This play by Jez Butterworth comes with a lot of great buzz and for the most part it is quite deserved. It's a richly funny play about the current state of England, as opposed to the mythical England from Masterpiece Theater that is no more.
However, to paraphrase William Carlos Williams, so much depends upon... the seats you get. We were in the middle of the mezzanine of the rather cavernous theater and we had trouble hearing the cast. Either they are not miked, or the mikes are too low, but there were big swaths of very funny dialogue that we missed.
The play is about a rowdy character, Johnny "Rooster" Byron, who lives in an Airstream trailer in the woods and is a sort of king of the forest, and a petty drug dealer who befriends a gang of aimless youngsters who like to spend time with him, or rather, with his drugs. Because he is a one man plague, he is about to be evicted from his sylvan home by the authorities on St. George's day (the patron saint of England).
Byron is a magnificent character: a highly imaginative liar (he claims, in my favorite bit, to have had a conversation with a 90 foot giant who built Stonehenge), an anarchic presence, a thorn on the side of good customs, a manipulator and opportunist, but a good man.
Alas, I do not share the general enthusiasm for Mark Rylance. He works very hard to be funny, which makes him a ham. His commitment and physicality are admirable, but the three times I've seen him on Broadway (Boing Boing, in which I hated him, and La Bete, where he was better, but way over the top) I have found him more unfunny than not and loaded with shtick. I would love to see this play with someone else playing Byron. Someone like Stephen Mangan, who was incredible as Norman in The Norman Conquests, or someone naturally feisty, like Billy Connolly (he'd be brilliant).
The production is very striking. The first scene is an amazing coup de theatre in which we witness the crazy revels of a drug party at Byron's and then immediately, with a clever change of lights, the morning after. The play's language is rich and abundant, teeming with jokes and dramatic allusions, and even if you know little of Shakespeare and other British tropes you get a general sense of a fierce and lively debunking of the national character. However, at over three hours, the play becomes rather unwieldy and uneven. I really liked Act 2, when a more personal side of Byron emerges, but Act 3 spirals into sordid violence and the ending seems too remote from the tone of the rest of the play.
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Jumat, 08 April 2011
The House of Blue Leaves
This excellent revival of the John Guare play has a very strong cast, headed by Ben Stiller as Artie Shaughnessy, the extraordinary Edie Falco, as his wife Bananas, and Jennifer Jason Leigh doing a very funny turn as his lover, Bunny. The play is extremely funny and vicious, an American classic along the lines of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and the production, well directed by David Cromer, sustains the right balance of wackiness and discomfort, really going for the jugular. The women are all excellent, including Alison Pill, unrecognizable as a Marilyn Monroe wannabe, and Halley Feiffer as a disgruntled nun.
My only beef is with Ben Stiller, who seems a little stiff in the role. Stiller doesn't mind getting all dark. His Artie seems to emit negative energy. But this is untempered by any other traits. Stiller plays the piano and sings and acts, but there is no nuance to the character. He has a wonderful scene on the phone with his successful best friend in Hollywood, in which he goes all out in desperation, self-humiliation and embarrassment (which have always been his forte as a comedian), but I wish there were more layers to his performance. His diminished tenderness for Bananas is in the text, but the lines ring hollow; the feeling doesn't seem to be there. I think he lacks a certain working class charm, a soft spot, a silver lining.
However, his girls, as Artie calls them, are something else. Jason Leigh, an actress that is not known for her light comedic touch, or for a light touch at all, is terrific as Bunny, a vain, cruel, ignorant, contagiously bubbly Lady Macbeth of sorts. She sports a nasal Queens accent and a ridiculous jet black wig and gives a genuinely funny, spirited performance that somehow finds the likability in Bunny. Edie Falco's sweet, loony, sad Bananas is a fantastic counterpoint to Bunny's ruthless energy. Falco is funny and heartbreaking. In hammier hands, Bananas could be painful to watch. But Falco finds the perfect balance between craziness and knowingness, and does not hit a false note. The play is a hoot, and it has aged well. As our national obsession with fame has reached proportions of absurdity that John Guare may not have possibly imagined back in the sixties, when he wrote it, this savage play about the American desperation to succeed and be famous at all costs is even more resonant today.
Senin, 04 April 2011
Arcadia
On the other hand, Arcadia, by Tom Stoppard, was thrilling and delightful. A real play, by a real playwright. A challenging, witty, ambitious and very engaging work, even if I cannot claim I grasp it in its entirety (I need to get my hands on the text). Ben Brantley's complaints about lack of intelligibility seem to have been addressed. David Leveaux's direction is beautifully paced and very smart. The cast is quite impressive, gliding through extremely challenging (and some gorgeous) speeches quite effortlessly. They all seem like they know what they are talking about in terms of Latin, mathematics and other arcana, which is already an accomplishment. The American actors acquit themselves decently with their British accents and everybody is quite good. In particular I liked Tom Riley, Raul Esparza and Margaret Colin. I was partial to the characters in the story set in the past, since the ones set in modern times, except for Esparza, were hamming it a bit too much. Billy Crudup and Lia Williams are seasoned actors but I wonder why they feel they have to mug so much. The one thing I missed, was the sense of love and passion beneath all that intellect. They all talk about it, but it is not much in evidence. Is this because they are British, or because they are so busy with the intellectual fireworks that they forget the fire in the loins? I don't know. Still, the entire experience is bracing, a fabulous mental workout and in the end, deeply moving, and very beautiful.
Jumat, 01 April 2011
The Curse of Bad Broadway Shows
Few things are more embarrassing and mortifying than to take highly intelligent, sophisticated and lovable friends to a Broadway play only to be insulted by its mediocrity and lack of a coherent reason for existing. With our long-suffering friend Jacqueline, who comes all the way from the Middle East and hence does not need further aggravation, this is the second time we fail her. (First time was that abomination Stepping Out, the Billy Joel musical).
Yesterday we attended the opening night of Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, starring Robin Williams. A crapshoot at 50% off in the TKTS booth. We paid 65 dollars for the privilege of watching a play that seems to have been written by an utterly untalented and unintelligent 15 year old. Had we seen it in a high school gym in a suburban town with the school's drama club, perhaps we'd had humored it with grudging tolerance. But still would have counseled the aspiring playwright to learn the craft and avoid repeating every half sentence seven times. And the director to instruct his actors not to bark at the audience the entire time.
This is one of the most appalling shows I've ever seen on Broadway (followed closely by A Free Man of Color). They both suffer from the same problem. They are not plays. They are tableaux. Representations. Harangues. Plays about "ideas". This one confuses drama with non stop screaming and dialogue that goes more or less like this:
Stupid American soldier:
What are they saying!!! Tell me what they are saying!!! What the fuck are they saying??
Iraqi translator:
What do you want? Tell me what you want!!! What the fuck do you want???
This goes on for two hours.
I bet Rajiv Joseph, the playwright, thinks he is channeling Beckett and Pinter and Mamet. He needs to have the wax removed from his ears. It's reaching all the way up to his brain.
I counseled my beleaguered friends to leave at intermission but we wrongly decided to give the play a chance. Needless to say, it got worse. We left before having to endure the further injury of wildly undeserved final curtain applause.
Since this was opening night, the audience was comprised of overdressed people (I've never seen so much plastic surgery outside of LA) that clapped every time a scene mercifully ended. I suspect they were the proud relatives of the cast and sundry investors. Robin Williams, who was the only sane person on stage, almost could not open his mouth without bursts of applause. I hate it when the audience thinks they are at a taping of The Price Is Right. Williams was the only source of respite in a horribly directed production. Like the poor tiger he plays, he is trapped in a really bad play. I was fascinated by his precision with a punch line. He has a couple of mildly funny lines, but because he is a seasoned comedian, he lands the punch lines with force and grace, making them sound funnier than they are. Alas, the play is so bad that by Act 2, it all starts sounding like shtick.
The rest of the actors are instructed to bray and scream like banshees at all times. The guys who play the American soldiers, especially the white one, are atrocious.
Everything about this play is atrocious. I want my money, my time, and most importantly, my dignity back.
Yesterday we attended the opening night of Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, starring Robin Williams. A crapshoot at 50% off in the TKTS booth. We paid 65 dollars for the privilege of watching a play that seems to have been written by an utterly untalented and unintelligent 15 year old. Had we seen it in a high school gym in a suburban town with the school's drama club, perhaps we'd had humored it with grudging tolerance. But still would have counseled the aspiring playwright to learn the craft and avoid repeating every half sentence seven times. And the director to instruct his actors not to bark at the audience the entire time.
This is one of the most appalling shows I've ever seen on Broadway (followed closely by A Free Man of Color). They both suffer from the same problem. They are not plays. They are tableaux. Representations. Harangues. Plays about "ideas". This one confuses drama with non stop screaming and dialogue that goes more or less like this:
Stupid American soldier:
What are they saying!!! Tell me what they are saying!!! What the fuck are they saying??
Iraqi translator:
What do you want? Tell me what you want!!! What the fuck do you want???
This goes on for two hours.
I bet Rajiv Joseph, the playwright, thinks he is channeling Beckett and Pinter and Mamet. He needs to have the wax removed from his ears. It's reaching all the way up to his brain.
I counseled my beleaguered friends to leave at intermission but we wrongly decided to give the play a chance. Needless to say, it got worse. We left before having to endure the further injury of wildly undeserved final curtain applause.
Since this was opening night, the audience was comprised of overdressed people (I've never seen so much plastic surgery outside of LA) that clapped every time a scene mercifully ended. I suspect they were the proud relatives of the cast and sundry investors. Robin Williams, who was the only sane person on stage, almost could not open his mouth without bursts of applause. I hate it when the audience thinks they are at a taping of The Price Is Right. Williams was the only source of respite in a horribly directed production. Like the poor tiger he plays, he is trapped in a really bad play. I was fascinated by his precision with a punch line. He has a couple of mildly funny lines, but because he is a seasoned comedian, he lands the punch lines with force and grace, making them sound funnier than they are. Alas, the play is so bad that by Act 2, it all starts sounding like shtick.
The rest of the actors are instructed to bray and scream like banshees at all times. The guys who play the American soldiers, especially the white one, are atrocious.
Everything about this play is atrocious. I want my money, my time, and most importantly, my dignity back.
Sabtu, 30 Oktober 2010
A Free Man of Color
Have you ever really wanted to like a play even though you could tell it sucks from the first two minutes? Have you ever pondered why sometimes the conjunction of a bunch of very talented people spells disaster? If you haven't and you'd like to know how it feels like, by all means check out this terrible play by John Guare, directed even more awfully by George C. Wolfe. It reminded me of the school plays we used to stage about the life of Benito Juarez when I was in second grade. A bunch of people standing on a stage declaiming at the audience for an interminable almost three hours. A didactic, expository, undramatic account of what could have been an interesting character living in interesting times. The play is almost like a pantomime, and with less frantic direction perhaps it could have been salvaged into a wanly witty but funnier, more moving play. But Wolfe has instructed all his actors to scream and ham it up and desperately reach to be funny. If you try too hard to be funny, you are anything but. They are so terrible, my throat was aching from all their screaming. It is painful to watch Jeffrey Wright make a caricature of a character who could have been charming and poignant. The only person who behaves with any dignity is Mos, formerly known as Mos Def. He is the only one who refuses to overact. The garish sets are by Interior decorator David Rockwell, the magnificent costumes (I predict Tony) are by Anne Hough and the lavish production seems to knowingly overcompensate for a static play that were it not for its trite sexual humor, would be great to stage at elementary schools all over the country. The idea is worthy: at the beginning of the 19th century in New Orleans, there was less segregation than later on. Discuss.
Since this play is about race, I will say that I never understood if the generalized stereotyping and caricature (black men have huge dicks and are great lovers, people who speak Spanish lisp and talk ridiculously, the French are fops) are meant to be ironic. If that was the intention, it was lost on me. I will go further. If I were black, this play would piss me off. Why do we need a history lesson? Why can't we have a black character, fully fleshed out, through which we can experience his experience as a free man of color? The same happened to me with Fela! Why the school pageant? Why so much exposition? Don't these extraordinary characters deserve a real drama?
I'm afraid A Free Man Of Color is the result of noble but artistically useless intentions. We should see more plays about race. Unfortunately, this one feels like we are witnessing the playwright's research. He did his historical homework, and he turned it into vaudeville.
George C. Wolfe spills a barrel of tricks on the stage to try to disguise the fact that the play is like reading about the Louisiana Purchase in wikipedia, but a lot less fun. However, there is not one coup de theatre, not one heart stopping moment in the entire evening, despite the steady parade of prancing and scenery changes. I remember seeing his original Angels in America in the early nineties. Then it seemed like a visually bracing production (of a much better play). Here we are almost 20 years later, and he's kind of doing the same old shtick.
I saw La Bete this week too, and it's not a great play but the set makes you gasp and there is a beautiful moment when the princess makes her entrance that is a simple effect of light and gold dust, but it works wonders. La Bete at least is very funny, although rambling, and the actors, Mark Rylance, David Hyde Pierce and Joanna Lumley (the magnificent Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous) know how to use their instruments. They perform in iambic pentameter with nimble and delightful musicality. Sitting through A Free Man of Color is like listening to someone scratching a blackboard with their fingernails: an aggressive assault on the ears.
This drives me crazy about many American actors. Whatever happened to voice training? Why do they sound like a screeching brake?
If this play doesn't bomb, I'll be very surprised. The applause was tired and polite. The couple next to us sensibly absconded during intermission. I considered it but wanted to see if it improved. It actually gets worse.
I'm almost looking forward to reading the reviews and see if the critics will have the balls, despite the subject matter and the sacred cows, to call out the groaner that it is.
Since this play is about race, I will say that I never understood if the generalized stereotyping and caricature (black men have huge dicks and are great lovers, people who speak Spanish lisp and talk ridiculously, the French are fops) are meant to be ironic. If that was the intention, it was lost on me. I will go further. If I were black, this play would piss me off. Why do we need a history lesson? Why can't we have a black character, fully fleshed out, through which we can experience his experience as a free man of color? The same happened to me with Fela! Why the school pageant? Why so much exposition? Don't these extraordinary characters deserve a real drama?
I'm afraid A Free Man Of Color is the result of noble but artistically useless intentions. We should see more plays about race. Unfortunately, this one feels like we are witnessing the playwright's research. He did his historical homework, and he turned it into vaudeville.
George C. Wolfe spills a barrel of tricks on the stage to try to disguise the fact that the play is like reading about the Louisiana Purchase in wikipedia, but a lot less fun. However, there is not one coup de theatre, not one heart stopping moment in the entire evening, despite the steady parade of prancing and scenery changes. I remember seeing his original Angels in America in the early nineties. Then it seemed like a visually bracing production (of a much better play). Here we are almost 20 years later, and he's kind of doing the same old shtick.
I saw La Bete this week too, and it's not a great play but the set makes you gasp and there is a beautiful moment when the princess makes her entrance that is a simple effect of light and gold dust, but it works wonders. La Bete at least is very funny, although rambling, and the actors, Mark Rylance, David Hyde Pierce and Joanna Lumley (the magnificent Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous) know how to use their instruments. They perform in iambic pentameter with nimble and delightful musicality. Sitting through A Free Man of Color is like listening to someone scratching a blackboard with their fingernails: an aggressive assault on the ears.
This drives me crazy about many American actors. Whatever happened to voice training? Why do they sound like a screeching brake?
If this play doesn't bomb, I'll be very surprised. The applause was tired and polite. The couple next to us sensibly absconded during intermission. I considered it but wanted to see if it improved. It actually gets worse.
I'm almost looking forward to reading the reviews and see if the critics will have the balls, despite the subject matter and the sacred cows, to call out the groaner that it is.
Jumat, 26 Februari 2010
A Behanding in Spokane
No snow, sleet or icy rain was going to prevent me from seeing the venerable Christopher Walken in a new play by Martin McDonagh (on whom I confess I have a huge crush). It was much fun.
A Behanding in Spokane is the first of McDonagh's plays that takes place in the United States. A seedy motel room represents the sorry state of affairs of our fair Republic. Walken plays Mr. Carmichael, a man who was robbed of his hand when he was a child, and has spent the last 47 years looking for it.
The play is a bracing combo of Beckettian absurdity, lots of Mametesque profanity and McDonagh's intriguing mix of humor and violence, very similar to his excellent The Lieutenant of Inishmore. He goes to town making fun of some of our most cherished indigenous passions, like racism, political correctness, revenge fantasies and our unquenchable thirst for violence. With four characters in a hotel room he creates a pretty accurate snapshot of our quintessentially American surrealism.
America didn't use to be a surrealist country, but now it is actually going towards the certifiably insane. Unfortunately, our brand of surrealism is not of the poetic variety (like Mexico's); it's more of the frighteningly ridiculous (Sarah Palin, the healthcare fiasco, teabaggers, reality shows, the TSA, banks, you name it). Outsiders like McDonagh can see this insanity perhaps a little more clearly than us who are mired in it. And he lets it rip, but in a subtle way, never lecturing or being topical or political. I think he is saying it is the violence and our almost innocent attachment to selfishness that are making us crazy.
McDonagh uses the n-word, the c-word, the f-word and all its permutations with hilarious abandon. I think these words somehow have ceased to be shocking and he knows it. But there are very clever shocks in two amazing monologues. One is by Mervyn, (Sam Rockwell, terrific) free associating on his burning desire to be a hero, in a totally wrong way. He is completely inured to violence, but he has a sensitive ego.
The other one is a phone conversation between Carmichael and his mother which is all at once appalling, tender, absurd, hilarious, full of venom, rage and love.
The way Walken speaks, it's like listening to Jazz. He riffs, he scats, he swings and I adore the way he sounds, with his creamy Noo Yawk accent. His unique rhythms are totally artificial and at the same time, naturally colloquial. It may be shtick, but it works beautifully. And he has gotten even better at putting delicious emphases in surprising places with impeccable timing. We were at the back of the orchestra and we understood every word he said, but sometimes he spoke a little too softly (on purpose, I'm sure).
Sam Rockwell is excellent as Mervyn, the nosy, weirdo receptionist. He seems very much at home on the stage, just like he is on film, but here he seems more disciplined, less quirky. Anthony Mackie is also very funny as Toby, a young pot dealer who is rather sensitive and prone to fits of tears. The one disappointment is Zoe Kazan, as Marilyn, Toby's girlfriend and dealer sidekick with a penchant for political correctness. Her voice is tinny and grating and this distracts from her performance. I didn't get a clear sense of character from her. I have been far more impressed with her in film than when I've seen her onstage.
Still, a lot of fun it was. I'm very happy I saw it.
A Behanding in Spokane is the first of McDonagh's plays that takes place in the United States. A seedy motel room represents the sorry state of affairs of our fair Republic. Walken plays Mr. Carmichael, a man who was robbed of his hand when he was a child, and has spent the last 47 years looking for it.
The play is a bracing combo of Beckettian absurdity, lots of Mametesque profanity and McDonagh's intriguing mix of humor and violence, very similar to his excellent The Lieutenant of Inishmore. He goes to town making fun of some of our most cherished indigenous passions, like racism, political correctness, revenge fantasies and our unquenchable thirst for violence. With four characters in a hotel room he creates a pretty accurate snapshot of our quintessentially American surrealism.
America didn't use to be a surrealist country, but now it is actually going towards the certifiably insane. Unfortunately, our brand of surrealism is not of the poetic variety (like Mexico's); it's more of the frighteningly ridiculous (Sarah Palin, the healthcare fiasco, teabaggers, reality shows, the TSA, banks, you name it). Outsiders like McDonagh can see this insanity perhaps a little more clearly than us who are mired in it. And he lets it rip, but in a subtle way, never lecturing or being topical or political. I think he is saying it is the violence and our almost innocent attachment to selfishness that are making us crazy.
McDonagh uses the n-word, the c-word, the f-word and all its permutations with hilarious abandon. I think these words somehow have ceased to be shocking and he knows it. But there are very clever shocks in two amazing monologues. One is by Mervyn, (Sam Rockwell, terrific) free associating on his burning desire to be a hero, in a totally wrong way. He is completely inured to violence, but he has a sensitive ego.
The other one is a phone conversation between Carmichael and his mother which is all at once appalling, tender, absurd, hilarious, full of venom, rage and love.
The way Walken speaks, it's like listening to Jazz. He riffs, he scats, he swings and I adore the way he sounds, with his creamy Noo Yawk accent. His unique rhythms are totally artificial and at the same time, naturally colloquial. It may be shtick, but it works beautifully. And he has gotten even better at putting delicious emphases in surprising places with impeccable timing. We were at the back of the orchestra and we understood every word he said, but sometimes he spoke a little too softly (on purpose, I'm sure).
Sam Rockwell is excellent as Mervyn, the nosy, weirdo receptionist. He seems very much at home on the stage, just like he is on film, but here he seems more disciplined, less quirky. Anthony Mackie is also very funny as Toby, a young pot dealer who is rather sensitive and prone to fits of tears. The one disappointment is Zoe Kazan, as Marilyn, Toby's girlfriend and dealer sidekick with a penchant for political correctness. Her voice is tinny and grating and this distracts from her performance. I didn't get a clear sense of character from her. I have been far more impressed with her in film than when I've seen her onstage.
Still, a lot of fun it was. I'm very happy I saw it.
Jumat, 04 Desember 2009
Fela! and Race
I must confess, we did not stay for the second half of Fela!
Even despite the incredible dancing and the fantastic music, spiritedly played by Antibalas, there is something very unconvincing about the whole thing.
We saw Kevin Mambo in the title role, and not the other guy, who is supposed to be amazing. Mambo is a very good impersonator, a good actor, a fine singer, but he seems to lack energy. But I can't blame my lack of enthusiasm for Fela! exclusively on him.
I thoroughly hate when I am asked to yell back at the stage and participate. These things work only if the audience is already in a frenzy. It is the job of the people onstage to whip up the audience, otherwise the participation is forced and bogus.
I felt utterly uncomfortable (and I do not normally suffer from musical timidity). Making people shake their booties 5 minutes into the play without the requisite amount of excitement somehow reminded me of lame Disneyland entertainers, desperately fishing for sympathy.
Fela's music begs for dancing. Sitting augustly in a Broadway theater is not the right concept for it. As the review in New York Magazine mentioned, there should be a mosh pit in the front, where people can dance. This would be more honest than trying to teach white people to shake their asses and it would better honor the power of the music.
According to Joan Accocella's review in The New Yorker, Fela's story has been glossed over for the play. Well, I didn't know anything about his life coming in and I could tell that there was something overly sanitized and hokey about the proceedings. Fela! feels as authentic as a Hard Rock Café. It's the "Rent" syndrome: the lives of bohemian, revolutionary people who struggle at the edges of society do not translate well into expensive, crowd pleasing musicals for the bourgeoisie.
The writers of Fela! confuse feeble jokes at the expense of white people and little snippets of commie propaganda with provocation or rawness. They are not.
These things remind me of Disney and how they scrub clean all the rawness, the real humanity out of the original stories they adapt until they are unrecognizable.
The play is underwritten. It's a man on a stage reciting his life's story. There is no action, there is just telling, like in some sort of school pageant. I am sure that in the life of Fela Kuti there is enough material for an opera, let alone a Broadway play, but that's not what we get here. I know that people with unimpeachably authentic reputations are at the helm of this play. Bill T. Jones, Jay Z, among others, but they try too hard to please the audience. I don't go to the theater to be pleased. Or rather, I don't go to a show about the life of a genius, royal pain in the ass like Fela Kuti, to be pleased.
Which takes me to the venerable Mr. Mamet, who intends to provoke, as usual, with his new polemical play, simply called Race.
The first provocation, and this is very meta, is that according to Mamet plus ça change, President Obama or not. The issue of race is as thorny, if not worse, than ever. True.
The second provocation: here's a wealthy man, the milquetoasty Richard Thomas (John Boy from The Waltons, the casting has to be on purpose), who is accused of raping a black woman. Why, not too long ago, black men were lynched just for looking at a white girl, so this is a very interesting starting point.
Mamet just comes out and says it: we are baroquely entangled, paralyzed by centuries of prejudice, on both sides. What comes of this is people afraid to speak their minds, people getting tangled in obscure discourses of good intentions and political correctness (and ever blossoming resentments) into utter incomprehension.
James Spader, playing the head lawyer of a firm supposed to defend Mr. John Boy Walton, seems like a paragon of racial virtue when it comes to blacks, but listen to him talk about someone called Rosa González. Race is like the nine circles of hell, concentric and inescapable.
Spader is extraordinary. He is funny, has impeccable timing and is totally natural. He rocks. The rest of the cast is excellent too, particularly David Alan Grier as Spader's partner.
However, the play seems a little sloppy. I don't expect Mamet, who is one of my favorite playwrights, to repeat the same joke in one play (it's a good joke the first time around only). This disappoints me. I also don't expect him to not dot all of his i's and cross all of his t's. Some of that happens in this play, which feels a little lazy.
We are in for a rollercoaster of ideas and paradoxes on race. Characters are not really developed. They are mouthpieces for provocative fodder. The audience is led to believe it will discover something and that something is forgotten and something else is brought up. Worse, Mamet does the David Alan Grier character a terrible disservice. After all that happens, what does this man think? He doesn't say. This is a major flaw of the play.
However, Race is brisk and fun and shocking without resorting to cheap jokes, and Mamet's direction is better than usual. Another director may have made more of character and that would have added some interesting human nuance, rather than excellent talking points. Mamet's rhythms and idioms, to which we are now used to, could also benefit from more naturalistic direction. Still, Race is a fun, brisk play with plenty of good zingers. It's short and zippy and bracing. It made me ponder. It made me gasp. It didn't please me.
Even despite the incredible dancing and the fantastic music, spiritedly played by Antibalas, there is something very unconvincing about the whole thing.
We saw Kevin Mambo in the title role, and not the other guy, who is supposed to be amazing. Mambo is a very good impersonator, a good actor, a fine singer, but he seems to lack energy. But I can't blame my lack of enthusiasm for Fela! exclusively on him.
I thoroughly hate when I am asked to yell back at the stage and participate. These things work only if the audience is already in a frenzy. It is the job of the people onstage to whip up the audience, otherwise the participation is forced and bogus.
I felt utterly uncomfortable (and I do not normally suffer from musical timidity). Making people shake their booties 5 minutes into the play without the requisite amount of excitement somehow reminded me of lame Disneyland entertainers, desperately fishing for sympathy.
Fela's music begs for dancing. Sitting augustly in a Broadway theater is not the right concept for it. As the review in New York Magazine mentioned, there should be a mosh pit in the front, where people can dance. This would be more honest than trying to teach white people to shake their asses and it would better honor the power of the music.
According to Joan Accocella's review in The New Yorker, Fela's story has been glossed over for the play. Well, I didn't know anything about his life coming in and I could tell that there was something overly sanitized and hokey about the proceedings. Fela! feels as authentic as a Hard Rock Café. It's the "Rent" syndrome: the lives of bohemian, revolutionary people who struggle at the edges of society do not translate well into expensive, crowd pleasing musicals for the bourgeoisie.
The writers of Fela! confuse feeble jokes at the expense of white people and little snippets of commie propaganda with provocation or rawness. They are not.
These things remind me of Disney and how they scrub clean all the rawness, the real humanity out of the original stories they adapt until they are unrecognizable.
The play is underwritten. It's a man on a stage reciting his life's story. There is no action, there is just telling, like in some sort of school pageant. I am sure that in the life of Fela Kuti there is enough material for an opera, let alone a Broadway play, but that's not what we get here. I know that people with unimpeachably authentic reputations are at the helm of this play. Bill T. Jones, Jay Z, among others, but they try too hard to please the audience. I don't go to the theater to be pleased. Or rather, I don't go to a show about the life of a genius, royal pain in the ass like Fela Kuti, to be pleased.
Which takes me to the venerable Mr. Mamet, who intends to provoke, as usual, with his new polemical play, simply called Race.
The first provocation, and this is very meta, is that according to Mamet plus ça change, President Obama or not. The issue of race is as thorny, if not worse, than ever. True.
The second provocation: here's a wealthy man, the milquetoasty Richard Thomas (John Boy from The Waltons, the casting has to be on purpose), who is accused of raping a black woman. Why, not too long ago, black men were lynched just for looking at a white girl, so this is a very interesting starting point.
Mamet just comes out and says it: we are baroquely entangled, paralyzed by centuries of prejudice, on both sides. What comes of this is people afraid to speak their minds, people getting tangled in obscure discourses of good intentions and political correctness (and ever blossoming resentments) into utter incomprehension.
James Spader, playing the head lawyer of a firm supposed to defend Mr. John Boy Walton, seems like a paragon of racial virtue when it comes to blacks, but listen to him talk about someone called Rosa González. Race is like the nine circles of hell, concentric and inescapable.
Spader is extraordinary. He is funny, has impeccable timing and is totally natural. He rocks. The rest of the cast is excellent too, particularly David Alan Grier as Spader's partner.
However, the play seems a little sloppy. I don't expect Mamet, who is one of my favorite playwrights, to repeat the same joke in one play (it's a good joke the first time around only). This disappoints me. I also don't expect him to not dot all of his i's and cross all of his t's. Some of that happens in this play, which feels a little lazy.
We are in for a rollercoaster of ideas and paradoxes on race. Characters are not really developed. They are mouthpieces for provocative fodder. The audience is led to believe it will discover something and that something is forgotten and something else is brought up. Worse, Mamet does the David Alan Grier character a terrible disservice. After all that happens, what does this man think? He doesn't say. This is a major flaw of the play.
However, Race is brisk and fun and shocking without resorting to cheap jokes, and Mamet's direction is better than usual. Another director may have made more of character and that would have added some interesting human nuance, rather than excellent talking points. Mamet's rhythms and idioms, to which we are now used to, could also benefit from more naturalistic direction. Still, Race is a fun, brisk play with plenty of good zingers. It's short and zippy and bracing. It made me ponder. It made me gasp. It didn't please me.
Kamis, 08 Oktober 2009
Brush Up Your Shakespeare. Not!
I'm always game for the Bard, but when you start hearing the reviews, it gives one pause. I was excited about Othello with Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Iago, only to learn that he sucks in the role. (Joel? How was the production? Was it indeed four hours of banging your head against the wall?)
Then comes Jude Law's Hamlet. Ben Brantley eviscerated the handsome Law in his review. It is a very good bad review. As much as I love the play, I really could not stand 4 hours of:
Just to show off a little bit with you, dears, I will say that I saw Ralph Fiennes' Hamlet and I liked him. He clocked in at 3 hours (places to go, people to see) yet you could hear every word loud and clear, with that sharp, beautiful timbre of his. He was just a tad impatient and very angry with the rotten Denmark. I saw him too in proto-Hamlet Richard II and he floored me (the play floored me, I had never seen it before).He went from a pompous moron of a spoiled narcissist to a man with a horrifying identity crisis. You could see the dissolution of the self onstage. I thought he was spectacular (but I do have a weakness for him. I love that he refuses to play nice for the audience).
I also saw Liev Schreiber kill as Iago in an otherwise blah Public Theater production. He was outstanding. Perfect. (My favorite Iago remains Kenneth Branagh's film turn in Othello with Lawrence Fishburne, a very decent version of the play).
However, Schreiber's Hamlet... major MEH. Mr. Ex-Enchilada and I ran into him on the street while he was rehearsing and Mr. Ex-Enchilada told him we were looking forward to seeing him in the role, and he said something to the effects of "piece of cake". We were so stunned that if he was being ironic, neither of us got it. Well, onstage it was instant karma. It all sucked.
Saw Ian McKellen as King Lear and thought he growled too much (we were alas, in the very last row, nosebleed section).
Shakespeare will humble the greatest.
So much to my chagrin, I think we are going to stick to the Shakespeare of our mind for the time being.
Then comes Jude Law's Hamlet. Ben Brantley eviscerated the handsome Law in his review. It is a very good bad review. As much as I love the play, I really could not stand 4 hours of:
If Hamlet talks about his mind, you can bet that Mr. Law will point to his forehead; when he mentions the heavens, his arm shoots straight up; and when the guy says his gorge rises, rest assured that he clutches at his stomach. If every actor were like Mr. Law, signed performances for the hard of hearing would be unnecessary.Shakespeare and his fabulous Dane deserve better.
Just to show off a little bit with you, dears, I will say that I saw Ralph Fiennes' Hamlet and I liked him. He clocked in at 3 hours (places to go, people to see) yet you could hear every word loud and clear, with that sharp, beautiful timbre of his. He was just a tad impatient and very angry with the rotten Denmark. I saw him too in proto-Hamlet Richard II and he floored me (the play floored me, I had never seen it before).He went from a pompous moron of a spoiled narcissist to a man with a horrifying identity crisis. You could see the dissolution of the self onstage. I thought he was spectacular (but I do have a weakness for him. I love that he refuses to play nice for the audience).
I also saw Liev Schreiber kill as Iago in an otherwise blah Public Theater production. He was outstanding. Perfect. (My favorite Iago remains Kenneth Branagh's film turn in Othello with Lawrence Fishburne, a very decent version of the play).
However, Schreiber's Hamlet... major MEH. Mr. Ex-Enchilada and I ran into him on the street while he was rehearsing and Mr. Ex-Enchilada told him we were looking forward to seeing him in the role, and he said something to the effects of "piece of cake". We were so stunned that if he was being ironic, neither of us got it. Well, onstage it was instant karma. It all sucked.
Saw Ian McKellen as King Lear and thought he growled too much (we were alas, in the very last row, nosebleed section).
Shakespeare will humble the greatest.
So much to my chagrin, I think we are going to stick to the Shakespeare of our mind for the time being.
Selasa, 22 September 2009
After Miss Julie
So many things are wrong in this play by Patrick Marber, based on Miss Julie by August Strindberg, that I don't know where to begin.
But let's start with the play. Why is it necessary to revamp Miss Julie? It's a great sordid, brutal play, and it was scandalous in 1888, when it was written. The story is timeless. It's about the absurdity of class differences and the war between the sexes.
I wrote a (yet unpublished) novel set in Mexico City that is a version of Miss Julie. Any time that a rich woman has the hots for a poor man, it's either Miss Julie or Lady Chatterley's Lover or both. Sex is kinkier whenever there is a class divide. However, Marber decides to transport the story to England in the 1940's after WWII. This seems totally arbitrary. Why not leave it where it was? The psychological destruction between the characters transcends eras, even if the class differences have been blurred in our modern age. So the 40s don't seem any different than today. Why not do it today? You don't have to live in a manor and be an aristocrat to feel superior and abusive to those who serve you. Mind games are eternal. So the play seems superfluous. It has a couple of good zingers but it is vulgar and shallow (not unlike other Marber plays). Perhaps it is better than what it is afforded by the lackluster, absurd direction by Mark Brokaw.
The actors sound stilted and frozen, as if speaking British means pausing a full second after every word. Except for a wonderful moment of stagecraft where a mob is supposed to approach the kitchen, the production is utterly boring. The seismic shifts of mood between the actors make no sense. The fact that the driver and Miss Julie are humping feverishly as the mob approaches looks ridiculous. The whole thing is absurd and dead on arrival.
But the biggest problem is the casting. Neither Sienna Miller nor Jonny Lee Miller have the chops nor the talent to play these roles. Nothing they do makes any sense. Miss Miller is at the level of the class ham in a high school production. She couldn't play an aristocrat if it bit her in the rump. She is not of the school of British actresses that can do high style in their sleep. She's like Michael Caine, not like Michael Redgrave; that is, low class. As amply demonstrated by Mr. Caine, there is nothing wrong with that; she is just not right for this part. However, in her defense I will say that she is heard loud and clear, enunciates perfectly and has some good moments here and there, mostly when she is angry (the easiest thing to do when you are a neophyte actor). There is a semblance of character there, even if it's saddled with embarrassing amateurish tics, like what looks from afar like the constant chewing of fingernails. Mr. Miller is absolutely terrible and worse than her. He has no charisma and there is no rhyme or reason to his motivations. Half the time he mumbles. The rest, he huffs and puffs. He is stuck in a kitchen, what is he so exhausted about? It's not that there is zero chemistry between the two Millers, there is minus zero chemistry. Not a good thing when the play is about lust.
The only person with any theatrical dignity is Marin Ireland, a seasoned American stage actress, as Christine, the maid and fiancee of John, the driver. The moral of this story: Britannia doesn't always rule.
I find it really disturbing that the Roundabout Theater is cynical and craven enough to put these two young actors into such a thankless position in order to sell tickets. There are plenty of qualified actors who can play these roles and even bring box office success. These two are not them.
But let's start with the play. Why is it necessary to revamp Miss Julie? It's a great sordid, brutal play, and it was scandalous in 1888, when it was written. The story is timeless. It's about the absurdity of class differences and the war between the sexes.
I wrote a (yet unpublished) novel set in Mexico City that is a version of Miss Julie. Any time that a rich woman has the hots for a poor man, it's either Miss Julie or Lady Chatterley's Lover or both. Sex is kinkier whenever there is a class divide. However, Marber decides to transport the story to England in the 1940's after WWII. This seems totally arbitrary. Why not leave it where it was? The psychological destruction between the characters transcends eras, even if the class differences have been blurred in our modern age. So the 40s don't seem any different than today. Why not do it today? You don't have to live in a manor and be an aristocrat to feel superior and abusive to those who serve you. Mind games are eternal. So the play seems superfluous. It has a couple of good zingers but it is vulgar and shallow (not unlike other Marber plays). Perhaps it is better than what it is afforded by the lackluster, absurd direction by Mark Brokaw.
The actors sound stilted and frozen, as if speaking British means pausing a full second after every word. Except for a wonderful moment of stagecraft where a mob is supposed to approach the kitchen, the production is utterly boring. The seismic shifts of mood between the actors make no sense. The fact that the driver and Miss Julie are humping feverishly as the mob approaches looks ridiculous. The whole thing is absurd and dead on arrival.
But the biggest problem is the casting. Neither Sienna Miller nor Jonny Lee Miller have the chops nor the talent to play these roles. Nothing they do makes any sense. Miss Miller is at the level of the class ham in a high school production. She couldn't play an aristocrat if it bit her in the rump. She is not of the school of British actresses that can do high style in their sleep. She's like Michael Caine, not like Michael Redgrave; that is, low class. As amply demonstrated by Mr. Caine, there is nothing wrong with that; she is just not right for this part. However, in her defense I will say that she is heard loud and clear, enunciates perfectly and has some good moments here and there, mostly when she is angry (the easiest thing to do when you are a neophyte actor). There is a semblance of character there, even if it's saddled with embarrassing amateurish tics, like what looks from afar like the constant chewing of fingernails. Mr. Miller is absolutely terrible and worse than her. He has no charisma and there is no rhyme or reason to his motivations. Half the time he mumbles. The rest, he huffs and puffs. He is stuck in a kitchen, what is he so exhausted about? It's not that there is zero chemistry between the two Millers, there is minus zero chemistry. Not a good thing when the play is about lust.
The only person with any theatrical dignity is Marin Ireland, a seasoned American stage actress, as Christine, the maid and fiancee of John, the driver. The moral of this story: Britannia doesn't always rule.
I find it really disturbing that the Roundabout Theater is cynical and craven enough to put these two young actors into such a thankless position in order to sell tickets. There are plenty of qualified actors who can play these roles and even bring box office success. These two are not them.
Minggu, 24 Mei 2009
God of Carnage
It was better than I expected. Lots of fun, but not much else.
The set is gorgeous. The actors are all fine, but they seemed generic. Perhaps is because of the way the characters are written, more as stereotypes than as individuals. (Cf. the characters in the Norman Conquests, who are complicated people, not symbols thereof).
They are supposed to be 2 New York couples but they seemed unrelated to this city. My favorite was Hope Davis. She rocks. She is funny and real. Gandolfini is his usual adorable gruff bear, very natural but not very surprising. And Marcia Gay Harden and Jeff Daniels are fine but why do I feel they belong in Wisconsin?
Imagine Alec Baldwin in Daniels' part. That would be so much more fun. He would tear it apart. Or Marisa Tomei in Harden's part. Much more Brooklyn, much more pizazz. I also felt that the characters should be younger than these actors. Early 40s, more at stake and more to lose in the bargain.
The set is gorgeous. The actors are all fine, but they seemed generic. Perhaps is because of the way the characters are written, more as stereotypes than as individuals. (Cf. the characters in the Norman Conquests, who are complicated people, not symbols thereof).
They are supposed to be 2 New York couples but they seemed unrelated to this city. My favorite was Hope Davis. She rocks. She is funny and real. Gandolfini is his usual adorable gruff bear, very natural but not very surprising. And Marcia Gay Harden and Jeff Daniels are fine but why do I feel they belong in Wisconsin?
Imagine Alec Baldwin in Daniels' part. That would be so much more fun. He would tear it apart. Or Marisa Tomei in Harden's part. Much more Brooklyn, much more pizazz. I also felt that the characters should be younger than these actors. Early 40s, more at stake and more to lose in the bargain.
Rabu, 29 April 2009
More Evidence of Impending Apocalypse:
Cirque du Soleil is making a permanent home in New York City.
We are doomed.
We are doomed.
Quick and Lazy Theater Review
As quick and lazy and superficial as the play:
Offices, by Ethan Coen, at the Atlantic SUCKS.
One wonders what someone like the great F. Murray Abraham, who is the only one worth watching, is doing in such an unfunny, half-baked, nasty piece of work.
Offices, by Ethan Coen, at the Atlantic SUCKS.
One wonders what someone like the great F. Murray Abraham, who is the only one worth watching, is doing in such an unfunny, half-baked, nasty piece of work.
Senin, 20 April 2009
Mary Stuart
For absolutely mesmerizing acting of the very first caliber, Mary Stuart, with the formidable Janet McTeer and the amazing Harriet Walter, is the ticket to see.
Donmar Warehouse has dusted off a grand new production of this 18th Century play by Friedrich Schiller, super well directed by Phyllida Lloyd. It makes sense in this day and age because it is about the abuse of power, unfair incarceration, false evidence, populism, authoritarianism/tyranny etc. You could substitute Elizabeth's court for the Bush administration and you wouldn't be far off the mark (except that Elizabeth I was formidably smart).
The two lead actresses, Janet McTeer, in the title role, and the amazing Harriet Walter as Elizabeth I, are worth sitting through the very long-winded speeches. They are fabulous. I thought Ms. McTeer was a bit of a ham, but given the enormity of her talent, she has every right to knock herself out. It's hambone, but of the highest quality. And she has some magnificent moments, as in her gleeful, vengeful rage after her tete a tete with Elizabeth, when she boasts of having won the argument. Something to Behold.
Harriet Walter plays Elizabeth as a smart, cold, narcissistic, but ultimately vulnerable woman. The contrast between the two women, one almost ecstatic in her faith and religiosity, the other bound by rules and pragmatism, is magnificent. Anybody who is a student of acting right now should run to see them and learn from two actresses at the height of their technical and creative powers.
The production is minimalistic (leaving the space to all those wooords) and it has some breathtaking theatrical effects, like an actual downpour that makes you gasp in wonder.
At the beginning I was afraid I was going to be bored out of my wits, because the scenes are long and some speeches seem endless. All the actors are wonderful (particularly Brian Murray, John Benjamin Hickey, who reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld, and Nicholas Woodeson). The one terrible lox here is Chandler Williams who plays Mortimer. He is the only one who seems to be straight out of a high school production. Unfortunately, he has some very long speeches.
Donmar Warehouse has dusted off a grand new production of this 18th Century play by Friedrich Schiller, super well directed by Phyllida Lloyd. It makes sense in this day and age because it is about the abuse of power, unfair incarceration, false evidence, populism, authoritarianism/tyranny etc. You could substitute Elizabeth's court for the Bush administration and you wouldn't be far off the mark (except that Elizabeth I was formidably smart).
The two lead actresses, Janet McTeer, in the title role, and the amazing Harriet Walter as Elizabeth I, are worth sitting through the very long-winded speeches. They are fabulous. I thought Ms. McTeer was a bit of a ham, but given the enormity of her talent, she has every right to knock herself out. It's hambone, but of the highest quality. And she has some magnificent moments, as in her gleeful, vengeful rage after her tete a tete with Elizabeth, when she boasts of having won the argument. Something to Behold.
Harriet Walter plays Elizabeth as a smart, cold, narcissistic, but ultimately vulnerable woman. The contrast between the two women, one almost ecstatic in her faith and religiosity, the other bound by rules and pragmatism, is magnificent. Anybody who is a student of acting right now should run to see them and learn from two actresses at the height of their technical and creative powers.
The production is minimalistic (leaving the space to all those wooords) and it has some breathtaking theatrical effects, like an actual downpour that makes you gasp in wonder.
At the beginning I was afraid I was going to be bored out of my wits, because the scenes are long and some speeches seem endless. All the actors are wonderful (particularly Brian Murray, John Benjamin Hickey, who reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld, and Nicholas Woodeson). The one terrible lox here is Chandler Williams who plays Mortimer. He is the only one who seems to be straight out of a high school production. Unfortunately, he has some very long speeches.
Minggu, 05 April 2009
A parade of stars
Must be that celebrity actors lost a lot of moolah like the rest of us in the crisis, since everybody and their mother is currently starring in a play on Broadway. Broadway is now officially star-studded, which is not the same as great. But we are proudly star-struck and having the good fortune of getting really cheap tickets through TDF, we have seen our share of star wattage in the last couple of weeks.
Charles Isherwood in his fun summary in the NYT, really nails the ones I've seen.
Exit the King is a silly, misguided vanity project for Geoffrey Rush. It really is a terrible comedown when someone whose enormous talent one admires happens to be a megalomaniac ham and so it is with Mr. Rush.
Exit the King by Eugene Ionesco is getting a terrible revival courtesy of Mr. Rush. I didn't know the play, but I could tell from the text that it wasn't meant to resemble a carnival. The production is, as Mr. Isherwood points out, awash in vulgarity and icky crowd-pleasing. This is a pity, because the only reason we went was to see Susan Sarandon play the queen. The woman is so classy and so cool (and possibly so mortified to be on stage in this dud) that she refuses to follow the hamming and she looks gorgeous, and regal. The NY audience rightly adores her and she gets a loving and well deserved round of applause upon appearing (I hate when people do that, but in her case it is sincere and lovely). The rest is uncomfortably silly, transparently vain and not very interesting.
I have a feeling that a lot of absurdist theater tends to become quaint with age (through no fault of its own, but through corny crowd-pleasing productions that just sap any bite out of the poor plays).
Thus, I shudder to think of the coming production of Waiting for Godot with Nathan Lane, Bill Irwin and John Goodman. Shudder to think. I was lucky to have seen a fantastic production of the Gate Theater of Dublin, which emphasized the beauty and tenderness and humor of the text, if not the darkness. However, if I can get it through TDF, I just might go, because I love John Goodman.
You must know, dear readers, that I have had a succession of famous British actor boyfriends. Unbeknownst to them, I have had long, splendid relationships with Daniel Day Lewis, Ralph Fiennes, Daniel Craig (with him it's an on and off thing) and Clive Owen (my current beau). One of my first, if not the very first, was Jeremy Irons (please everybody see Moonlighting and Reversal of Fortune). I will go see this man performing inside a sack of potatoes, which would probably be better than Impressionism, which is truly a terrible play.
The production works hard to make it a classy evening, with tasteful projections of Impressionist paintings, although the play is bland, middlebrow pretentious, designed to make ignorant people feel cultured. But there is Mr. Irons, being extremely charming, acting as if it's all a walk in the park, and Joan Allen, a very good actress that gives a terrible one note performance that is quite astonishing in how unlikable and shrill it is. There is absolutely no chemistry between the two leads, and at the end when one finds out there is supposed to be a romance between the two, it actually comes as a shock, so gratuituous and incredible it seems. The only person who saves this evening is the wonderful Andre De Shields, who basically takes up the dead space and feels it with the power and energy and dimension it lacks.
But for absolutely mesmerizing acting of the very first caliber, Mary Stuart, with the formidable Janet McTeer and the amazing Harriet Walter, is the ticket to see. They may not be famous stars, but they are incredible, and the play is no embarrassment.
Donmar Warehouse has dusted off a grand new production of this 18th Century play by Friedrich Schiller, super well directed by Phyllida Lloyd. It makes sense in this day and age because it is about the abuse of power, unfair incarceration, false evidence, populism, authoritarianism/tyranny etc. You could substitute Elizabeth's court for the Bush administration and you wouldn't be far off the mark (except that Elizabeth I was formidably smart).
The two lead actresses, Janet McTeer, in the title role, and the amazing Harriet Walter as Elizabeth I, are worth sitting through the very long-winded speeches. They are fabulous. I thought Ms. McTeer was a bit of a ham, but given the enormity of her talent, she has every right to knock herself out. It's hambone, but of the highest quality. And she has some magnificent moments, as in her gleeful, vengeful rage after her tete a tete with Elizabeth, when she boasts of having won the argument. Something to Behold.
Harriet Walter plays Elizabeth as a smart, cold, narcissistic, but ultimately vulnerable woman. The contrast between the two women, one almost ecstatic in her faith and religiosity, the other bound by rules and pragmatism, is magnificent. Anybody who is a student of acting right now should run to see them and learn from two actresses at the height of their technical and creative powers.
The production is minimalistic (leaving the space to all those wooords) and it has some breathtaking theatrical effects, like an actual downpour that makes you gasp in wonder.
At the beginning I was afraid I was going to be bored out of my wits, because the scenes are long and some speeches seem endless. All the actors are wonderful (particularly Brian Murray, John Benjamin Hickey, who reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld, and Nicholas Woodeson). The one terrible lox here is Chandler Williams who plays Mortimer. He is the only one who seems to be straight out of a high school production. Unfortunately, he has some very long speeches.
Charles Isherwood in his fun summary in the NYT, really nails the ones I've seen.
Exit the King is a silly, misguided vanity project for Geoffrey Rush. It really is a terrible comedown when someone whose enormous talent one admires happens to be a megalomaniac ham and so it is with Mr. Rush.
Exit the King by Eugene Ionesco is getting a terrible revival courtesy of Mr. Rush. I didn't know the play, but I could tell from the text that it wasn't meant to resemble a carnival. The production is, as Mr. Isherwood points out, awash in vulgarity and icky crowd-pleasing. This is a pity, because the only reason we went was to see Susan Sarandon play the queen. The woman is so classy and so cool (and possibly so mortified to be on stage in this dud) that she refuses to follow the hamming and she looks gorgeous, and regal. The NY audience rightly adores her and she gets a loving and well deserved round of applause upon appearing (I hate when people do that, but in her case it is sincere and lovely). The rest is uncomfortably silly, transparently vain and not very interesting.
I have a feeling that a lot of absurdist theater tends to become quaint with age (through no fault of its own, but through corny crowd-pleasing productions that just sap any bite out of the poor plays).
Thus, I shudder to think of the coming production of Waiting for Godot with Nathan Lane, Bill Irwin and John Goodman. Shudder to think. I was lucky to have seen a fantastic production of the Gate Theater of Dublin, which emphasized the beauty and tenderness and humor of the text, if not the darkness. However, if I can get it through TDF, I just might go, because I love John Goodman.
You must know, dear readers, that I have had a succession of famous British actor boyfriends. Unbeknownst to them, I have had long, splendid relationships with Daniel Day Lewis, Ralph Fiennes, Daniel Craig (with him it's an on and off thing) and Clive Owen (my current beau). One of my first, if not the very first, was Jeremy Irons (please everybody see Moonlighting and Reversal of Fortune). I will go see this man performing inside a sack of potatoes, which would probably be better than Impressionism, which is truly a terrible play.
The production works hard to make it a classy evening, with tasteful projections of Impressionist paintings, although the play is bland, middlebrow pretentious, designed to make ignorant people feel cultured. But there is Mr. Irons, being extremely charming, acting as if it's all a walk in the park, and Joan Allen, a very good actress that gives a terrible one note performance that is quite astonishing in how unlikable and shrill it is. There is absolutely no chemistry between the two leads, and at the end when one finds out there is supposed to be a romance between the two, it actually comes as a shock, so gratuituous and incredible it seems. The only person who saves this evening is the wonderful Andre De Shields, who basically takes up the dead space and feels it with the power and energy and dimension it lacks.
But for absolutely mesmerizing acting of the very first caliber, Mary Stuart, with the formidable Janet McTeer and the amazing Harriet Walter, is the ticket to see. They may not be famous stars, but they are incredible, and the play is no embarrassment.
Donmar Warehouse has dusted off a grand new production of this 18th Century play by Friedrich Schiller, super well directed by Phyllida Lloyd. It makes sense in this day and age because it is about the abuse of power, unfair incarceration, false evidence, populism, authoritarianism/tyranny etc. You could substitute Elizabeth's court for the Bush administration and you wouldn't be far off the mark (except that Elizabeth I was formidably smart).
The two lead actresses, Janet McTeer, in the title role, and the amazing Harriet Walter as Elizabeth I, are worth sitting through the very long-winded speeches. They are fabulous. I thought Ms. McTeer was a bit of a ham, but given the enormity of her talent, she has every right to knock herself out. It's hambone, but of the highest quality. And she has some magnificent moments, as in her gleeful, vengeful rage after her tete a tete with Elizabeth, when she boasts of having won the argument. Something to Behold.
Harriet Walter plays Elizabeth as a smart, cold, narcissistic, but ultimately vulnerable woman. The contrast between the two women, one almost ecstatic in her faith and religiosity, the other bound by rules and pragmatism, is magnificent. Anybody who is a student of acting right now should run to see them and learn from two actresses at the height of their technical and creative powers.
The production is minimalistic (leaving the space to all those wooords) and it has some breathtaking theatrical effects, like an actual downpour that makes you gasp in wonder.
At the beginning I was afraid I was going to be bored out of my wits, because the scenes are long and some speeches seem endless. All the actors are wonderful (particularly Brian Murray, John Benjamin Hickey, who reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld, and Nicholas Woodeson). The one terrible lox here is Chandler Williams who plays Mortimer. He is the only one who seems to be straight out of a high school production. Unfortunately, he has some very long speeches.
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