because they are without a doubt the largest pair I have ever seen.

There is no end to this play; only the inevitable timidity and diffidence associated with life and its choices. We are left waiting, but know that nothing will ever arrive; we must set out to find it ourselves.

WAITING FOR GODOT

By Samuel Beckett; directed by Anthony Page; sets by Santo Loquasto; costumes by Jane Greenwood; lighting by Peter Kaczorowski; Presented by the Roundabout Theater Company, Todd Haimes, artistic director. At the Studio 54 Theatre, 254 West 54th Street, Manhattan; (212) 719-1300; Through July 5th. Running time: 2 hours 15 minutes.

WITH: Nathan Lane (Estragon), Bill Irwin (Vladimir), John Goodman (Pozzo), John Glover (Lucky), Cameron Clifford (Boy), Matthew Schechter (Boy).      

The Intelligent Blogger's Guide to Theatre and Criticism with a Key to Kushner.

The Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, Minnesota is currently having a Tony Kushner celebration. In addition to staging his musical, Caroline, or Change, and a collection of short plays (playfully titled "tiny Kushner"), the theater is premiering his latest play, The Intelligent Homosexual's Guide to Capitalism and  Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures, directed by Michael Greif (of Rent and Grey Gardens fame, who also did a fabulous production of Romeo & Juliet two summers ago in Central Park and is currently working on next to normal.)  

With its title derived from George Bernard Shaw's (slightly pedantic) how-to book on economics for women, the play apparently deals directly with gay issues. And, as of today, that's all we get. An intriguing mouthful of a title and a vague description of the subject matter. 

In any event, the play (not to mention its poster) has caught my interest and, while I cannot afford to go to Minnesota at the moment (and, yes, I'd go to even Minnesota for a Kushner play) I can only hope that the production is good enough to be moved to New York, as I am dying to see it. I also would hope that the original cast stays intact because it features two Kushner veterans, Stephen Spinella and Kathleen Chalfant, who both starred in the Original Broadway production of Angels in America back in 1993.    

Honestly, why Minnesota? Kushner said that he wanted to escape the pressure of opening a play in New York, but he needn't be so neurotic; I'm sure it's a fabulous play and I hope to get an opportunity to see it.

How to Shape the Law

I was thumbing through "Angels in America" for the kazillionith time recently, and began to wax poetically on ethics. “The shaping of the law, not its execution.” Louis ponders the nature of justice in bed beside his lover, Prior. “…it should be the questions and shape of a life…which matters in the end, not some stamp of salvation or damnation which disperses all the complexity in some unsatisfying little decision…”

It’s an interesting supposition to consider.  It paints in my mind the image of the tarot card entitled “Judgment”; an angel, eclipsing the horizon, blowing a horn, resurrecting a legion of corpses before the final judgment of Christian tradition; an image that symbolizes this “stamp of salvation or damnation” in a religious life.  For the large sect of us who do not subscribe to such an image based on religion, does our secular life hold to similar strictures of judgment? Can our peers judge us in that same way? Can we be damned by society if we do not beg forgiveness for an action? For those of a particular faith, it can be simpler; for others, it cannot.

As the aging Rabbi Chemelwitz points out: “Catholics believe in forgiveness, Jews believe in guilt.” In the Catholic faith, one can commit any transgression he likes, so long as he confesses and repents before his life is over. An entire life composed of immoral, disparaging acts can be rectified in one sitting, thus, the components which make up said life mean little if, before the final judgment is enacted, forgiveness is given. For atheists and agnostics, this is not a scenario in which we can easily place ourselves.

            It appears, then, that Louis’s theory is a logical and easily accessible one, especially to people who do not subscribe to a religious faith. Our lives should be judged by the broad spectrum of our actions, by the sum total of what we do and what impression we leave on the world, not one thing we do, whether it be good or bad.

The theory does open up some doors, though, of evasion and disregard towards the transgressions we commit, because to Prior, “…[Louis’s theory] seems to let you off scot-free. …No judgment, no guilt or responsibility.” Does a life of good actions balance out a single misdeed? What if, say, a charity worker commits a murder? If she sacrificed her life helping and aiding hundreds of lives but destroys one, shall she be eternally damned? She can forgive all she wants, but her actions cannot be changed. 

Perhaps an amalgam of sorts is in order; perhaps forgiveness is an integral part of an already broad life. Actions cannot be changed, but attitudes can. Perhaps we need to enact the “neo-Hegelian, positivist” sense of the world Louis holds so dearly, confirming that progress, while suffused with pain and struggle, is always for the better. Perhaps we will not get stamped at the end of our lives, but we shall try our hardest to live good ones, no matter how difficult it may be.     

[pictured: Joe Mantello and Stephen Spinella, Original Broadway Production]

The Riddle of Ritalin

Theater Review|"Distracted"

Never has a play been more aptly named than the new Roundabout Theatre production "Distracted". Because it is. Distracted. From content to production value, this play doesn't know where to start. Amid the dizzying sets, muddled dialogue delivered like bullets to the audience, and the already stale themes of Lisa Loomer's new play about the disorder du jour, this production is nothing but an educational editorial. 

Cynthia Nixon headlines the cast at the Laura Pels Theater and pretty much does all the work on stage, carrying the play on her shoulders and taking the material a little too seriously. Compared to the other actors, at least. The ensemble does a very good job of handling their multiple roles, even if they don't understand the gravity of some of the situations. It is a comedy, after all. But it borders on farce, and seems a little outdated. 

Nothing is worse in this world than being "so five minutes ago", and ADHD is in that time frame. Maybe Autism would have been a more appropriate disease to write about. (Of course, as we learn, ADHD is in the Autism spectrum.) Nevertheless the play reads as something from 2006 that was just found in the unpublished archives and dusted off for the Roundabout. For God's sake, there's a tired Bush joke jammed in there. Still, the play is entertaining when not acting like a de facto PSA. There are some funny moments, and some that make you sit and ponder for a spell. 

However upon seeing the humble ending to this play, you're left a bit unfulfilled on the subject matter. Or, maybe you're not. I wasn't really paying attention. 

DISTRACTED

By Lisa Loomer; directed by Mark Brokaw; sets by Mark Wendland; costumes by Michael Krass; lighting by Jane Cox; original music and sound by David Van Tieghem; projection and video design by Tal Yarden; associate artistic director, Scott Ellis. Presented by the Roundabout Theater Company, Todd Haimes, artistic director. At the Laura Pels Theater, 111 West 46th Street, Manhattan; (212) 719-1300. Through May 10. Running time: 1 hour 45 minutes.

WITH: Peter Benson (Dr. Daniel Broder/Allergist/Dr. Jinks/Dr. Karnes), Shana Dowdeswell (Natalie), Lisa Emery (Vera), Natalie Gold (Dr. Zavala/Waitress/Carolyn/Nurse), Matthew Gumley (Jesse), Mimi Lieber (Sherry), Aleta Mitchell (Dr. Waller/Mrs. Holly/Delivery Person/Nurse), Cynthia Nixon (Mama) and Josh Stamberg (Dad).

Cool Hand Fluke

Theater Review|"The Castle"

 

Sitting upon Riverside Drive at 140^th Street is an arresting sight: a large, gothic, classically designed building, once a Catholic Girls’ School, now owned by the Fortune Society. It is nicknamed “The Castle” and is a refuge for formerly incarcerated people. Of the 700 or so boarders who have drifted in and out of it, four noteworthy ones, in conjunction with director David Rothenberg, have began telling their woeful stories of trauma and crime at the New World Stages. On the face of it, a production with only four chairs as a set, no traditional dramatic structure and a cast of former criminals locked in a basement with an unwitting audience would not seem too successful; shockingly enough, it works.

The quartet—Cassimo Torres, Kenneth Harrigan, Vilma Otriz Donovan, and Angel Ramos—speaks directly to the audience, weaving their personal stories in short, succinct bursts of monologue together to form a larger narrative that addresses not only the successes and failures of the prison system in the United States, but of the conflict that arises from societal pressure on personal choices. It is interesting for us to see how Ms. Ortiz Donovan, a Long Island suburbia native, and Mr. Torres, a homeless junkie, could end up in the same safe haven for ex-convicts. Ms. Ortiz Donovan, a self-conscious girl, was seeking approval from her peers, all of which came to a head when she became a user and dealer of cocaine. Drugs were Mr. Torres’s weakness as well; he graduated from the triad of alcohol, weed and acid to crack-cocaine and heroin in only three years. Coming from a broken home, he was subjected to abuse in the centers he and his brother were shipped to after his mother was admitted to the hospital. In spite of their very different upbringings, the two failed to resist to the temptations around them, and ended up behind bars.

With drug abuse as the common thread of their convictions, it’s fascinating to see how people from different walks of life could assume the unenviable position of inmate in the New York State Prison system. Ms. Ortiz Donovan repeatedly makes the statement that her choices solely contributed to her incarceration, while the men are less eager to blame themselves. Mr. Harrigan, for example, repeatedly paints the grim picture of his life as one of the factors that landed him in the big house. His disturbing image of a woman hanging from a telephone pole just outside of his home is but one example of the terrible environment in which he was reared. So where can one assign responsibility of fault for delinquency? When can we draw the distinction between offenses stemming from personal depravation to those influenced by peer pressure? One crime, one indiscretion by a person is what is seen by a court, by a judge, but said person’s actions are never entirely his own. Wouldn’t Mr. Torres’s absentee father hold some iota of blame in his drug crimes, considering the (Ann Coulteresque) statistic that fatherless children are apparently 10 times more likely to abuse chemical substances? But he is not punished, only Mr. Torres is. These are the questions that the audience is provoked into contemplating during a performance of “The Castle”, moving us all into some sweep of emotional response.

Each member of the ensemble was moved to tears at one point during their personal accounts, legitimate tears of pride, sadness and strength that could outweigh any Oscar winner’s performance, if for no other reason than because they were real. I found it refreshing to see such a genuine display of emotion on stage, certainly not because I wish that all actors would abandon their craft (what would become of the theatre‽), but it is, admittedly, a delight to see such awe-inspiring performances that are unequivocally rooted in the sprawl of real life rather than weeks of rehearsals. Of course, that’s not to say some additional prepping would have been a sensible action in this production; each of the performers committed some impropriety during the play, ranging from late delivery to trying too hard to elicit a laugh from the audience. These missteps are easily overlooked, however, when considering the overall effect the play can have on a person.     

The apparent success of “The Castle” may be rooted in the deeply moving struggles of the quartet, the discouraging realization that prisoners have souls, and that we are all at risk of penalization. Or it may simply be luck. Whatever the explanation may be, this piece of documentary theatre inspires and enlightens, even when it takes itself too seriously, or shows its rough edges.  

Video Killed the Drama Star

Theater Review|"Coming of Age in Korea"

The stage is set at the Castillo Theatre with a haphazard, industrial façade constructed of putty-colored planks of wood and sheet metal nailed against a stark purple wall. Various white Hangul are stenciled across the backdrop with the year, 1954, prominently displayed at the center of the proscenium. Amidst this cold, rustic stage, quite discordantly, is a large movie screen. That’s where the trouble began.   

 

“Coming of Age in Korea” follows the life and times of three outcast soldiers in the Korean war, one Jewish, one Black, and one Hispanic, who are singled out by their colonel not only for their respective races, but because they have not yet contracted Chlamydia or any other venereal disease from a Korean prostitute like the other soldiers have already.

 

The story is told in this production of the 1996 Fred Newman musical through the tense combination of live performers and film sequences; the main plot is expelled in shaky, home-movie quality shots of the character’s experiences in the Korean War, while their internal conflicts are presented live through song and interpretive dance. Testing the limits of how the two media play off of each other, the audience experiences a frustrating disconnectedness from the start as we view a 40^th reunion of the characters on screen, and then on stage given a retro pastiche musical number concerning pop culture in the 50’s, which seems to lead us no where in the story as the singers and dancers trot around in EmilieCharlotte’s costumes, which try hard to suggest historical accuracy and winsome eye candy, but are limited by a small budget and homemade craftsmanship. Suddenly, we’re thrown back into the film, and so the tug-o’-war continues for two hours. No matter how hard we try to concentrate on the story, we are quickly swatted away by crude pageantry, which is a shame, because a story was all the play needed to carry itself.  

 

Upon entrance to the theater, guests are handed an article from the New York Times concerning a dreadful historic episode where during the War, the Korean government coerced their women into prostitution to appease American soldiers. Looking over the article, I worried how the issue would be handled in the play, if it would take sides, and if there would be a conclusion to these events despite the fact that there was none in real life. Apparently, though, that’s not what the play is about. It may just be a simple coming of age story, a theme that hardly holds any weight and has a hard time provoking any emotion from the audience. Only in the supersaturated scenes of exposition concerning the Korean girls, Suzie and Little Kim, do we see the story line pushed further. Finding a through-line from the unrefined lyrics in the early song “The Clap” to the painful “Little Kim’s Song” to the eventual sharp, staccato scenes of action that lead us to a climax, the play had enormous potential to tackle this intriguing issue, but apparently, it doesn’t fail to do so; it refuses.

 

Distracted by the contrasting media presentation, the play insists upon the non-avant-garde styling, which muddles up the story as well as the acting. Whenever a live performer sings, headlined by the decent efforts of Melvin Chambry, Jr. and Aja Nisenson, we are sometimes unclear of who exactly they are supposed to be, in part because of their race (Philip M. O’Mara, a young Asian man, plays the very Jewish Greenberg once or twice) and in part by the hazy, repetitious lyrics which give only vague clues as to which character is pouring his or her heart out.

 

The movie isn’t much clearer in terms of plot or character; Walt Shelton (Chima), one from the trio, occasionally steals the spotlight, from occupying the subject of the Act One finale to the small subplot concerning his penalization for being absent without leave, but immediately the focus shifts to Frankie Greenberg (Evan Shultz) and Little Kim’s demise later in the second act. Shultz displays skill as an actor in this production, albeit comically, through his contorted expressions and his shrill New York accent, however his histrionic approach to the material is perhaps best suited to the stage, not the screen. Although the two scenes he had with his love interest, Little Kim, were genuine and pleasant, they were not enough to convince us that they fall in love in a very short amount of time.

 

Certainly quick romances aren’t unorthodox, especially in theater, as in “West Side Story”, whose action takes place in one day. However, the love between Tony and Maria is believable to us because the entire story hangs off of that fact, so no unrealistic time constraint deters us from the play. In “Coming of Age in Korea”, Greenberg’s “love” for Little Kim comes on too late and ends too early to ever be considered real.

 

The play is riddled with these frequent lapses from reality in which it declares its theatricality, including, for instance, a line where a peripheral character comments that the protagonists won’t be friends in 40 years, despite us knowing that they will. These self-referential hiccups, which some dilettantes might deem “Brechtian”, are realistically just an elbow-in-the-ribs-style joking with the audience; the play is not so much an interpretation of reality but, rather, an interpretation of such a concept. While directors Desmond Richardson and Gabrielle L. Kurlander are not intentionally letting the audience glean a particular message about racism or war or the governmental duress of local women into prostitution, it would appear that the play (or movie) is at the very least trying to do exactly that.

 

Accordingly, we as the audience are left in an abrupt quandary. It is as if we are looking at a stained glass window, a mélange of spectacle, music and film, with the dim light of a thought trying desperately to break through. By the end, though, we find out that isn’t going to happen. As we applaud an awkward curtain call of the filmed performers, our praise wasted on discarnate actors, we are reminded finally that unless properly handled, the stage is best suited to drama or film, not both.    

 

COMING OF AGE IN KOREA

 

Book & lyrics by Fred Newman; music by Annie Roboff; directed by Gabrielle L. Kurlander & Desmond Richardson; sets by Joseph Spirito; costumes by EmilieCharlotte; Presented by the Castillo Theatre . At 543 West 42^nd Street, Manhattan. Through March 1. Running Time: 2 hours.

 

WITH: Chima Chikazunga, Natalie Chung, Emily Gerstell, Andrea Harrison, Amanda Henning-Santiago, Kaitlin Hernandez, Jim Horton, Brittney Jensen, Jaiwen Liang, Christine Komei Luo, Casey Mauro, Leroy Mobley, Brian Mullin, David Nackman, Lynnette Nicholas, Aja Nisenson, Vigdis Olsen, Philip M. O'Mara, Johanny Paulino, Reynaldo Piniella, Esteban Rodriguez-Alverio, Evan Schultz, Melvin Shambry, Jr., Isaac H. Suggs, Jr., Jeff Wertz.

  

New York Collections: Project Runway #1

I'm not even going to bother. This collection was awful. Poorly made, terrible styling, with every piece smacking of H&M by way of an Olivia Newton-John music video. Mystery designer, I'm sure you're better than this! Unless you aren't. Oh, how I hate not knowing these people! 

See the rest here.

New York Collections: Project Runway #2

This collection probably had the most ease and the most fun, but it teetered the lines of "unsophisticated" and "derivative" quite often. What was interesting, though, was how frequently it took inspiration from past Project Runway designers. The styling was atrocious, to boot. 

It's all right. Kara Janx meets Rami Kashou. Not crazy about the hip-widening skirt drapes, or the ill-fitting bodice, but the colors and fabrics are nice.

This was probably my favorite in the collection, but it's an old, old look, and this doesn't bring anything new to the table. I hate how the fabrics play off each other. And that hair! Nevertheless, it's whimsical and slightly wearable, which is more than can be said for the rest of this collection. 

I go back and forth on this one. I don't like the color, only because it isn't fresh, but I'm undecided about the braiding. It has that fairy-tale sort of look the collection's going for, but it falls flat as the only interesting aspect of the outfit. 

I liked this, and the pictures don't do it justice. The different layers looked effortless and soft. The silhouette reminds me very much of Sweet P, however, and the top of the bodice has a horrible, horrible shape.

Is this Project Runway Canada? Is Marie Genevieve pulling a Daniel Franco and coming back for a second try?

Feh, it's ok. The hem is heavy and distracting, but the fabric has a pretty quality and..well...the detail is...it's something. 

I loved seeing this come down the runway, because I am always tickled when I see someone trying to move normally in something like that. Yes, it smacks of Kenley Collins and, while I liked her version better, this one is more tailored and, therefore, somewhat interesting. The top is poorly made and boring, though.

Ugh. That fabric is some weird faux-crocodile-vaguely-ostrich-silk that just looks cheap and miserable. And those shoes are stupid.

Rami Kashou! It even has his horrible sense of color, how adorable. 

Sort of looks like an old Chloe Dao bridesmaid dress, huh? The top doesn't fit, though, so I guess that's where the comparisons to the second-winner stop. At least she could sew something correctly, even if it was a terrible gold lame cocktail dress. 

I hate the outfit underneath, but something draws me to the cape. Not the color or the fabric, both of which are terrible and bland all at once, but it was kind of cute. 

Well, it pains me to say I liked this. It moved well on the runway, and I loved the color-shifting quality the fabric had. But, oy, look underneath! All that puckering!

Overworked, Kashouesque, but something saves it. Maybe the bland colors make it not-so-overwhelming. There's a lot of workmanship in it, so at least he/she tried. 

Well, it was a little too sweet, a little too fairy tale, and a lot too derivative for my taste, but it looks fun and there's actually color in it. I predict second place because, the first collection was just downright horrible. This at least had a few redeeming qualities.

New York Collections: Project Runway #3

Honestly, there's no question that this collection was the best out of the three. It was sophisticated, well-made, and had a great dystopian, futuristic theme that kept me interested the entire time. It wasn't the most original perspective, but measured along with the other collections, it was the most unique. The lack of color was a bit disappointing, but there's no denying that playing it safe with all black makes it very tasteful when it easily could've been ruined with garish colors or lame, as is often the case with futuristic lines. The styling was severe and striking, which played off the clothes really well. 

When this came out, I jumped out of my seat. It's not necessarily the greatest look, but compared with the other collections, I knew immediately the tone of the show when this came out, and I also knew it was going to be interesting. And, isn't that what the opening look is supposed to do? Very successful. 

Great coat, even greater from the back; very wearable, but also interesting. And fabulous accessories, even if that purse looks a little too precious compared to the rest of the look.

I liked this top, especially the neckline, but not with the ill-fitting leggings and leather opera-length gloves. The lattice work, though, was impeccable and striking. 

I'm not a fan of the extended sleeves, or the drop waist on a coat that length, but the knits were a highlight in this collection. The collar could've been a little bit smaller, though. Actually, everything could have been a bit smaller. 

Urban, chic, with a vaguely Inuit undertone, which I found fantastic. I love the buckle and the graphic t-shirt, but she has a bit of a spare-tire from all the bulk. 

Still rocking the "Eskimo of the Future" look, and kudos. It's great and wearable. I just hope that fur is faux. 

The asymmetry on this looks like a mistake in the picture, but on the runway it created a very dynamic shape from the side. I'm not super-crazy about the leather bodice or the sort of imbalance with the skirt since it looks a little bottom-heavy, but it's cool and almost gets the point. 

I still like collars to, you know, be collars and not huge caplets but the jacket is pretty nice. However, for me, the best part of this look is  the t-shirt. I would buy that in a heartbeat.

Classic and simple, which is exactly what this collection had been lacking thus far. It's still a little bulky, though.

The shirt, again, is fabulous. Very Stephen Sprouse-y and uber-urban-chic. The sweater's ok, but the tights...annoy me. The whole layering lattice motif ran the risk throughout the whole collection of making it looked overworked, and this is one instance where it's noticeable. 

This, however, I loved, despite all the aspects competing with one another. Very detailed and interesting, and, combined with the overall styling, made a great look. Very editorial. I wish the sweater-y thing was a bit more refined and focused, but still it's striking.  

Hate the gloves with that tank dress and, ultimately, this was not a very memorable piece. I felt that I had already seen this.

It's kind of gorgeous, but to me, this looks like student work. It just seems like something a senior in a fashion design program slaves over for months, trying to whip out every technique he's good at into one overworked dress to get the attention of his professors. The layering gets really sloppy in the midsection and the top, and the one strap looks like an afterthought. The bottom, however, is breathtaking, and I guess the dress does a pretty good job of anchoring the collection.

Ultimately, it was a good collection that balanced "wearable" with "editorial", was (for the most part) well-executed and had the most distinct point of view out of all of the others. And that equals "winner" in Project Runway land.