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(see Criticopia review(s) under "Best Man, The")
Okay, regarding what all you've heard about The Graduate: it's only half-true. Yes, Kathleen Turner bares all. Yes, the show often bastardizes Mike Nichols' benchmark counterculture motion picture. And yes, the cast is wildly uneven and, in one case, downright awful. But it seems to me the shuddering cold response by critics operates on a decidedly pro-American bias, almost as if to say, "How on earth could this be a hit in (gasp!) London!" (Let's also not forget that many American productions are now heading there, not vice versa lately).
Though not the disaster most critics have tagged it, this is still a curious production, one that retains some of the classic film's humor but feels utterly divorced from context or meaning, despite the between-scene snippets of `60s pop.
The Graduate is a hoot. Kathleen Turner's star turn is in the best Bankhead mode, and her impeccable timing brings a heartfelt laugh to every punchline in this fun-from-start-to-finish comedy. We know what's going to happen in this tale of seduction and first love, and this play's success is all in the telling. Adapted and directed by Terry Johnson, with a brilliant sense of what real comedy is, and long knowledge of whom to cast in the leads, the show totally succeeds.
Well, I thought it was going to be fun. After a pre-show warm up by a smarmy, lip-synching dee-jay, Miss Lynch waddles to the stage as a prim but lovable homeroom teacher, bantering with the audience and getting laughs just by fixing her widened eyes on a "student" and devastating him with a shocked exclamation of "GUM???" But all too soon, the amps kick on and Grease! becomes the equivalent of a transistor radio on the beach: loud, canned-sounding, and too staticky to entertain. Authors/composers Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey tap into 50's nostalgia, but they do so witlessly.
Julie Taymor is the kind of theatrical inventor that prompts people to say things like, "She throws in everything but the kitchen sink." Well, her latest concoction (actually a revival, this was staged at the New Victory in 1996), The Green Bird, actually features a kitchen sink. And toilets. And naked women. And swing dancing. And much more, leaving one with the impression that nothing is disposable in eyes of the gifted Taymor. This is both her greatest curse and blessing. On the one hand, it tends to clutter her productions and distract from their initial intentions.
If you're a Christine Ebersole fanatic, or if you harbor an unquenchable curiosity for all things even peripherally Kennedy, you may be able to work up some genuine enthusiasm for this dreary, static adaptation of the Maysles Brothers' documentary, "Grey Gardens." Not qualifying on either count, I found myself questioning the critical kudos.
So how's Bernadette? That question has surely taken on more meanings than the producers of the current Gypsy revival intended. Of course, everyone wants to know how Bernadette Peters stands up to the memories of Merman and Lansbury (and, for some, Tyne Daly). But Peters' numerous health-related absences ended up giving the question a more urgent slant -- will she be playing tonight or will her understudy be offering "Rose's Turn," "Some People," and the numerous other classics Mama Rose belts as she fights for her daughters' careers?
Bernadette Peters herself is a great theatrical experience, and in the current Gypsy on Broadway she brings a vulnerability as well as the strength and power of Mama Rose to her performance. Directed by Sam Mendes, it's a very entertaining, imaginative production, a tuneful treat with strong dramatic content, lively Sondheim lyrics, hummable music by Jule Styne, book by Arthur Laurents.
The formula that draws youthful audiences to the movies today -- extreme violence interspersed with raunchy wisecracks -- has been tapped by John Pollono in the writing of his new play, Razorback, now in its world premiere run at Theatre Theater. A lurid melodrama filled with killings, profanity and jokes, Razorback drew laughter and cheers from those in attendance on opening night, most of whom seemed were in their twenties.
Harvey Fierstein in a jumbo housedress and croaking his trademark "Hellaaaooh" is already enough reason to see any show he's in, so it's a hair-hopping pleasure to report that his current vehicle, Hairspray, adapted from John Waters' break-out commercial film, boasts a half-dozen other reasons for its instant hit-dom. Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman's punchline-filled lyrics hit the mark often enough to keep our ears on ever-perk, matched as they are to Shaiman's intentionally-derivative but buoyant tunes ("Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now" being the catchiest).
Cute and cartoon-y, a campy, cardboard comedy with heart, this bouncy, bubble-gum bauble is already a favorite among those whose entertainment requirements are non-cerebral. Marissa Jaret Winokur as Tracy is every tubby teen's heroine as she blithely blitzes through weight-related insults and stereotypical barriers to achieve her dreams in remarkably short succession: to dance on the local TV's "The Corny Collins Show" (Clarke Thorell) and steal the beauty queen's (pouty Laura Bell Bundy) hunky beau (Mathew Morrison).
Your scribe was not permitted to see this amazing show for weeks and months. It had opened while I was still in Europe, before what used to be the Opening of the Broadway Season. By the time I returned, it was already so smothered with raves n' honors that - or so I was repeatedly told - the producers didn't need a website rave. Fortunately, I am (as non-recording Secretary of the Outer Critics Circle) an Awards Nominator and a Voter. Not to overlook also being a Voter for the Drama Desk Awards. So, shortly before the nominations, I suddenly got aisle-seats for this fabulous musical.
Everybody's favorite female monster is back on Broadway in a new translation by Jon Robin Baitz (Three Hotels), and none other than Richard Burton's capable daughter Kate playing the lead role. One of the unlikeliest of Broadway offerings, this Hedda Gabler is much like the bold, reptilian woman who bears the name: crafty and admirable but chilly and distant, making this well-mounted affair ultimately an exercise in futility.
I've never understood why Hedda Gabler is considered one of the most interesting and complicated heroines in dramatic literature. She always comes off as a capricious, cruel viper without being decent enough to evoke sympathy or vivid enough to cast an Iago-like fascination. Nicholas Martin's current Broadway revival of Ibsen's drama, while solid and lively, does little to make the play a grabber for our times.
The current production of Hedda Gabler, in a lively adaptation by Jon Robin Baitz, is a peculiar mixture: the play, as usual, starts off with so much exposition that it tends to bore. Then a gushing, very fey, Michael Emerson bursts in as Tesman, a mode he retains throughout the play, tilting all in a novel direction.
Plays in translation are bastard stepchildren of the originals, especially when the version presented is written by someone who cannot, and thus never has, read the original. I don't read Norwegian any more than Jon Robin Baitz does, but I have spent enough time in Norway, with Norwegian friends, and with direct translations of Ibsen plays, to know that Hedda is a peculiarly Norwegian type. (Buy me a drink and I'll tell you about the time, many years ago, when two local amazons abducted me off a railway bridge in Oslo, until they, both in their 20s, learned I was underage.
Jack O'Brien, whose fluid, almost dreamlike direction of Stoppard's The Invention of Love nearly shook that drama out of its ivory-tower lethargy brings the same sense of style to Shakespeare - and here he even gets to have battle scenes, hold-ups, tavern carousing and a coronation. For all the legitimate excitement of the production, it should be noted that not much really happens in the first two hours(!), and that fine as the work by adapter Dakin Matthews is (he cobbled the two Henry plays into one), the piece does feel every bit of its 230 minutes.
The musical, High Fidelity, based on Nick Hornby's novel, has closed. I liked it. Even though the problems and concerns of the record store owner, played by a charismatic, charming leading man, Will Chase, are naive and simplistic, the show, a mixture of 70's and contemporary sensibility, was a lot of fun. Amanda Green has the gift, and I found her lyrics to be clever and full of humor.
Centering on the belated maturation of vinyl record shop owner Rob (Will Chase), David Lindsay-Abaire's script for High Fidelity had the misfortune of sporting a recurring Top 5 theme. The Times critic took aim at this irritating tick and enshrined the show among a makeshift list of Top 5 "All-Time Most Forgettable Musicals."
What a pleasure to be in the presence of the product of a sparklingly brilliant mind. Alan Bennett's The History Boys is full of wit and wisdom in his construct of an English boy's school presented as an intellectual swordfight with musical interludes and film clips. It is so smart, it is thrilling.
There's an old saying: "Shoemaker, stick to your last." Remember when Michael Jordan tried to play baseball? Carol Burnett wrote a play (with her daughter), Hollywood Arms, now on Broadway. Sorry. She's a great performer. The acting, by Linda Lavin, Michele Pawk and Frank Wood, is fine, but you also know the one about a silk purse...
Creaky and unfocused, this semi-autobiographical play by Carol Burnett and her late daughter, Carrie Hamilton, has stretches of entertaining humor and believable familial squabbles, but its parade of short scenes and lack of dramatic thrust take their toll early. Not bad (Burnett should definitely write another), just incredibly familiar stuff. Think of it as a weak, third-generation Brighton Beach Memoirs, and then see something else instead.
Hot Feet, ultimately a rather good dance show conceived, directed and choreographed by Maurice Hines, throws us off by an over-zealous opening of dancers wigglin', jigglin', jumpin' and humpin' like really good cheerleaders with colorful Arabian Nights costumes (by Paul Tazewell). But a lot of it can be seen every weekend for free at Broadway and 50th Street. It takes a while for us to realize that they are doing a version of The Red Shoes and that there is a coherent show here.
Jack O'Brien's lively creation, Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas is a bundle of familiar family fun with a great singing-dancing cast of grownups and kids, including a couple of stars: John Cullum as the Old Dog who tells the story, and the gruff, lovable Patrick Page as The Grinch.
Directed by Matt August, the tuner has an "Alice in Wonderland" feeling with stylized moves and bouncy choreography by John DeLuca and whimsical cartoonish costumes by Robert Morgan played on John Lee Beatty's fanciful set.
A secretary may not be a toy, but if you're Des McAnuff, a Broadway show is. McAnuff and designer John Arnone go all-out to turn this revival of How To Succeed into something out of FAO Schwartz -- all movement, eye-popping colors, sound and silliness. That it works, mmm.. 90% of the time, is a credit first and foremost to Abe Burrows, Jack Weinstock & Willie Gilbert's miraculous book, one which, even played perfectly straight, could only offend the most humorless feminists.
This is a shrink play. Three black, faux-leather swivel chairs become the offices of two analysts: level-headed Kathryn Brooks (Linda West) and earnest Mark Ryan (Thomas F. Honeck). Mark accepts an emergency call from volatile Annalisa Dominico, who is having boyfriend trouble. She pours out her problems to Mark, who in turn airs them with his own shrink, Kathryn. Annalisa has rapid-fire oscillations in her relationship with Anthony Fatima (Frank Caruso), to whom she is as addicted as to her cell phone.
In 1964, I was the MC of The Hootenanny at The Bitter End Cafe in Greenwich Village every Tuesday night. One night a young woman came in dragging a blind Puerto Rican kid with a guitar. She said to put him on the stage, that he was really good. I said, "Sure," and put him on at two in the morning. When he sang his first song, I told the woman, "Bring him in any time -- I'll put him on any time you say." It was Jose Feliciano. About ten years later, at a club in Huntington Beach, California, I was his opening act doing my mime/comedy act, and he used to heckle me.
Robert Mansell has fulfilled many an actor's dream: gathering up scenes and roles he'd like to play and doing so in a well-directed, designed, entertaining program. Though without a thematic frame, the first half of this one-man show mainly presents men involved in monstrosities.
Further Than the Furthest Thing is the absolute worst kind of bad play -- the kind where you cannot imagine anyone deriving any sort of pleasure from it. An unbearably downcast, coma-inducing story by Scottish playwright Zinnie Harris, it is the latest Manhattan Theater Club production that begs the question of why anyone there ever thought it would work. It is also the latest import from the West End that transfers so poorly in America, you wonder what's in the water over there.
Dog-tagged, in fatigues, dragging her huge canvas sling-bag, Tammy, veteran of Desert Storm and now Iraq, suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Giselle, an old school mate (heard but not seen), is filming a documentary. Tammy's agreed to be interviewed, desperately hoping it'll help win back her daughter from her soon-to-be ex-husband. He found another woman -- just one of the terrible things that happened to Tammy when at war in Iraq.
Southern Methodist University mounted a student production of Vern G. Williamsen's ill-conceived translation of La Discreta Enamorada by 16th century Spanish playwright Lope de Vega, in the Greer Garson Theater. The setting was updated to 1950s Madrid. This is a review of portions of Act I -- the parts I saw when not hiding in the lobby to escape the excessive stench of on-stage smoking, at times by two characters at once who paced back and forth downstage.
Summerfun is a true summer stock theater, changing shows every week, and as a result, the product varies greatly. Labor Day is one of its best successes, featuring a good cast in a well-directed, one-set play. Obviously autobiographical in part, the Gurney piece tells the story of John, a playwright, who for forty years has achieved moderate success although never a Broadway production.
John William See's The Lady Cries Murder, Lamplighter's current offering, was premiered by the San Diego Rep almost 22 years ago, and it has aged well. Placed in 1938, the story is a classic detective tale of the period, cram-packed with twists. See has a special talent for the unique language of the film-noir style. The script is also rich in interesting, almost contemporary, phrases that add extra bite to the dialogue.
This is a sumptuous and beautiful revival of a challenging 1941 play-with-music. The timing couldn't be better, since the script includes references to "these difficult times" and national emergency. Early in the show, the troubled magazine editor, Liza Elliott, says to her psychoanalyst: "I feel ashamed to sit here whining about myself, with the world at war." The show's structure is unusual, starting cold, without music, and the scenes in Liza's office and the psychiatrist's office are straight Moss Hart dialogue.
Coming directly from real London theater-going to go to this play set in London but performed in Sarasota seems a trip from the sublime to the ridiculous. Director Eberle Thomas claims to have approached Wilde's comedy of manners straightforwardly, "not overly concerned about what the style of the play should be." As a result, all that seems highlighted is what's melodramatic about the plot. Exaggeration, especially in manners and vocalization, substitutes for stylization.
Few musicals can match the pedigree of this 1924 classic. It has a number of "firsts," including being the first of 14 musicals written by the legendary team of George and Ira Gershwin. It also established a pair of dancers, Fred and Adele Astaire, as Broadway's leading dance team. Then there are the songs, which have become standards through the years: "Lady, Be Good," "Fascinating Rhythm," "I'd Rather Charleston" and "Nice Work if You Can Get It," among many, many others.
An elegant John Lee design (recalling the genius of Ming Cho Lee), expertly lit by Rick Martin, sets the scene for the Asian American Theater Center's lyrical A Language Of Their Own. The quartet of this Kushner/Pinter-influenced play search for ways to express them selves by going to the ends of words, hiding within words or silence. Chay Yew's touching, talky drama about love, loss and linguistics finds its structure in solos and duets. Oftentimes circuitous and repetitious, Language reflects the Yin and Yang of life.
The outstanding docu-drama The Laramie Project is getting a first rate in your face production by the New Jersey Repertory Theater. The play -- a series of dramatic interviews that arose from the horrifying events surrounding the fatal 1998 beating of Matthew Shepard, a gay college student in Laramie, Wyoming, is recreated by eight excellent actors, each of whom brings a realistic resonance and stirring emotional truth to the compelling text.
The Zachary Scott Theater in Austin, Texas is the hub of where it's happening this spring as they mount two thought-provoking and highly-entertaining productions, Hedwig and the Angry Inch and, on the mainstage, The Laramie Project, helmed by producing artistic director Dave Steakley.
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