|
|
| go to lobby page | more reviews | go to other departments | GLENN LONEY'S SHOW NOTES
[01] "Cats" Forever at Winter Garden
Caricature of Glenn Loney
by Sam Norkin.
[02] Rossini's "Viaggio" at State Theatre
[03] Handel's "Ariodante" at City Opera
[04] Martha Clark Meets Chekhov in "Vers la Flamme"
[05] Dinner-Theatre at Sardi's
[06] "Kat and the Kings" at Cort
[07] "Naked Boys Singing"
[08] "Buddy" in Philly
[09] Pomerantz Abridges "Two Cities"
[10] Tom Stoppard's "On the Razzle"
[11] Stripped-Down "Streetcar"
[12] "Moose Murders" vs. "Voices in the Dark"
[13] Franco-Roman Ruins at LaMaMa
[14] "Winds of God" at APT
[15] John Ruskin's "Countess"
[16] "Thwack"
[17] Bathroom Humor at PS 122
You can use your browser's "find" function to skip to articles on any of these topics instead of scrolling down. Click the "FIND" button or drop down the "EDIT" menu and choose "FIND."
How to contact Glenn Loney: Please email invitations and personal correspondences to Mr. Loney via Editor, New York Theatre Wire. Do not send faxes regarding such matters to The Everett Collection, which is only responsible for making Loney's INFOTOGRAPHY photo-images available for commercial and editorial uses.
How to purchase rights to photos by Glenn Loney: For editorial and commercial uses of the Glenn Loney INFOTOGRAPHY/ArtsArchive of international photo-images, contact THE EVERETT COLLECTION, 104 West 27th Street, NYC 10010. Phone: 212-255-8610/FAX: 212-255-8612.
For our archive of Glenn Loney's previous 1999 columns, click here.
THIS WEEK'S PERFORMING ARTS PHOTO:
Andrew Lloyd Webber's "CATS" at the Winter Garden Theatre
Lord Webber's feline musical, "Cats," is still Broadway's "Longest Running Musical." For some time, it has also been using the slogan: NOW AND FOREVER!Producer Cameron Macintosh could use those two buy-lines in London as well—were it not for the inexplicable fact that Agatha Christie's "The Mousetrap" is now in its 47th year!
True New York theatre-fans should be glad that the Winter Garden has a steady tenant. This could be saving it from the demolition that removed its longtime neighbors, the Rialto and the Central, replaced by ugly high-rises.
But those theatre-buffs who love historic theatres—especially ones with interiors as lovely as that of the Winter Garden—might well wish the singing pussycats would move on.
If you cannot bear to see that musical one more time, you are not going to be able to see the elegant Winter Garden interiors.
City Opera's Splendid Send-Off
For New York's Fall Music-Theatre Season"Viaggio a Reims": Destination Lincoln Center! [*****]
Forget about taking the waters in Baden-Baden or Marienbad! The place to go this season is the stage of the New York State Theatre. Designer Allen Moyer has created an elegant spa to eclipse all the historic thermal baths of Europe.
HI-JINX AT THE SPA--Fun at the Golden Lily Hotel in Rossini's "Viaggio a Reims" at the New York City Opera. Photo: Copyright ©—Carol Rosegg 1999 Noble Latin mottoes form a frieze above the soothing soft green walls. Flanked by tile-floors and slip-covered chairs, a shimmering pool fills the center of the stage. Upstage is a stylized set of palm-trunks, with healing mineral water issuing from its base.
This isn't just any handsome 19th century plunge. It is the spa-complex of the Hotel of the Golden Lily. At the moment, it is crammed to capacity with nobles and celebrities from all over Europe.
They are all on their way to Rheims Cathedral to attend the Coronation of Charles X, the last of the Bourbon Dynasty. Unfortunately, they are stranded at Madame Cortese's Five-Star Spa in Plombières, waiting for horses to take them onward.
City Opera's new production of Rossini's "Il viaggio a Reims" is a wonder in all departments. If you weren't able to see it, make sure you do when it returns to the repertory. As it is sure to do.
This is visually, musically, and theatrically one of the best opera productions you are apt to see all season in Manhattan. It has all the smart design, innovative staging, and vocal prowess that are the standard of the Munich and Salzburg Festivals. Without any of the Big Names.
Anna Oliver has designed some marvelous period costumes for the major players—and outfitted the spa-hotel's large staff with smart uniforms. But, thanks to director James Robinson's ingenuity, this isn't just another handsome operatic stage-picture, with singers doing their arias and duets.
They play their costumes in character—and for often richly comic effects. Robinson has also helped them devise amusing and effective stage-movements which keep some of the solos from being merely musical fireworks. Action seldom detracts from the effect of a showy aria. More often, it heightens the impression, with the characters on stage reacting.
Fortunately for the audience, there are no horses to be obtained at any price. These aristocrats won't be going to Rheims after all. So they indulge their emotions—angry or amorous—and amuse themselves with games and song.
There's even a naval battle in the pool: Black Ship vs. Red Ship. Later, wooden soldiers are lined up as toy cannon are fired, so grown men can work off their military passions.
If you are an admirer of Rossini's French comic-opera, "Le Comte Ory," some melodies may sound familiar. No wonder: this resourceful Italian composer—having left Italy to conquer Paris—recycled some elements of "Il viaggio a Reims."
Rossini composed "Viaggio" to celebrate the new king's coronation—and to show off the talents of his outstanding ensemble of singers at the Théâtre Italien. This opera was a festival creation, never intended for the opera repertory.
As a result, Rossini—and others—later plundered his manuscript. Putting the original back together has been a long but fascinating search for surviving bits and pieces. This makes interesting reading in the program, but the synopsis is far more important Required Reading before the performance.
Actually, there is virtually no plot, but it will be helpful to know who all these handsomely dressed—and often beautiful—people are. How they relate to each other, most never having met before. And—coming from a number of frequently hostile nations—why they want to attend the coronation.
When they discover they cannot reach Rheims, they decide to have a grand dinner and celebration before going to Paris for even more elaborate coronation festivities.
This flimsy but serviceable framework permits more than a dozen impressive young singers to act up a storm and to dazzle with bel canto. There is even one ensemble for 14 voices—a small chorus, but it doesn't function as a chorus.
The fabled Giuditta Pasta was in Rossini's Paris production. There's no Pasta in this ensemble, but it's astonishing how many really fine singing-actors—or actor-singers—the City Opera has cast in this stunning staging.
The amusing High Point of the banquet celebration requires representatives of various countries to sing their national anthems or distinctive songs. It's interesting to hear "Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles" and "God Save the King" recycled by Rossini as anthems saluting King Charles X.
The large chorus prove adept comedians, as well as excellent, enthusiastic musical support for the principals. It is astonishing to see the stage of the State Theatre literally crammed with elaborately costumed chorus, dancers, and soloists at the finale. Rather than a sparsely sprinkled stage, as in some past productions
It's not only a handsome and thrilling sight, worthy of a major European opera-house. It's also a coming-of-age for the City Opera. Instead of bare-bones productions on rock-bottom budgets, NYCO now seems able to suggest something approaching luxury.
Obviously, this production would have cost much more to produce at That Other Opera across the way. And this staging was certainly not achieved "on the cheap." With the top ticket-price now at $90, NYCO can afford a little more luxury.
The Met could mounted done this opera handsomely, if not as stylishly as the City Opera. But "Viaggio" just wouldn't have been so joyous, so much fun, over at the Big House with the Big Names.
Conductor George Manahan has a way to go before he has a podium flair—and a head of hair—like James Levine's. But he is doing wonders with his orchestra and his fine young singers. City Opera has been reborn!
Handel's Airy "Ariodante"
Handelian opera doesn't have to play second-fiddle to Rossini stagings at the City Opera. The new production of Ariodante" is strikingly beautiful and marvelously sung.
At New York State Theatre [*****]Not so long ago, the emphasis at NYCO was on low-budget but innovative production-values. Stagings were often attractive, if deliberately simplistic—or necessarily Minimalist.
This mounting of "Ariodante" looks lavish, sumptuous, and costly. No threadbare economies here! This effect is largely achieved with the magnificent costumes of Michael Stennett.
Grand court gowns and rich red robes swirl about the stage, creating an impression of wealth and power. The handsome outfits of the principals have a period-feel, but, with all their glitter and gold, they are really costumes for the Baroque Theatre.
No Scottish princess ever wore such showy finery as the lovely Amy Burton as Ginevra. And few women—Marlene Dietrich in tuxedo excepted—have ever looked so handsome in the silks and velvets of a nobleman as the brilliant Sarah Connolly. As the valiant Ariodante, she is an admirable suitor for Ginevra, daughter of the King of Scotland—who is strongly but sensitively sung by Sanford Sylvan.
Designer John Conklin—who has long favored suggestive fragmented settings—achieves additional effects of interior magnificence with four movable wall/wings, crested with golden moldings. These are dressed with golden mirrors.
Or they are themselves angled to dress an upstage vertical picture-frame stage. In this space, fragments of Greek architecture or sculpture appear against changing skies of mysterious depth and subtle cloud colorations.
The visual impact is very powerful: clean white ancient marble, endless airy skies, a sense of fairtytale history and tradition. And all essentially economically achieved.
Some of the most striking images—a weather-worn Greek column capital, that horse's head from the Parthenon pediment—appear to be two-dimensional blowups of Photo-shopped antiquities. Or Conklin's improvs on Attic Greece.
Stephen Strawbridge's deft lighting—except for some fitful storm effects—makes the scenic milieu and the grand costumes seem even more magnificent.
But director John Copley is the best illusionist of all. He has been able to help his excellent cast give a strongly human dimension to their highly stylized and stereotypical opera seria characters.
They are also able—largely thanks to the brilliantly evocative music Handel has written for their various arias and duets—to play out their formulaic and totally artificial drama as though it really were a matter of life and death.
It's essentially the same plot Shakespeare used in "Much Ado About Nothing." And it was hardly new when he recycled it.
Not once do you catch John McVeigh, as Ariodante's brave brother, winking at the audience to let them know it's all a great romp. He's deeply serious, both about his passion for the indifferent and silly Dalinda of Lisa Saffer, and about avenging his brother's betrayal.
Those aging opera-buffs who continually complain that there are no more Great Voices—that we have seen the last of the great actor/singers, the towering personalities and temperaments—should check out both this cast and that of "Viaggio a Reims."
All the principals in "Ariodante" are talents to watch. And to enjoy repeatedly at the New York State Theatre. As is also the case with the dynamic conductor Jane Glover.
In previous New York showcase appearances, countertenor Bejun Mehta has been both vocally astonishing and dramatically impressive. At last he's on a stage big enough for his considerable talents. And in a challenging role—the baroque villain, Polinesso—which he fills with considerable style and attractiveness.
In the Lincoln Center program, there are some comments on the supposedly recent surge in Handel revivals and increase in audience interest in his artificial operatics.
That may appear to be true at the moment, but one of the City Opera's first Minimalist successes when it moved to Lincoln Center was Handel's Giulio Cesare," with Beverly Sills and Norman Treigle, Maestro Julius Rudel conducting.
In the mid-1950s, Handelian operas were frequently produced in Germany—especially in surviving 18th century court-theatres, such as those in Munich, Bayreuth, Celle, Schwetzingen, and Sans Souci. I was privileged to see some of these—both the theatres and the Handel productions.
In fact, the first important Handel revivals in the 20th century were staged in a very special modernist theatre in Göttingen in the 1920s. And they were mounted by a very special theatre-expert, Uta Hagen's father.
At least I had his word for that when I was Prof. Oscar Hagen's student in Art-History at the University of Wisconsin in 1950.
They are now making a Big Thing of spelling the composer's name "George Frideric Handel." If his peculiar spelling of his middle name in English is so important, why not go the distance and refer to him as they do in Germany: GEORG FRIEDRICH HÄNDEL. With an Umlaut over the A! This spelling is also correct for references to roast-chickens, which are known as BRATHÄNDEL.
Martha Clark's Chekhovian Moth
So much hard work and money has obviously gone into the creation of Martha Clark's new Performance Work, it would be a shame if it were not widely shown.
s Mime and Dance "Vers la Flamme" [****]Before the all-too-brief engagement of "Vers la Flamme" at the New Victory Theatre on 42nd Street, it was tried out on audiences receptive to Clark's innovative and surreal evocations of the works of painters and poets. It was performed at Jacob's Pillow, for instance.
Manhattan audiences can be a lot tougher than the dedicated dancers at the Pillow. But on the night Hurricane Floyd spent his force on New York, many of the city's cultural leaders arrived at the New Vic, drenched but eager for Clark's mimed and danced vision of six short-stories by Chekhov, set to un-Chekhovian music by Scriabin.
Even if one were familiar with some or all of the Chekhov stories, Clark's impressionistic blending and recycling of images did not aid in identifying plot-lines. But program-synopses did make it easier to relate certain powerful static and moving images to specific stories.
Narratives, however, have never been of much interest to Clark. Images and associations are far more potent. Her unique Impressionist visions of Hieronymus Bosch, Franz Kafka, and fin de siècle Vienna were quite wonderful.
My favorite remains "Miracolo d'amore," a haunting pastiche of madrigal-comedy, sensual women, and horny Tiepolo clowns. Shown at the Spoleto Festival in Charleston, it so upset the late great patron, Alice Tully, that she fled the hall and departed for Europe. I loved it, and I thought Joseph Papp—who was there to scout it—did as well.
Martha Clark's sometime composer-collaborator, Richard Peaslee, told me a great deal about her intuitive method of creating performance pieces. Inspiration strikes like lightning—and from the most unusual sources, apparently.
Unfortunately for Clark, she fell in love with Circus Flora—and its titular baby-elephant—in Charleston. So some of the circus-animals were included in her next work, shown at BAM's Majestic Theatre.
It involved Walt Whitman, as well as little Flora and some galloping horses. The reviews were uncharitable, to say the least, so BAM closed the show almost immediately. Instead of letting it run its announced span.
Peaslee sadly said to me outside the Majestic on the last night: "Harvey [Lichtenstein, the recently retired Artistic Director] has closed us down like a Broadway flop!"
[For the record, the Majestic has just been renamed the Harvey Theatre!]
Being abruptly closed down must have been even more of a blow to Clark than the negative or uncomprehending reviews. She went to Europe and began staging operas.
She seems to have hit her stride again with "Vers la Flamme" and its lovely long-skirted ladies swirling about stuffy, starchily-dressed men. Both the men and the women look and act like borderline neurotics, but they are definitely Chekhovian, not Schnitzlerian or Freudian, as in her "Vienna: Lusthaus."
Among her excellent ensemble of actor-dancers are George de la Peña, Felix Blaska, Kate Coyne, and Margie Gillis. Sofie, Clark's doll-like Pomeranian, even has a walk-on and a carry-on.
Jane Greenwood's richly period costumes do much to enhance the movement. As does Stephen Strawbridge's subtle lighting.
Michael Yeargen's three-walled box-set has Magritte clouds on its sky-blue wallpaper. But someone must have left it out in the rain at Jacob's Pillow, for all the joining edges of the wall-paper have come loose.
Or was this deliberate shabbiness, to suggest the desperate poverty of the petty bourgeoisie in provincial Russia?
Whatever—it was a beautiful and haunting evening. I do hope many more people will be able to see it and enjoy it.
It was presented at the New Victory as part of the New Visions series of Lincoln Center's Great Performers. They have a website: www.lincolncenter.org
Dinner-Theatre at Sardi's:
All Hands on Deck for "Starboard Home" [**]
Before the invention of television, there used to be a morning radio-show called "Breakfast at Sardi's." After coffee and Eggs Benedict Arnold—you eat them and they betray you!—audiences would sing-along: "We've just finished breakfast at Sardi's!"It made me long to come to New York City and eat at the famed Sardi's Restaurant. When I finally did, I was interviewing people like Alan Schneider and Gwen Verdon.
They—or their press-reps—picked up the tab.
Once, Keith Baxter and I had the table by the door. Everyone stopped to praise Keith for his work in "Sleuth." When Lauren Bacall—whom I'd long admired—arrived with her boys and LIFE's Tom Prideaux, she took the table next to ours.
Keith said: "Lauren, do you know Glenn Loney?"
She looked at me with distaste, as if she'd just seen a dead beetle on the tablecloth. End of thrilling meeting with Betty Bacall by longtime fan.
This time, I had better luck as I brought my own guest.
We went to see a form of dinner-theatre at Sardi's. Not breakfast, but dinner. But you don't have to eat; you can settle for drinks—$15 minimum—and $10 cover.
There's only one show per week: Sundays at 6 pm.
The catch is that it's a New Year's Eve Musical. A turn-of-the-century musical, supposedly taking place way back in 1899, at the turn of the last century.
It's called "Starboard Home," and it involves some songs on board an especially misguided cruise-ship.
It's more upbeat than "Titanic," for the disasters of the plot are deliberately planned. Do not expect to discover another "Dames at Sea," however.
It's all in good fun, and the attractive cast work very hard to win audience approval.
The biggest surprise of the evening was not the show, but how tasty the Sardi's crabcakes are! I paid for them myself, so this isn't a bribed endorsement.
The tradition is that you do not go to Sardi's for the food, but for the ambiance and to see old friends like Lauren Bacall.
During lulls in the show, we tried to identify the Sardi's caricatures of famous personalities on the wall behind the performers. I recognized only a few, and I fear they may now be dead. In any case, having your portrait removed from downstairs is as good as being dead.
Joyous South African Celebration:
"Kat and the Kings" Are Cool Kats [****]
If you loved "Smokey Joe's Cafe" and have even returned more than once, you can experience some of the same excitement and elation at "Kat and the Kings" at the Cort. But this charming, dynamic, and ultimately sobering musical show has a quite different dimension.An aging colored shoe-shine man—struggling to survive and keep his self-respect in contemporary South Africa—recalls a brief but wonderful musical moment in Cape Town in 1959. He and some chums on the mean streets—one a sissy kid from an upwardly mobile black family—enjoy trying out new popular songs. With some fancy footwork as well.
One thing leads to another, and—as they are really very good as a vocal group—they begin to get bookings in white clubs and hotels. Where they must enter through the kitchens.
The heart of the show is their rehearsals and performances, all shared with the audience in a wonderfully welcoming spirit. After the show, they are out front, in the street, to meet and greet.
Their golden moment of glory, as the show reveals, was all too brief. Apartheid got steadily more vicious. Whole villages were razed. People were divided, dispersed. Some members of the group got out of South Africa, fleeing as far as snowy Toronto.
You'd have to be terminally mean not to love "Josephine." Or "Lonely Girl," "Lucky Day," and "Cavalla Kings," the name of their vocal group.
The enthusiasm, mirth, and charm of all these attractive and very talented singers and dancers will surely bring you back to the show again and again. This is show which the entire family can enjoy.
David Kramer provides the book and lyrics, plus the staging. But it's his wonderful cast that really makes this An Occasion: Kim Louis, Terry Hector, Jody J. Abrahams, Luqmaan Adams, Junaid Booysen, and Alistair Izobell.
Jaybirds All in a Row:
"Naked Boys Singing" [***]
The Actors' Playhouse is in danger of becoming a showcase for Male Nudity.It's not quite the same as Minsky's—when Mayor LaGuardia shut down Burlesque on 42nd Street. But Mayor Rudy Giuliani is on the warpath against filth and smut.
He may not succeed in shutting down the Brooklyn Museum of Art for showing some provocative new artworks. If he doesn't, he may try picking on smaller fry—who cannot defend themselves.
If you don't have a stitch of clothes on—not even a jockstrap or a G-string—you will certainly look defenseless. And vulnerable.
The ten naked boys in the current musical revue at the Actors' Playhouse aren't all that vulnerable, however. Or defenseless. Their gay-oriented songs and sketches suggest that the nudity is just a come-on. They are not just Gay and Proud, but also Nude and Proud.
There is no especial flaunting of sexuality. No erections or flaccid approximations of same, as in the first male show here.
When porn star Blue Blake kept it up for his fans. Ryan Idol, a matinee-idol of Gay Porn, was more reserved. He played a bad actor who experiments with Porn to make some money. So his wife wouldn't have to work so hard to pay for his acting-lessons.
The show that followed that was, if I recall the title correctly: "Ten Naked Men." Something of a fraud, though every one of the ten men in the cast did appear nude, however briefly. Generally, a dreadful sight and a stupid show.
All the boys in this revue, however, are taking good care of their buff bodies. And not working out too much—so they don't become Muscle Masses. Or Jesse Ventura.
They sing a lot and dance a little. And they aren't nude the entire evening. So Carl White's costume credit is valid.
I'm not going to list their names, just in case their mothers are surfing the net.
At Philly's Walnut on Walnut:
"Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story" Lives On [***]
"Buddy" had an extremely brief run on Broadway. In London, however, it's now in its 11th year. And that's a revival, at that.I was working in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East when Buddy Holly had his vogue. And his fatal air-crash. So I never got to understand his mystique when he was performing.
Nor did I when I first saw "Buddy" in its initial incarnation in London. I was put off by its clunky format of a radio disk-jockey show—and subsequent engagements and triumphs by Buddy and his backups.
But people who grew up on constant repetitions of "Peggy Sue" obviously had a much different experience. Now their children—and perhaps grandchildren—are discovering Holly's rock-and-roll tunes.
Oddly enough, at a recent performance of the lively, colorful Walnut Street Theatre revival in Philadelphia, most of the audience seemed to be Golden or Late-Middle-Agers. They loved it.
Christopher Sutton was a deceptively bland Buddy, spectacles and all. Until he was told to do something he didn't want to. Like play Country & Western, when his heart was with Bill Haley and the Comets.
That must be the origin of my resistance. In US Army Basic Training, back in 1953, we had to double-time several miles every day to the sound of "Rock Around the Clock."
Two young draftees in my platoon dropped dead on-the-double in our first week in the hell-hole that was Fort Ord. That was long before it became a real-estate developer's dream. Way back when we first started losing wars, instead of winning them. "Rock Around the Clock" always reminds me of those deaths.
Well, that's my Problem-Memory. But it doesn't stop me from taking the Greyhound—much cheaper than Amtrak—down to Philly now and then for a show at the Walnut Street or the Wilma Theatre.
More New Yorkers should try it. Great restaurants, impressive museums, and handsome historical restorations. Down at 9 am and back at Port Authority by midnight.
<3>Classics Revived & Revised: <3>Recalled To Life
Will Pomerantz Revisits
Last season, Will Pomerantz astonished an unfortunately limited audience—because of limited space, limited run, and limited exposure—with a brilliant stage adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's autobiographical novel, "Prater Violet."
Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" [****]He demonstrated a rare talent among adaptors of novels for the theatre: he was able to dramatize major scenes effectively—with very few set-props and performers—without zooming past them with voice-over narration.
Charles Dickens uses the potent phrase "Recalled to life" to describe the grateful reaction of an unjustly accused man freed from long years of solitary in the Bastille. Now Pomerantz and his Culture Project ensemble have recalled Dickens' gripping tale of French Revolutionary Terror to vibrant life.
His company of more than twenty truly talented actors have outdone themselves with Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities." In two parts—requiring two evenings—it's even more minimal in settings than "Prater Violet." But that is a plus, for it permits a speedy and seamless pace.
Transitions and introductions are underscored with powerfully effective music—which almost takes the place of sets and lighting in creating mood & atmosphere, and a sense of place & time.
It's amazing how disciplined Pomerantz is as a dramatist. Each short scene is very tightly constructed and rapidly segues into the next.
The trial of Darnay for treason against England, early in the novel, is longer than most, for certain values must be established. But even here, nods and gestures replace pages of Dickens' dialogue & description. With no loss of meaning or color.
A large part of a reader's pleasure in devouring Dickens' novels is the leisurely way in which he describes places, people, actions, moods, thoughts. It is difficult enough to cut such descriptive passages from the works of Edith Wharton, but it's agony to part with any of Dickens' famous set-pieces.
Pomerantz saves snatches of some descriptions or omniscient-author opinions by having an appropriate character share them as comments during scene-transitions.
Unlike Dickens—who has to describe fully what he also "dramatizes" in his plot—Pomerantz relies largely on his actors-in-action, tense situations, and cleverly edited dialogue to reveal character and emotion. Much is revealed by what is not said.
At one point in the second evening, the production becomes virtual Street Theatre. A big metal roller-door facing the sidewalk is raised. Furious Revolutionaries pour in from Bleecker Street to storm the Bastille.
Passers-by stop to watch in astonishment. As well they might. And they might just come back the next night to see for themselves what's going on inside.
Moira L. Shaughnessy's period costumes do much to create the illusion. Some are quite handsome, considering what must be a low, low budget. With costume-changes for all save the principals.
Sarah Broughton, for instance, plays nine roles, including both the Queen of France and a knitting-woman. Though she's not Madame DeFarge, knitting the doom of the aristocracy. That role is the domain of Rebecca Wisocky.
Among the outstanding cast are Yusef Bulos as Dr. Manette, Tertia Lynch as his daughter Lucie, Tony Finn as Darnay, Greg McFadden as Sydney Carton, and Michael Pemberton a properly fussy and reserved bachelor banker.
This is very fine work, the equal in its way of the RSC's famed adaptation of Dickens' "Nicholas Nickleby" some years ago. The staging that made Roger Rees a star.
It would be wonderful if some of the excellent young actors in this unusual production could also win critical attention and audience-interest. But play and performances will all be but memories after October 10.
Unless some far-sighted producer moves this "Culture Project" showcase to an Off-Broadway venue. If that person might be you, call 212-539-3670.
It's the box-office, but they will surely be glad to hear from you. And almost as happy if you only want a ticket or two.
"Tale of Two Cities" is playing at the Salon, 49 Bleecker Street at Lafayette. Right by the Lex IRT #6 Bleecker Subway Station.
Reworking "Einen Jux will er sich machen"—
Tom Stoppard Outwits Thornton Wilder:
The Jean Cocteau Rep is preparing Jean Genet's "The Balcony" as their next show. It should be appropriately Gallic.
"On the Razzle" Outclasses "Merchant of Yonkers" [****]Unlike their current riotous comedy, On the Razzle," which is laid in Vienna, but hatched in England. It's Tom Stopppard's witty—and low-comedy—adaptation of Johann Nestroy's classic Viennese Posse mit Gesang.
Instead of chronicling the adventures of Shakespeare Getting Laid, Stoppard has focused on the same kind of sex-search by no less than four men. Three of them are from Herr Zangler's Grocery & Mercantile Establishment.
Nestroy borrowed his story of a crotchety and aging shopkeeper out on the town from an English farce. Stoppard has simply returned the compliment.
Years ago, Thornton Wilder also thought Nestroy's comedy should have an English version. His first effort, "The Merchant of Yonkers," didn't fare well.
But when he rewrote it as "The Matchmaker," his luck changed. And Dolly Levi—who isn't in Nestroy or Stoppard's versions—gave Lorelei Lee Channing a new lease on life.
Director Scott Shattuck brings his special talent for farce to this production. As he did earlier for Stoppard's "Rough Crossing," a reworking of Molnar's "The Play's the Thing."
The Cocteau ensemble do wonderfully well by all the characters and comedy. Harris Berlinsky is properly fuddled and fussy as Zangler, the merchant. Craig Smith, the Cocteau's Leading Man, makes his shop-assistant a comic zany. And Tim Deak is a delight as the eager but inept Christopher.
Robert Martin has designed a very cute and comic setting, composed of boxes and panels which turn this way and that to suggest a variety of Viennese venues.
It's a puzzle why the gifted farceur Christopher Black—who was the comic mainspring of the Cocteau's "Rough Crossing"—was assigned minimal tasks as a generic waiter.
Elise Stone, Angela Madden, Jennifer Lee Dudek, and Marlene May matched the men in character and comedy.
Stripped-Down "Streetcar"
Even having just seen a severely stripped-down production of Tennessee Williams' "Endstation Sehnsucht" in Munich—set in a bare space suggesting a shabby contemporary mobile-home—I wasn't quite prepared for "Streetcar Named Desire" as imagined at the New York Theatre Workshop.
At New York Theatre Workshop [****]I was warned that it featured a lot of gratuitous nudity. And, indeed, when I arrived at the theatre on East Fourth Street, a warning-notice was posted regarding the "Adult Nudity and Adult Language."
This controversial production has been staged by that innovative genius of the Low-Lands, Ivo van Hove. But I did not much like his rather pretentious work with Eugene O'Neill's "More Stately Mansions" at the Workshop previously.
But then, I don't think much of that weak late play either. Conversely, I admire "Streetcar Named Desire" almost extravagantly.
Working over a mediocre drama with some avant-garde gimmicks isn't going to ruin it. They might just save the event, injecting some external interest.
Truly great plays, on the other hand, aren't going to be destroyed by gimmicks either. So I thought whatever Van Hove had in store for his audiences, Williams and Blanche would win out in the end.
Right and Wrong. Williams wins splendidly in this remarkable production. And so do its director and very effective cast.
But that poor faded blossom, Blanche DuBois [Elizabeth Marvel], loses even more disastrously than ever.
Blanche's purgatory and destruction in the Elysian Fields of New Orleans' French Quarter are even more searing and horrifying in this staging
Even if the nudity and violence upset or outrage some viewers, they surely must recognize the absolute dedication, concentration, and truth of the actors playing Stella [Jenny Bacon], Stanley [Bruce McKenzie], Mitch [Christopher Evan Welch], and Blanche.
With the actors—and another musician or two—initially filling the intimate theatre with a cacophony of musical noise, this promises to be another trendy Dramatic Deconstruction.
Percussive sounds are made on two oil-drums connected by a long spring. Bed-springs are also turned into musical instruments.
Two downstage blocks of light represent the rooms in the Kowalski apartment. No table is needed for the poker-night. There are a few chairs, but Stanley systematically smashes them. As he does a stack of plates.
That steamy old off-stage bathroom—which becomes such an object of contention between Blanche and Stanley—is reduced to its essential: an old-fashioned bathtub.
This is spotlighted upstage, sitting in a blue rectangle. Blanche must, of course, remove her clothes in order to luxuriate in it. But at one point she's dumped in it fully clothed—and she stays under water for quite a while.
Stanley and Stella have some splashy carnal knowledge in it as well.
What is most remarkable about this staging is the way Van Hove has stripped away the externals—not just the characters' clothing—of those customary realistic productions.
Instead, he's concentrating on the sexual subtexts, bringing the passions, fears, and angers rawly, even violently, to the surface. Characters, including the neighbors, abandon themselves to orgiastic movement and dance, responding to the wild beat of the music.
Some of the most expressive movement is not in the play—at least not in Williams' stage-directions. But it is certainly lurking in it, and Van Hove has helped his actors manifest it through their spoken and unspoken needs.
While there are some powerful physical grapplings and passionate caresses, the most charged confrontations often occur when two or more characters stand some distance apart—sometimes not even facing each other.
Much of the play is performed in various distancing, or alienating, styles. But these do not detract from the central passions and relationships. They heighten them.
With almost motionless, gestureless bodies, the actors' words and voices clash or comfort with far more voltage than in a realistic encounter.
Physically, McKenzie is no lurching hunk, no apeman, no Brando. He is slight of build. Yet, when he bellows S-T-E-L-L-A-A-A-A, he really commands the stage.
I have seldom seen this modern classic performed with such power and passion, such concentration and conviction. Perhaps stripping away the "production values" of a realistic staging, leaving the central sexual drama stark naked makes this easier to do.
Watching Blanche and Stella, for me there was never a false or untrue moment. Never a feeling that the actresses were trying to overcome the nudity or novelties of the production—such as lying flat on the stage for a scene which "realistically" would be played quite differently.
There is never an instant when any of the nudity seemed sensational or gratuitous. Though it is amusing now and then—in very natural ways.
When Stanley tries to get into his festival pajama-pants, he gets tangled in the legs but continues to vent his anger and rant his rage. His emotions seem genuine, but they are undercut somewhat by his failure to realize how ridiculous he looks. But then, he is so out of control, he doesn't care.
There must be something in the water or the Stella Artois/Heineken Beer in Belgium and Holland! There certainly was in the Coca-Cola™ this summer.
Ivo van Hove is not the only Benelux director smitten with nudity, sex-acts, violence, actors in the water, and harsh language. His Flemish colleagues, Luc Perceval and Tom Lanoye, had great success with those "Adult" theatrical effects in their 12-hour condensation of all Shakespeare's History Plays.
It was so much admired that it was translated into German this summer and re-produced for the Salzburg Festival. It's called "Schlachten" —or "Battles"—in German. And it was so controversial, it's a good candidate for import to BAM.
There was a big pool into which actors were shoved or left for dead. Or in which they gleefully splashed about.
Convincingly mimed sex-acts abounded, including Oral Sex. Blood, guts, and gore were strewn about—as were pearls and cocaine.
Stanley's smashing of chairs was child's-play compared to the furniture bashed to splinters in "Henry V," at the Siege of Harfleur.
After King Henry rallied his troops at Agincourt, he dropped his pants and gave the audience a full view of his buttocks.
While all of this had a dynamic impact on the audience—some stormed out—it was only occasionally dramatically effective.
In Ivo van Hove's staging of "Streetcar," however, all the non-realistic devices—the stylizations in speech, stance, and gesture.—only serve to make the essential drama more searing and memorable.
Visually, they appear to "distance" the actors and the action, but they actually heighten characters, confrontations, and consequences.
They are almost Brechtian Alienation Effects, working in reverse.
A brilliant production with some outstanding performances!
New-Play Grab-Bag:
Terminal Bronchitis:
Throaty "Voices in the Dark" [*]
The wonderful, admirable Judith Ivey has made a return to Broadway in "Moose Murders." Her rickety vehicle is actually titled "Voices in the Dark."But anyone who collects theatre catastrophes could be excused for thinking all those taxidermied deer and elk-heads—complete with sprays of antlers—were plundered from some warehouse for failed scenery. If they're not from "Moose Murders," they certainly look like it.
Who builds an upstate New York hunting-lodge—in the middle of nowhere—with an immense wall of windows? If the owners only come a few weekends a year, there wouldn't be a pane left by now.
There's also a Jacuzzi full of blood and body-parts. Instead, it should be as full of red-herrings as John D. Pielmeier's complicated plot.
He's the slowly emerging playwright who gave Broadway "Agnes of God." I thought that was a dramatic fraud—despite the enthusiastic reception audiences gave it.
But my failure to perceive its poetry and pathos may have been conditioned by the casting of Amanda Plummer in the title-role: Agnes, not God.
Judith Ivey is light-years ahead of Plummer in talent, stage-savvy, and decorative qualities. But the play is a dog. If it had antlers, they should have stuffed it and hung it overhead.
"Roman Ruins" at LaMaMa:
French playwright Philippe Minyana doesn't receive a bio in the chatty LaMaMa program. But this pretentious script is said to be representative of yet another new French Avant-Garde School of Drama.
French Deconstruction Disaster [Visa Revoked]If I've translated the cryptic title adequately, these Gallic scribes ascribe their efforts to the influence of the doctrine of "Less Than Nothing." That is certainly very French.
If Minyana had really achieved that form of Negative Nirvana, we could all have gone home at the outset. Instead of stumbling out in the darkness—as some older folks did—as the play jerked and sputtered its way to a dank and dusty death.
The title refers to Latin leftovers from Caesar's conquest of Gaul. As seen from the window of an unhappy teacher, one of three odd comrades in Besançon. They are noisy and needy—but not good listeners.
The generally engaging actors worked very hard. It would require the Labors of Hercules to make an interesting evening out of this material.
Beware of boxes labeled: FRENCH INTELLECTUALS. Contents may be harmful. Or pretentious.
Japanese Import "The Winds of God":
Kamikaze Strike on American Place Theatre [***]
The energetic and obviously talented young Japanese star, Masayuki Imai, prefaces the cast list in the program for "The Winds of God" with an open letter to the audience.It says, in part: "We, who have chosen acting as a career and believe that Broadway is our pride and our dream. We're gonna go for it! We're gonna do it!"
The unfortunate evening I attended, there was almost no one in the foyer. And very few people sprinkled about the center section of the mainstage at the American Place. Which even the APT's Artistic Director, Wynn Handman, cannot manage to program anymore.
This was a rental for the eager young Japanese cast. A letter from the Japanese Ambassador, also in the program, suggested the project was solidly funded and emotionally supported.
Those who were on deck when a Kamikaze pilot dive-bombed into an American warship in the South Pacific wouldn't have survived to see this play. But what excuse have the other Americans who stayed away?
Frankly, I wanted to leave soon after the action got underway. Imai plays an annoying, thoughtless, rootless young Japanese who fancies himself a stand-up comedian. His chum and second-banana seems somewhat retarded and definitely not funny. He gets swatted a lot.
After the duo die in a Tokyo traffic-accident, both they and the play instantly improve. From zooming downhill, everything reverses and begins to scale the heights.
The two talentless comics reincarnate backward, to their previous lives in the very last days of World War II. And to their deaths as pilots of the "Divine Wind." Kami-Kaze=Wind of God.
They bring back to 1945 all of the smart-alec arrogance of contemporary young men—which can be found not only in Japan. It is soon drilled out of them.
The acting of all the young fliers in this dream-reversion was most impressive. For this section, I wished they'd had a full-house, which they certainly deserved.
There aren't many of us around now who still "Remember Pearl Harbor", but it was extremely interesting to consider the last days of the Pacific War from the opposite point of view.
To understand why valiant young Japanese were willing to die for their Sun-God Emperor. In strong contrast to many contemporary youths, who have no commitment to anything other than their own enjoyment.
A NAME="15">
The Wrath of John Ruskin:
Gregory Murphy's "The Countess" [***]
The distinguished critic John Ruskin may have been considered the herald of a new dawn in English Art. His endorsement of Pre-Raphaelite visions of female loveliness certainly helped establish aesthetic standards and set styles in dress, coiffure, and demeanor.But as a lover and husband he was a total—and spiteful—failure. He never consummated his wedding-night, making his poor wife believe there was something distasteful, even diseased about her.
"The Countess" is the title the brilliant painter John Everett Millais bestows on Mrs. Ruskin, whom he both loves and pities. Eventually, she leaves Ruskin, marries Millais, and has eight children by him.
This mini-historic drama and quasi-costume spectacle deals only with the trio to the point of changing partners. Staged by Ludovica Villar-Hauser, it won extravagant critical praise. This encouraged a move from the Village to Theatre Row in midtown.
On the tiny Samuel Beckett stage, its evocation of Victorian environments was spartan but suggestive. And I enjoyed some of the performances, though the plotting and dialogue invited stereotyping.
My Theatre PhD guest cringed in his seat, longing to escape. So I thought: If you don't know anything about Ruskin, Millais, or their Circle, the play as conceived may not be sufficient to introduce them or to arouse interest.
But I was told that it is possible to know something of them. And still not regard this as the play which brings them and their sex and social problems to life.
He went so far as to suggest that almost no one in the cast had any clear idea of the character he or she was playing. He did not mean, by that, that they didn't know who John Ruskin was—but that they didn't understand who John Ruskin really was. Inside.
The Umbilical Brothers in "Thwack" [****]
This ingenious duo is now playing to fairly crowded houses at the Minetta Lane. Late last spring, some awards-nominators were urging an "ensemble award" for the team.If the awards-voters haven't seen the show, that's not in the cards. But I thought I'd better check this show out.
Created and performed by David Collins and Shane Dundas, it is a total delight. Their announced artistic aim is "to bring Mime into the 21st century."
This they have done by NOT painting their faces white, wearing skin-tight leotards, or standing in front of the New York Public Library.
Their amazing improvement on Mime is to add spoken dialogue!
Collins still mimes frantically—and inventively. But Dundas—with a cordless mike almost in his mouth—provides all the dialogue and sound-effects. His repertoire of natural and mechanical sounds, all formed in his mouth, is amazingly ingenious.
Without mentioning that Mime Master, Marcel Marceau, by name, they do some hilarious parodies of his famous, but now boring, set-pieces. Mr. Bip walking into the wind—stuff like that.
Although these Aussies have a variety of comic sets, there is a danger of repetition after a while. But they perform with such gusto—often involving the audience—that they are hard to resist.
The Right Size in "Do You Come Here Often?" [**]
This August there were scores of Stand-Up Comics on the Fringe of the Edinburgh Festival. More and more each summer.The Edinburgh Fringe is an international showcase for all sorts of Performance Art. The Umbilical Brothers have showed their talents in the Scots Capital, among others aspiring comics.
Now, direct from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, a duo called "The Right Size" have arrived Off-off-Broadway. Sean Foley and Hamish McColl have come to the East Village with their bathroom-humor. From the city of John Knox and Mary Queen of Scots to PS 122.
They were much admired in Edinburgh, but I had no time-slot open to see them. How thoughtful then, for them to come to New York. Retaining press-agents who are among Manhattan's very best, it's clear they hoped for a prestigious transfer.
Their bathroom-humor is not smutty or essentially scatological. No, they play two absolute strangers, mysteriously trapped for years in a hideous pink-themed suburban English bathroom. With a number of appropriate props.
From time to time, they spin out of that claustrophobic situation to visit with the audience. Most of whom seemed delighted to visit back.
They are engaging, but I found the comic references both a bit too British and rather too "twee." Their show-title, for the uninitiated, refers to greetings of strangers after encounters in a loo. Straight out of Joe Orton. [Loney]
Copyright © Glenn Loney 1999. No re-publication or broadcast use without proper credit of authorship. Suggested credit line: "Glenn Loney, New York Theatre Wire." Reproduction rights please contact: jslaff@nytheatre-wire.com.
| home | listings | columnists | reviews | what's new? | cue-to-cue | people | welcome |
| museums | recordings | what's cool? | who's hot? | coupons | publications | classified |
