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).

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)

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 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.

  

This Movie Will Make You Want to Impale Yourself on a Picket Fence

I've been mulling around this review for a while (re: a week) and finally decided that Joe Neumaier of the New York Daily News summed it up exactly as I would have:

"...[the film] comes close but falls short of capturing Richard Yates' terrific novel... the movie — two-thirds Mad Men, one-third American Beauty, with a John Cheever chaser — works best when focusing on the personal. Thankfully, it's there that Mendes and screenwriter Justin Haythe catch some of Yates' weighty ideas, and where Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet succeed in doing the heavy lifting... DiCaprio, round-shouldered and sleepy-eyed, and Winslet, watchful and alert, raise up each other and everything around them. Never once shadowed by Titanic, they suggest, often wordlessly, the box the Wheelers have found themselves in. Whereas the novel is told mostly from Frank's viewpoint, the movie is just as much April's, and Winslet, whether fighting back or fighting back tears, is sensational."

It's like American Beauty on downers, basically, with lots of 50's flair. I enjoyed it, but it is hardly revolutionary (pun intended) for Mendes. 

All in Your Hedda.

The role of Hedda Tesman has been invariably compared to that of Hamlet (the female version, as it were), a collation that comments on the challenging nature of the part. Kate Burton, Annette Bening, and Maggie Smith have been just a few of the notables who’ve fired from Hedda’s pistols. Now it’s Ms. Parker’s turn.

In the Roundabout Theatre Company’s revival this season, Mary-Louise Parker assumes the Dionysian persona of the oppressed woman in an ostensibly “modernized” version of Ibsen’s work. Why exactly it’s modern is a fact that has evaded me, but perhaps the gritty new translation appeals more to the contemporary audience that values instant gratification amongst all else. In spite of the initial skepticism of the revival, once I discovered Ms. Parker, who lights up my television screen in her series “Weeds”, was playing the trigger-happy damsel, I leapt for joy. I believed that she would bring to the role the combination of cynicism and grace she’s known for; a perfect match for Hedda. I couldn’t wait to hear her utter the beautiful lines “…then Ejlert Løvborg will come…with vine-leaves in his hair.” Instead, though, at the end of the second act I hear “Ejlert Løvborg will be mine again!”

Did I hear right? “Ejlert Løvborg will be mine again”? Did Ibsen ever write for “The Guiding Light”? I should certainly expect not. Christopher Shinn’s translation leaves a lot to be desired; it’s understandable for a work as old as “Hedda” to undergo revisions that would render it a little more comprehensive to a modern audience, but stripping it of any depth or interpretation is downright insulting. This is a high school production of “Hedda Gabler”, from the tacky translation to the deflated acting. I can’t bring myself to blame Ms. Parker at any cost, though; all the while as she delivers her lines with no zeal, I had to believe she was coerced into the odd speech by the play’s director, Ian Rickson. She’s too good. Unfortunately by the time the fourth act crept along, I could not wait for it to end. Without spoiling anything, the end of this Hedda was quite welcome.

I suppose we must commend them for taking a risk. Revivals can be dry recreations and it is usually those who deviate from the original production that succeed the most. Ian von Hove’s “Hedda” at the New York Theater Workshop, rife with a Joni Mitchell soundtrack and tomato soup deluges, was a shockingly incredible interpretation. This production, however, didn’t go far enough. At least I can tell it was not the fault of the resources available; the quality of a play can be (perhaps unfairly) judged against its production values, and the design at least was appealing. Hildegard Bechtler’s set was austere and imposing, and while bordering bland, did some justice to the Tesman’s villa. Ann Roth’s costumes were rich and gorgeous, especially on Ms. Parker’s nipped-in waist and milk-white skin.

Special consideration can be given to the original music composed by PJ Harvey. Ms. Parker’s fluid, wraith-like movements in conjunction with the eerie, pulsating score told more of a story than any of the dialogue did, and illustrated the turmoil in Hedda’s mind more successfully than the regimented scenes of discussion. The parts devoid of speech were better than when anyone began to talk, either to seep mousy lines from their mouths (Michael Cerveris as Jorgen) or confuse us by speaking in a Southern droll (Peter Stormare as Judge Brack).

Perhaps it would have been successful if this were a pantomimed production of “Hedda Gabler”. Seriously, though; think of Mabou Mines’ unconventional production of “A Doll’s House” (simply titled “Dollhouse”) where people under 5’ were cast in all the male roles and the females by Amazonian women. It was humorous (intentionally so), but it was not without thought. Maybe to highlight the strength of this production through a play with no dialogue, while not an ideal representation of the classic, would have been interesting. Or at least tolerable.

Otherwise, we’re left with a bland reiteration of an oft-revived play. And, if its ubiquity was not enough, it has been watered-down to such a degree that the subtle words Ibsen crafted do not even challenge us. Not a thought can enter our heads, other than the perplexity surrounding Ms. Parker’s misuse. It’s just a shame that a gifted actress was wasted in such mediocrity; people don’t do such things!

HEDDA GABLER
By Henrik Ibsen, new adaptation by Christopher Shinn from a literal translation by Anne-Charlotte Harvey; directed by Ian Rickson; set by Hildegard Bechtler; costumes by Ann Roth; lighting by Natasha Katz; sound by John Gromada; original music by P J Harvey; makeup and hair design by Ivana Primorac; wig design by Peter Owens; production stage manager, James FitzSimmons; general manager, Rebecca Habel; technical supervisor, Steve Beers; associate artistic director, Scott Ellis. Presented by the Roundabout Theater Company, Todd Haimes, artistic director; Harold Wolpert, managing director; Julia C. Levy, executive director. At the American Airlines Theater, 227 West 42nd Street, Manhattan, (212) 719-1300. Through March 29. Running time: 2 hours 15 minutes.
WITH: Mary-Louise Parker (Mrs. Hedda Tesman), Michael Cerveris (Jorgen Tesman), Paul Sparks (Ejlert Lovborg), Peter Stormare (Judge Brack), Lois Markle (Berte), Ana Reeder (Mrs. Thea Elvsted) and Helen Carey (Miss Juliane Tesman).

"My name is Harvey Milk, and I'm here to recruit you!"

In 1978, Proposition 6 would ban gays and lesbians from working in California's public schools. In 2008, Proposition 8 overturned laws granting equal marriage rights to all people in the state of California. We have taken two steps forward and ten steps backward. We have made progress, and we have regressed. But what are we to do? Gus van Sant's striking portrayal of the late, great Supervisor Harvey Milk, the first openly gay politician elected into official office in this country, reminds us the one thing we need to fight: grit.

Through his incomparable vision, Gus van Sant has portrayed Milk in an honest, searing spotlight that chronicles the era in which he fought for our rights. There is little more to say about the film itself because, honestly, it doesn't read as a film at all; it is a living, breathing entity showcasing the struggle we all face everyday with everyone. It is a memorial to all those who have died for what they are or what they believe in, and a testament to how guts and guile are all it takes to fight for your rights.   

It is our time as people to speak up; we are almost ten years into the new millennium, ten years into the dawning of a new age, and yet we still cling to what is safe, and what is comfort, and not to what is right. In 1978 Harvey Milk was assassinated after having served only ten months in office, yet he will remain an icon for all those, gay or straight, who believe in peace, love and justice. We should, we must, follow in his footsteps each day to create a society which truly is a society; a place where we can all be free from hate and prejudice and fear. It will happen one day, but it is our duty to make that day not next year, not next month, and not next week, but tomorrow.       

Cum all Ye Faithful

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As the holiday season approaches, it's normal for us to be berated with religious images and messages. Normally, though, they aren't disparaging or metaphorical in nature (not intentionally, anyway). Doubt is an exception to this observance. While timely in its subject matter (namely Pedophilia in the church) its themes and locations transcend what is on the facade and dig down into deeper motifs, such as intolerance, progression and, of course, trust. Transition into new and uncharted territories is a double-edged sword that is unsheathed in this film; it asks "is progression good?" Does taking the risk of abandoning antiquated (yet steadfast) ideas pave the way for something better, or does it end in misery? Meryl Streep as the suspicious Sister Aloysius questions the integrity of the new priest played by philip Seymour Hoffman by criticizing everything from his fingernails to his use of a ballpoint pen; it isn't until a naive nun (Amy Adams) smells wine on a young boys breath, though, that Sister Aloysius vows for the expungement of the new priest. 

To give the ending away in one fell swoop, we as viewers are left in the dark. And as it should be. Too often we are coddled and given the answers in a nice little Christmas package, but the fact of the matter is, we never know. Recently, my godfather Monsignor Capua was accused with the molestation of a young boy some twenty years ago, and has since left the parish and moved to Massachusetts. He was never found guilty of the crime, or even charged with it I believe, but it has nevertheless ruined his reputation. Did he do it, though? I couldn't tell. He never touched me, but the incident happened before I was even born. Considering the track record with priests these days, it's possible, but aside from that there's no real proof. Uncertainty is probably one of the more dangerous concepts floating around, considering that the correctly chosen words can be forcefully damaging to a person's integrity or reputation, whether factual or not. The slightest utterance of a carefully chosen rumor is grounds enough to ruin a life, no matter if it's true or false. 

Doubt hosts a spectacular production that poses these questions to the audience and, horror of horrors, actually makes them think. John Patrick Shanely's screenplay is simply divine, but this comes as to no surprise seeing as he penned the play it was based upon, too. His direction is remarkable, considering it was his first go-around in that particular area. And, of course, the acting is perfect; especially Meryl who stole the show.  Of course, there was no doubt about that.

In the Name of the Father, Son, and...Holy Shit!

Not much to say about this documentary, mainly because everything Bill said should already be abundantly clear to everyone already, but I have to say it was very enjoyable overall. He did a good job of asking questions about every one of the major religions and of really pushing the boundaries about one of the dreaded "two subjects you can never talk about".  Very thought-provoking and entertaining. 

But will it make the more ignorant part of the population open there eyes a little wider? Let us pray...

Third Times a Charm

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Since my views conform to that of NY Times writer Charles Isherwood, I'll just post a link to his review.

Jeez, these just get shorter and shorter, don't they? Eh. Well, wait, I'll expand. The biggest problem with this musical is its lack of coherent plot. Even though there have been many successful musicals without a clear narrative (Sondheim's Company, for example) in this case it was clear the musical was trying to have a story, but failed. Whatever vestige of said story was jumbled and predictable.

Fabulous choreography, though.

Review Times Two

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After falling in love with her writing talents on HBO's Six Feet Under,  I decided to delve a little deeper into researching Jill Soloway. After finding out many different bits and bobs about her (including a humorous story she penned entitled "Courtney Cox's Asshole") I discovered her first book: Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants. A book of funny, personal essays, she made me laugh while making me think. It's not as if the book was so scholarly or deep, but there's a small thread sewn between all of her stories characterized by neo-feminism, vague misanthropy and unconventional thinking. 

Even though some entries are slow and frivolous (Jill honey, I understand your dislike for dogs, but who the hell cares to hear you rant about it for so many pages?), Ms. Soloway doesn't disappoint with her three year old book.      

Review Time.

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There's an unjust war, racial tension, gender inequities and ecological problems. Forty years ago, America was humming the same tune. So much for progress, right? Well, despite the correlations that can be drawn from 2008 to 1968, in the current production of "Hair" now playing at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park, director Diane Paulus has stated she didn't want the play to be transposed or translated for today's audience; "Hair", headlined by Spring Awakening star (and hottie) Jonathan Groff retains almost every touch of what the audience in the Biltmore Theater saw so many years ago. Ontologically speaking (if one can speak ontologically concerning a piece of theater) the musical itself is now a period piece, even though it was once very contemporary work. But even with the displacement of time, "Hair" still has the ability to touch the audience (literally, in some cases) while staying true to its roots.

Since he is no stranger to unconventional rock-based musicals, Jonathan Groff seamlessly presents himself as Claude Hooper Bukowski, the 1960's answer to both Hamlet and Jesus Christ. It's all too often these days that performers, especially young ones, on the great white way just have "good" voices, and virtually no acting skills, so it was quite refreshing to see Mr. Groff successfully play the part in addition to belting out the music. It can be argued, though, that since the musical is basically a melange of song, dance, music, story, interaction, protest, message, culture, drugs and sex, character development isn't all that apparent or important. And that's true. For the most part and with most characters (like Dionne), nothing really changes or happens. But not with Claude. Indecisive, sacrificial, idealistic and with the tinge of inwardness, he can be plucked out as both the protagonist and the most successful part in the play. From his forceful utterance of the perceptive "I am Aquarius--destined for greatness or madness" to the waning of his final line "That's me", Groff brings you on a trip through the human psyche with Claude, ending quite finally. Of course, a lot of this is more appropriately attributed to James Rado and Gerome Ragni, not to mention Galt Macdermot (who is actually on keyboards in this production) but Groff does his share. Quite convincingly.      

As for the rest of the cast, while "modern" youth cannot be completely taken out of the "modern" world, they do as well as they can to properly portray young flower children. And, in most cases, that is quite well. The girls are braless and unmade, as per Paulus' request, the boys are unshaven and wig-donned, and, in fact, everyone's voices are not as polished as one would expect. Of course that is meant to be taken as a compliment, as it adds a sense of  realism to the show to have a few cracks and squeaks. Will Swenson and Patina Renae Miller of are particular mention. 

Paulus does an exceptionally good job of directing, from staying true to old standards (such as Berger melding the lyrics "my" and "donna" together to imply the Virgin Mary) to implanting some new ones (from what I can gather, at least) such as the tribe jumping down and crawling over the backdrop of the stage. She made the play intimate and relatable while still letting it keep its necessary distance, both for the illusory importance of storytelling and inevitable time period representation. 

It should also be noted that the Delacorte would appear to be the most appropriate setting for this of all musicals. The outdoor environment not only lends itself to the ideals of the hippie subculture, planting you right back into nature, but the size and setup (a theater in the quasi-round) allows the cast to interact easily with the audience. When Woof requests we "Look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon" we, the audience, are able to do just that.

After viewing the 40th anniversary concert performance last September, I was happily pleased this time around. Perhaps we cannot go back in time, but we can still experience parts of it. 

HAIR

With Ato Blankson-Wood, Steel Burkhardt, Jackie Burns, Allison Case, Lauren Elder, Jonathan Groff, Allison Guinn, Anthony Hollock, Kaitlin Kiyan, Andrew Kober, Megan Lawrence, Nicole Lewis, Caren Lyn Manuel, Patina Renea Miller, John Moauro, Darius Nichols, Brandon Pearson, Megan Reinking, Paris Remillard, Bryce Ryness, Saycon Sengbloh, Maya Sharpe, Kacie Sheik, Theo Stockman, Will Swenson, and Tommar Wilson.

http://www.publictheater.org/content/view/126/219/