Woman Around Town’s Editor Charlene Giannetti and writers for the website talk with the women and men making news in New York, Washington, D.C., and other cities around the world. Thanks to Ian Herman for his wonderful piano introduction.
Apparently playwright James Fritz has created a piece based on negative relationship elements of characters Ross and Rachel from the television series Friends. I write ‘apparently’ because had I not been circumstantially accompanied by a young woman deeply conversant with the show, I would now be as lost as I was during the play. Be warned. Ross and Rachel is a bit like airline food (when we used to get it) – edible, but gods know what’s on the plate.
Hardworking actress Molly Vevers, who deserves better, represents both Ross and Rachel using only occasional pronouns. Darting back and forth, she sometimes doesn’t allow sufficient time for an invisible person to respond. Poor Vevers also spends the hour in a terrycloth robe variously wading, sitting, and lying in a pool of water, an effort, one presumes, to emulate theater of the absurd. Though symbolism becomes clear at the end, the pool’s predominance is irritating and distracting during narrative.
Here, Rachel, who finally married Ross after breaking up and coming back together, is sick and tired of the “and” tacked onto her name: Ross and Rachel, Rachel and Ross. Kids have been no help in solidifying a problematic marriage. I’m told the original Ross was consistently selfish. He epitomizes that attribute in the latter part of this play with a bitter, self-serving suggestion that will outrage.
There’s another woman-I think-in the plot and a coworker named Daniel who has a crush on Rachel. It takes awhile to figure out Daniel is not her husband or lover and I’ve not a clue about the woman standing next to someone’s sister. We lurch from a wedding to a hospital room having witnessed one of them appear to have a stroke. ‘Turns out physical manifestations are the result of a brain tumor.
Vivid dreams are described with no indication they aren’t real until the monologue moves on. One of them periodically yells. “She’s my rock,” “Swelling,” “Steroids,” “I’m going to be sick,” “Coffee?” “I thought they’d never leave…” “I want to strike up a conversation with a sassy nurse to break the tension…” Hospital room impressions are frequently unattributable but set a palpable mood. When Ross is drunk in a bar declaring his Cancer we know it’s him.
The patient wrestles with death. Rachel wrestles with history, duty and guilt at the unwittingly cheerful prospect of starting anew. “Whatever happens after you’re gone, I promise to be happy.” Dwell on that phrase for a moment. The play is dramatic and though these are parentheses of effectiveness, ultimately neither clearly communicates nor holds.
Molly Vevers turns emotion and character on a dime, though with no character distinguishing variation. Not her fault. She persuasively addresses audience members, drawing people in, but a decision to break the fourth wall also confuses. The actress’s investment is wrenching.
On the whole, Director Thomas Martin paces too quickly and indulges in hysteria too often. When staccato speech establishes atmosphere, however, he effectively helms.
Photos by Alex Brenner
Motor presents Ross and Rachel by James Fritz Directed by Thomas Martin Featuring Molly Vevers Through June 5, 2016 59E59 Theaters 59 East 59th Street
A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer. A bird sings because it has a song. Chinese proverb
Every year on her birthday, Elizabeth Sullivan, matriarch of the formidably musical family, flies to New York from Oklahoma for a blow out party. The tree from which these talented apples fall not far is herself a songwriter and vocalist. Sullivans from all over gather at a local club-Sunday it was the packed-to-the-gills Metropolitan Room, to share their talents with friends, fans and each other. It’s a love fest.
Ever elegant, Elizabeth, who turned 86 this year and looks well over ten years younger, begins with a group of her own compositions. “You Are the Reason I Sing My Song”/You are the why of it all/Without you listening, it would go so wrong… It drifts down with utter warmth and sincerity. We sway.
Stacy Sullivan, Robin Brooks Sullivan, Elizabeth Sullivan, KT Sullivan
Songs are brief, poetic, personal. If you didn’t know her you might imagine Elizabeth a good actress. The truth is that every lyric grows from her heart like a flower. She seems authentic because she is. Communication and sensitivity more than make up for a wavering word or note not quite reached. ‘Om puttin’ things on the back burner/ Serving up what’s good tonight/’Om thinking soon or maybe later/I’ll hear a tune and get a rhyme…(“Back Burner”) emerges riding a kick-back-and-rock-on-the-porch two step.
Where there never was a box/Then there never was a limit… (“Out of the Box”) is wise yet light. Elizabeth’s voice rises like an upward sigh, a feather on a breeze. She performs “Without a Song” (Vincent Youmans and Edward Eliscu) with depth of investment that makes it feel as if she were the author. For “Song of the Chimes,” (her own) the performer is joined by 6 year-old granddaughter Layla Elizabeth Sullivan, bending down to duet with the very pretty girl at her own level. Some of it is stage-whispered adding to delicacy. They make quite a picture.
Elizabeth Sullivan and Layla Elizabeth Sullivan; Montana Sullivan
KT Sullivan, Artistic Director of The Mabel Mercer Foundation and Elizabeth’s daughter in law, Robin Brooks Sullivan, share one of the writer’s signature songs, “As Long As We Sing.” Written in honor of Mabel Mercer, the number is a moving, cabaret anthem. The ladies harmonize.
KT then offers Elizabeth’s “How Were We To Know?” inspired by her unexpected meeting of husband-to-be, Stephen Downey. (It’s a charming story.) Despite his opening salvo, including somewhat daunting references to his mother and five children, both apparently “knew.” How could we miss/The promise of that thrill/Spinning in our bliss/ Above a world gone still…Lovely. Robin returns on guitar and vocal for Bobby Troup’s “Route 66” which arrives with pith, spit and lively, country twang.
KT Sullivan
The Sullivans have each chosen his or her own musical path/genre. Robin’s son, young Montana Sullivan, offers “Soul”, a classically tinted piano solo of his own composition. I hear insistence, fluency, spirit…a stream, creek, river, waterfall, the ocean…unstoppable momentum with pauses preparing waves. The piece is evocative and well played.
Granddaughter Savannah Elizabeth Brown who has recently embarked upon her own singing/acting career, has chosen the charming “Bubbly” (Colbie Caillat/Jason Reeves.) “The song is about a lover, but I’m gonna bring it back to my grandma because I think I had my boyfriend sold when I showed him what I’d look like at 86.” Guitar in hand, with backup by her mother, vocalist Stacy Sullivan, and Montana on piano, Savannah exhibits vocal qualities like Elizabeth and Stacy-she can float a melody. Harmony is appealing, the song diaphanous.
Savannah Elizabeth Brown and Stacy Sullivan
Stacy then takes center stage for “Lullaby of Birdland” (George Shearing/B.Y. Foster) accompanied by Jon Weber’s up, UP-tempo jazz piano and Tom Hubbard’s fast-as-hummingbirds’-wings-bass. A performer able to successfully embrace many genres, she delivers both percussive and lyrical verses with finesse. Stacy, Robin, KT and Elizabeth then share the nostalgic “Where My Picture Hangs on the Wall” (Elizabeth Sullivan), a song about home Dorothy Gale (The Wizard of Oz) would’ve treasured.
Elizabeth closes with more of her own material including one of my favorites, the deeply romantic “Not Tonight”, written for her husband’s 70th birthday (Mr. Sullivan passed.) There may be a time when I’ll not want you/But not tonight, not tonight… The room then joins in “Friends” whose partial lyrics adorn a flyer left on tables. Singing or not, every soul in the room feels the love.
The Family (Tom Hubbard on bass-background)
This evening’s concert was accompanied by the superb Tom Hubbard on bass and Musical Director Dennis Buck on piano. Mr. Buck, with whom I am unfamiliar, subtly tailors arrangements in service of both composition and artist. He plays with terrific finesse and an ear to wind change.
Sunday May 22, 2016
Photos by Maryann Lopinto Opening: Elizabeth Sullivan
Pound for pound this musical showcases more talent than half the new productions on Broadway combined. Almost every superb black performer you might recall from recent years of theater and music is on this stage.The artistic team is crackerjack.
Brandon Victor Dixon and Joshua Henry
Critical voices have been raised in regard to the piece’s two hour forty minute running time to which I respond, yes, it could’ve been shorter without losing a whit of pith or entertainment value, but so what? Journalists and historians have also weighed in on George C. Wolfe’s decision to downplay such things as the application of blackface, on-the-road segregation, and theatrical naysayers. When important, of-the-time-author Carl Van Vechten denies the musical’s place in future collective memory, we realize a cultural response which is not otherwise emphasized.
As we see glimpses of blackface, exposition there seems missing. Otherwise, it’s a case of not being all things to all people. (An attempt at rounding up history occurs with biographical epilogues.)
Brandon Victor Dixon and Audra McDonald
Noble Sissle and Eubie Blake met in 1915. As The Dixie Duo, they were the first negro performers to eschew blackface. The collaborators provided songs for the musical in question and respectively had long, successful, musical and theatrical careers. Producer/Performers F. E. Miller and Aubrey Lyles became friends as students and then a vaudeville comedy team. They both produced and performed in this 1921 show (here, in traditional blackface to which, one would have thought, their partners might’ve objected), afterwards mounting and writing others.
Sissle, Blake, Miller and Lyles encountered one another at an NAACP benefit where the vaudeville team performed a sketch called ‘The Mayor of Jimtown.’ Finding themselves likeminded, the four decided to turn it into a show about a small town election, creating the first all black musical to viably compete with Broadway productions.
Adrienne Warren, Brian Stokes Mitchell, Billy Porter, Audra McDonald and The Ensemble
After a grueling, squabbling hand-to-mouth tour, Shuffle Along landed at an off the grid West 63rd Street Theater without an orchestra pit, where, to everyonelse’s surprise, it ran 500 performances. It wasn’t that its flimsy book or staging were innovative, but rather that this black cast and creative team showcased energy, ebullience, and talent as skilled as anything on 42nd Street. The landmark production nurtured young performers like Josephine Baker, Florence Mills, and Paul Robeson, revising expectations and opening the door to black revues outside of Harlem.
Brian Stokes Mitchell (F.E. Miller) not only returns to The Great White Way with bankable, resonant vocals and signature style, he tap dances! Billy Porter (Aubrey Lyles), last seen cavorting in Kinky Boots, sings, dances, displays terrific comic flair without regressing into parody and, turning serious at the last, brings it home.
Joshua Henry, Brandon Victor Dixon, Billy Porter, Brian Stokes Mitchell, Richard Riaz Yoder
Brandon Victor Dixon of the musical Motown, is utterly charming as the pixilated, two-timing Eubie Blake. Dixon taps, sings, and acts with naturalness that allows us to excuse the character’s weaknesses much as Lottie does during their on again/off again affair. His reaction to a mouse is priceless. Joshua Henry (Noble Sissle), who was unequivocally great in The Scottsboro Boys, here lightens up without losing an iota of authenticity or grace. And oh, that voice!
Adrienne Warren (Gertrude Saunders/Florence Mills) delivers a sassy performance with bright-eyed finesse and nimble footwork while veteran Brooks Ashmanskas plays a slew of roles, each with pitch perfect comic timing and precision dancing he makes look ridiculously easy.
Audra McDonald
As to the visibly pregnant Audra McDonald (go quickly lest you miss her!), she’s simply magnificent. Fully inhabiting Lottie Gee who was herself, a regal cut above the environment in which she achieved fame, the artist’s vocals, acting, and yes, tap dancing, are a veritable joy to behold.
Daryl Waters’s Music Supervision, Arrangements & Orchestrations are immensely clear and rich. (Sound Design-Scott Lehrer) Choreography by Savion Glover is exuberant, loose-limbed, gorgeously synchronized, and feels fresh, though its underpinnings reflect the era. Company numbers are a master class. The visual creative team excels with Ann Roth’s Costumes and Mia M. Neal’s Hair Design original, yet accurate stand-outs.
Adrienne Warren and The Ensemble
If you’re anything of a theater-goer, you know there’s been a fracas about whether the musical is a revival or an original, the latter putting it in competition for the juggernaut called Hamilton. In the opinion of this journalist, book writer George C. Wolfe’s framing device as indicated in the show’s subtitle, should have set it firmly in the latter category. Though there are lots of recreated numbers, the story of its artistic collaboration provides vertebrae. Alas, my view is among a minority.
Photos by Julieta Cervantes
Opening: The Ensemble
Shuffle Along Or The Making of The Musical Sensation of 1921 And All That Followed
Music and Lyrics by Noble Sissle and Eubie Blake
Original Book by F.E. Miller and Aubry Lyles
Book by George C. Wolfe
Directed by George C. Wolfe
The Music Box Theater
239 West 45th Street
The Anglo-Irish Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (1854-1900), unabashedly carried the banner of aestheticism into fashionable circles of after-university London. Known for quick, biting wit and flamboyant dress, he authored poetry, lectured on art (in America), and was employed as a journalist before embarking on the successful career of fiction, playwrighting, painful memoir, and epic, prison verse for which he’s artistically best remembered. Wilde, who was gay, kept up pretense, marrying and siring two children whom he adored and for whom he wrote his wonderful fairy tales.
Charlie Rowe and Rupert Everett
The artist’s other historical prominence, his destruction and downfall, can arguably be said to have been brought about by young, pretty, spoiled Lord Alfred Douglas with whom Wilde was besotted. Almost everything written about the icon describes his being lead astray by the oblivious young man. Not that the author hadn’t maintained a secret life, but his had been discreet, while Douglas, fueled by permissiveness and protected by rank, frequented low clubs and rent boys (lower class prostitutes). Wilde became reckless, though never as quite reckless as Bosie, his nickname for Douglas.
Lord Douglas’s father, The Marquess of Queensberry, became increasingly suspicious of the boy’s relationship with the public figure. At first, Wilde was able to mollify him. Things reached a head when Bosie’s father left his calling card at the author’s club inscribed “For Oscar Wilde, posing sodomite.”
Lord Douglas was angrier than his lover and misguidedly convinced Wilde, who knew the possible consequences, to sue for libel. The only way the Marquess could defend himself was to prove his accusation. He naturally hired private detectives who set out to make a case that this more worldly man ensnared the youthful and naïve of his own sex. Wilde’s friends advised him to flee, but Bosie would not have it.
Rupert Everett, Cal MacAninch, Charlie Rowe, Alister Cameron, Elliot Balchin, Jessie Hills
The trial, for sodomy and gross indecency, what they called “The love that dare not speak its name,” was a bloodbath. Playwright David Hare begins this piece on the day Wilde (Rupert Everett) decides either to allow himself to be imprisoned or escape to France. Even the government wants him gone and waits to make the arrest.
Wilde’s old, dear friend, ex-lover, and eventual executor, Robbie Ross (Cal MacAninch), has arranged everything, but petulant Lord Douglas (Charlie Rowe) is convinced he can get the artist off. There’s no question that the victim knows the truth of his situation.
The three take temporary refuge in a hotel room attended by Head Butler Sandy Moffatt (Alister Cameron), Bellman, Arthur Wellesley (Elliot Balchin), and Floor Maid Phoebe Cane (Jessie Hills). All three actors do an admirable job, with Cameron ready to crisply buttle tomorrow and Hills standing out.
Cal MacAninch
Act II finds us in Naples after Wilde spent 2 horrific years in four different prisons at least two of which were at hard labor, and some impoverished time on the continent. He takes full responsibility for consequences suffered. Bosie has found a villa. Wilde supports them as best he can with meager earning from his writing and, up till then, a small allowance from his wife, Constance.
Bosie does what he likes with whomever he likes. The breathtakingly beautiful Italian fisherman, Galileo Masconi (the refreshing, fully present Tom Colley), is his current companion. Unexpectedly, Robbie, who continues in his regard for Wilde, appears with a message from the author’s estranged wife, Constance which will, in its way, determine the rest of Wilde’s life. Hare has stated that these two pivotal, “incomprehensible actions” are the nexus which inspired the play.
Charlie Rowe, Rupert Everett (Tom Colley behind)
Wilde’s principles of morality dictated that each man bears responsibility for himself to such a degree, other’s intentions or actions are literally blameless. Art was his religion, beauty, his God.
Oscar Wilde died of cerebral meningitis on 30 November 1900.
Charlie Rowe’s Bosie is an imperious, self indulgent child. His (and the director’s) interpretation never takes advantage of the playwright’s often brutal dialogue which can aim for the jugular with ego-inflated glee.
Cal MacAninch is superb as Robbie (Robert Ross). There isn’t a moment of emotional falseness in his performance. One can palpably feel the character’s frustration, commitment, and heartrending love as well as fear of discovery. MacAninch moves with the precise grace of a self-made man in a world above his station. Even his posture is conscious. In Act II, we empathize with his fatalism.
Rupert Everett resembles Oscar Wilde. Benevolent generosity and subservient response appear natural around him. The actor wears an over-inflated sense of aesthetic appreciation with finesse. We believe this Wilde to be both willful and bound by irrational attraction to which he voluntarily submits. Though Everett chooses to present himself as less flamboyant than that which we expect, perhaps Wilde tamped itdown among intimates.
What we don’t believe is inner turmoil and pain which is impossible to discount. There’s no indication of struggle with decisions that must spell doom. Even resolved, the icon is unlikely to have been oblivious. When Hare shows us a dramatic moment of decisiveness in Act I, he indicates, I think, that his hero is suffering. During Act II, Wilder lives with ongoing humiliation, yet there isn’t even a halting pause in flip reaction. Everett appears to have eschewed emotion in favor of intellect.
Director Neil Armfield uses the large set with great skill. His pacing is pitch perfect. Characters move and speak within class designation. Stage business is realistic. I would disagree with his take on Wilde.
David Hare’s The Judas Kiss (as in Judas’s betrayal of Jesus) is literate, insightful, and illuminating, allowing questions rather than answers to arise. His portraits feel authentic, dialogue plausible. Facts, of course, are undeniable. The surprise opening of the piece is inspired. Still, the play never takes flight.
Dale Ferguson’s Set Design manages to reflect exactly where we are with sharp detail and minimal fuss. He makes beautiful use of curtains. Costumes by Sue Blane are as if second skin. Varied accents (Charmian Hoare) are excellent. Of particular artfulness Rick Fisher’s Lighting Design is evocative and painterly.
Performance Photos by Cilla von Tiedemann Opening: Rupert Everett
The Judas Kiss by David Hare Directed by Neil Armfield BAM Harvey Theater Through June 12, 2016
The 9th show in Stephen Hanks estimable New York Cabaret’s Greatest Hits series celebrates Laurie Krauz and Daryl Kojak’s 25 years of musical collaboration. “We’ve been working together since the world wide web went public,” she quips. It’s also a where-have-I-been-all-these-years revelation. Formidably talented, the duo, (with Sean Conly on bass and Gene Lewin, drums), represent a fortuitous coming together the universe doesn’t often facilitate.
Laurie Krauz channels her music from somewhere to which most of us will never have access. It courses through her body like electricity, shaped by palpable, tingling control; like a mesmerizing snake dance. By her side, Daryl Kojak taps into that same frequency, antennae up, responding.
A unique rendition of “Never Neverland” (Betty Comden/ Adolph Green/Jule Styne) emerges as gentle jazz with no loss of sentimental intention. In my experience, jazz interpretations of ballads mostly sacrifice meaning. Here, the duo manages to maintain this with grace. Piano sweeps of stardust, a bowed bass and circling brushes float a vocal which, deferring to the song’s purity, delivers barely an extra syllable.
Oscar Hammerstein II/Richard Rodgers’s iconic “Some Enchanted Evening” can here also be classified as jazz, yet emotionally communicates without getting sidetracked. Kojak’s piano keys sound like wind chimes. A drum is patted. It’s a black and white 40s film with curtains blown against an open French door. Dark, serious, evocative. Open-throated (open-hearted) singing is paired with tiptoeing accompaniment. The number exists like a snuffed candle, leaving whirls of smoke.
Even the chestnut “I Will Wait For You” (Norman Gimbel/English Lyric Michel Legrand) is given iconoclastic treatment. An exuberantly windy arrangement with sensuous, rhythmic drums feels like sirocco. Krauz sails up to oooing contralto and down to alto. I find myself dovening (rocking back and forth.)
The tandem “A House is Not a Home” (Burt Bachrach/Hal David) and “Since You Stayed Here” (Peter Larson/Josh Rubins), begins thoughtfully. Piano caresses. Krauz reaches deeply. I can feel her chest constrict, then fill with a sigh as she seems to recall. The second song, from the musical Brownstone, is an apt continuance…You’d never recognize the room/The pictures all have different frames now/All the chairs are rearranged now…it’s enacted without a flicker of artificiality. Bass acts as ballast.
“Send Me a Man,” (also YouTube Alberta Hunter’s 1935 recording) is saucy, playful Krauz in full Mae West mode. Symbiosis is never more apparent. Kojak plays a superb piano solo to which Krauz, hanging over the keyboard, reacts as if they’re having sex. “Oh yeah!.. that’s nice…YES!” No kidding. Not a word or moan is extraneous. This is a helluva thing to watch/hear. The vocalist moves as if compelled. Kojak breaks into burlesque honky-tonk, precise, but insinuating. FUN!
Several predominantly scat tunes show off Krauz’s skill and individuality with this kind of musicality. The best is Kokak’s own composition. “Ducksoup” which sounds a bit like a cool, Pink Panther theme. Krauz peppers and punctuates, progressing to an uncanny, mute-horn-like wah-wah. Closing her eyes, she bends, gestures, and squeezes out the vocal. We see a smoky back room, tilted fedoras, finessed hip movement. “Everybody sing!” And curiously we do-come in on a scat line, higgledy-piggeldy but grinning. Start/stops are like winks.
A warm, funny woman, Krauz tells us about her “first gig,” being paid a quarter by her father not to sing (she endlessly extemporized songs on family car trips) and shares her personal take on a Monica Lewinsky sighting back in the day that would have made a fine Saturday Night Live skit. My single caveat of this performance is that patter, though mostly entertaining, goes on too long.
“When you work closely with someone for 25 years, you become really good friends…” introduces a muscular version of “Here’s To Life” (Phyllis Molinary/Artie Butler) which is viscerally textured by experience and sincerity. The packed room erupts.
Photos by Maryann Lopinto
The Metropolitan Room May 14, 2016 Venue Calendar Next in the monthly series, New York Cabaret’s Greatest Hits Barbara Porteus- June 13, 7 p.m.
It’s the excessive 1980s. Drugs are rampant, sex is like shaking hands. A part of the population can arguably be called dissipate. Patrick Batemen (Benjamin Walker) is a compulsive, materialistic narcissist, honing himself and judging others against high, pricey standards. Product names and designer labels are so specific, one wonders whether companies are paying for “placement.” These define the Wall Street trader and his world and are, today, recognized by the audience with self-satisfaction.
Benjamin Walker and the Company
Patrick is also a serial killer, gleefully employing increasingly grisly methods. Though none of the provided production photos show blood, you may never see more spurt, splash, and cover costumes on a Broadway stage. (An expert Russian dry cleaner is accustomed to washing away this customer’s sins.) In fact, this well chiseled specimen spends much of the second act smeared with it, wearing only his white briefs. (Smearing induces gasps.) Executions are stylized, not the kind of genuinely repulsive images presented by Quentin Tarantino. It’s the amorality that makes one wince.
Surrounding the protagonist are his office mates, including misogynistic best friend,Timothy Price, who has one of those nasal, central casting, snob voices (Theo Stockman, epitomizing the timeless preppie), Luis Caruthers – gay, passing, and something of a geek (an effectively cloying Jordan Dean), and inadvertent adversary Paul Owen, whose supercilious one-upmanship borders on poetic justice (a dark, nimble Drew Moerlin.) Men are hard-bodied, competitive, well heeled, horny, and usually high.
Benjamin Walker, Alex Michael Stoll, Dave Thomas Brown, Theo Stockman and Jordan Dean
Women importantly in Patrick’s orbit are ersatz girlfriend/arm candy, Evelyn Williams (Helen Yorke – persuasively shallow and deadpan funny), piece-on-the-side, Courtney Lawrence (Morgan Weed with shades of Tinsey and Kate), and besotted, nice girl secretary, Jean, who thinks “shy men are romantic” (a credibly snow blind Jennifer Damiano.) Every woman but Jean is a Barbie doll, a Pildes-toned, big-haired, mercenary fashionista.
Anna Eilinsfeld, Ericka Hunter, Heléne Yorke, Morgan Weed, Krystina Alabado, and Holly James
As Patrick’s life feels increasingly empty, rage erupts, bodies mount. Like many sociopaths, he finds himself wanting to be caught in order to be stopped. (This is not a case of desiring fame.) Cue Detective Donald Kimball (Keith Randolph Smith, who also pungently plays a homeless man.)
American Psycho might be considered documentary, satire, an example of social bloodlust- currently including vampires, zombies, and a gun culture we haven’t experienced since cowboys ran the west, or a portrait of dehumanization. Sound like fun?
Morgan Weed, Alex Michael Stoll, Benjamin Walker, Dave Thomas Brown, Jordan Dean and Heléne Yorke
What it has going for it is a TERRIFIC design team: Scenic Design-Es Devlin; Costume Design-Katrina Lindsay (remember those shoulders?!); Hair, Wigs and Make-Up-Campbell Young Associates; Lighting Design-Justin Townsend; Immensely creative Sound Design- Dan Moses Schreier; and palpably unnerving Video Design-Finn Ross who manage to recreate the over-stimulated, nihilistic, self-absorbed times. Sound and visuals are inspired.
WILDLY CREATIVE STAGING by Director Rupert Goold features such as a clear plastic, floor to ceiling splatter curtain between the audience and acts of mayhem, Patrick’s running up the aisle shooting (faux) hundred dollar bills from an air gun, a row of tanning Hampton denizens on vertical chaises, a midday threesome that includes an enormous, pink, stuffed animal…Derision and energy are kept UP. The wisdom to play horror and wit straight serves the piece. Scenes succeed one another with fluency and precision.
Jennifer Damiano
Lynne Page’s Choreography lands somewhere between robotic voguing and hip hop reflecting the 80s to a T.
Music, which incorporates some actual tunes from Tears for Fears, Phil Collins, and Huey Lewis and the News, is otherwise unmemorable, as are most of the lyrics. (Duncan Sheik) Throbbing, electronic pop carries us through on rhythm. Orchestrations are good.
The show’s Book, by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, is dark, quick, and filled with delicious detail. His portrait of Patrick, however, aided and abetted by acting and direction, is one of a sweet, needy, confused man who just happens to enjoy slashing and sawing. Though we watch successive murders, sparks of deep psychosis don’t otherwise appear even when the protagonist intermittently confesses (only to be ignored.) The character is simply not frightening. Those hoping for something like Friday the Thirteenth will be disappointed. (Patrick has rented this film 39 times.) Nor, alas, is he hot. It’s no surprise that Jean wants to take care of this version.
The attractive Benjamin Walker, who made such an impression in, ironically, Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson, sings and moves charismatically, but seems restrained by the dictates of this portrayal.
Note: I neither read Bret Easton Ellis’s controversial 1991 book, nor got through much of the subsequent film. Aside from reputation, the piece was new to me.
Photos by Jeremy Daniel
Opening: Benjamin Walker
American Psycho-The Musical Book by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa Music and Lyrics by Duncan Sheik Based on the novel by Bret Easton Ellis Directed by Rupert Goold Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre 236 West 45th Street
Long Day’s Journey is an exhausting theatrical experience. Not just for its length (three and three-quarter hours which, in this incarnation, represent the single, eruptive day), but because we’re inextricably drawn into the Tyrone’s almost unremittingly angry, guilt ridden, depressive, wounding, alcohol and morphine riddled world. That O’Neill manages to portray an undercurrent of deep love and inject unexpected humor is a testament to his mastery of the medium; literary quotes are immensely apt. The show is a glass mountain for both actors and the director, its scaling always something of a miracle.
James and Mary O’Neill, Eugene’s parents
Semi-autobiographical, the play must have be an exorcism for its author. Though completed in the early 1940s, he sealed the work in a Random House vault with stipulation it not be opened till 25 years after his death. Third wife Carlotta Monterey disinterred the play and offered its publication to benefit Yale University.
John Gallagher, Jr. and Jessica Lange
Parallels to O’Neill’s life include the summer cottage, its location, and the Irish American family it concerns. Characters are the ages they would have been in 1912. The playwright’s father, James O’Neill, was, in fact, an actor who played with Edwin Booth and was criticized for riding the wave of commercial success repeating his role as The Count of Mont Cristo for years. His mother, Mary, did attend a Midwest Catholic school. Eugene, like Edmund here, spent time at sea, wrote for a newspaper, stayed in a sanatorium for tuberculosis and suffered from depression and alcoholism his entire life. Jamie, who keeps his brother’s name in the play, died of alcoholism before it was written.
John Gallagher, Jr. and Michael Shannon
Tom Pye’s spare, evocative Set (emphasis on the stairs and the porch are particularly effective), Natasha Katz’s haunting Lighting Design, and Clive Goodwin’s evocative Sound Design create a ghostly, expectant atmosphere before we hear a word. Cosymes by Jane Greenwood fit each character like a glove.
Gabriel Bryne manifests James Tyrone’s volatility, stubbornness, ego, and monstrous love with grave and surety. That which is kingly makes it easy to imagine James on stage. Bryne’s natural accent and Irish roots add color and, one can’t help but conjecture, pith.
Michael Shannon (Jamie) solidly delivers, but could use a touch of familial poetry in inflection and gesture to feel more a Tyrone. His drunk scene, however, is a gorgeous model of plastered restraint and darkly comic physical acting.
John Gallagher Jr. (Edmund) sustains less truth than his fellows. The actor does bring painful impatience and vulnerability to the role.
Jessica Lange
Let us now praise Jessica Lange who has here written the dictionary on various forms of nuanced, nervous laughter, fluttering hands, darting eyes, and erratic vocal change. The actress embodies power, desperation, and fragility with equal conviction as mother, wife, and tender young woman. Perhaps not since her role as Frances Farmer in the 1982 biopic has Lange has the opportunity to theatrically go mad.
Because Mary has begun shooting up again the night before we meet, Lange must come on stage as if she was high. This robs us of watching her “get there,” a journey which might make the character’s tensile presence more acceptable. (We are privy to further sinking and, finally, drowning.)
It’s palpably stressful to spend so much time with a woman who’s rarely clearheaded and often mentally elsewhere. There’s a colossal amount of technique on this stage. The line between it and inhabiting Mary Tyrone is fine and sometimes crossed. How much is a matter of opinion. A muscular portrayal.
As Irish maid, Kathleen, Colby Minifie is utterly charming and credible.
Jessica Lange and Gabriel Byrne
Director Jonathan Kent does a superb job of organically utilizing the space. That which is glimpsed through windows works wonderfully, especially a moment Jamie comes up the front steps to stage level. (We don’t see the steps.) Another jewel-like moment is James’s turning away to reach into his pocket and give Edmund money so his son doesn’t see what he has.
Despite its characters’ pontificating, inebriated/high states, much of this play has the Tyrone family staring at each other or brooding in a corner. There’s also a great deal of anxious, aimless walking and hapless gesturing. Kent successfully holds tension and guides focus during these evocative parentheses.
Plan to drink directly after curtain.
Photos by Joan Marcus Opening: Gabriel Byrne, Jessica Lange
Roundabout Theatre Company presents Long Day’s Journey Into Night by Eugene O’Neill Directed by Jonathan Kent American Airlines Theater 227 West 42nd Street Through June 26, 2016
Poor, harried, abused Sam, otherwise an actor, is the only reservationist who showed up for his shift at New York’s current “it” restaurant. You know the one – where reservations open on a single day each third month, clients are color coded in accordance with importance, many assuming they rate higher than ersatz reality dictates, and the price of a meal equates with rent on a studio apartment. It’s early December. They’re booked into March.
When Fully Committed was first presented at The Vineyard Theater in 1999, foodie culture wasn’t nearly as popular as it is today. We didn’t have endless preparation and competition television shows. Celebrity chefs, rarely known outside cuisine circles, were celebrated for cooking, not personality or product lines. Exorbitant restaurants were old school exceptions.
Playwright Becky Mode has somewhat updated her piece, changing celebrity names and calling out the venue’s specialty as “molecular gastronomy.” No, she didn’t make it up. In the film The Hundred Foot Journey, a young chef executes just that at a haute Parisian establishment. In fact, Mode’s “Smoked cuttlefish risotto in a cloud of dry ice infused with pipe tobacco” is an unnecessary stretch when you see the real thing. While much has changed, however, more remains the same.
When Mrs. Vandevere insists on a table, Sam consults business manager Oscar: “Samuel, Her husband makes a lot of money. Google him. I think he invented Botox.”
Sam juggles three phones, a desk model with a headset and multiple lines, an appropriately red wall phone – the hotline to Chef, and his own cell which has to be placed on top of a pipe while standing on a chair in order to get decent reception. On this, he speaks with his craggy, Midwestern father who wants him home for Christmas (he may have to work) and fellow performer Jerry, meanly lording auditions over his “friend.” Sam’s agent naturally calls him “sweetie” and says to concentrate on “small victories.” (Please tell me this is dated.)
Mrs. Winslow, coming in from the Midwest presses “Are you sure you don’t have anything darlin’? We are two teeny tiny people…” Then, later, “Ever hear of a little thing called Yelp?…”
There are over 40 characters. Tyler Feguson plays every part, on both ends of the phone line. Though he tends to repeat hand gestures and Jean Claude’s accent sounds like Danny Kaye or Jonathan Winters, most voices are broadly different and turn on a dime. Nothing is simply resolved. Three and four supplicants are handled simultaneously between imperious calls by Chef or Jean-Claude. The funniest ones add physicality. A woman screaming at her kids walks into something and bangs her knee. Sam puts her on hold. When he picks up her line again, he limps.
Bryce from Gwyneth Paltrow’s office wants a table for 15 Saturday night at 8:00, a legume tasting menu with a laundry list of stipulations and, as Gwyneth doesn’t really like the lighting, will send someone in to change the sconce bulbs near her table.
A photographer from Bon Appétit sits in the entry hall all day in revenge for a poor quote by the magazine. No one informs Sam of the staff meal – he’s starving. An 85 year-old wants to know why they don’t honor the AARP discount. The Maitre’d has no idea who Alan Greenspan is. It turns out Sam’s immediate superior is at a job interview elsewhere…The beleaguered reservationist is unfailingly polite to callers while visibly fraying. He never sits still.
Carolann Rosenstein-Fishburn insists on speaking to Maitre’d Jean-Claude or Chef directly. Clearly old money, she’s accustomed to cowed acquiescence and persists ever more stridently. It turns out her guest is Andre Bishop, Artistic Director of Lincoln Center where Sam has, wonder of wonders, a callback. An opportune deal is brokered. In fact, at the end, exhausted and dehydrated, the underdog manages to leave his lit-up phone with something to which he can look forward.
I myself took reservations at two very posh restaurants in my callow youth. Everything co-creator Mark Setlock depicts is accurate. Much worse, in fact, is omitted.
Jesse Tyler Ferguson is mostly fast and amusing.
Director Jason Moore is particularly good with physical comedy. He uses the set to best advantage.
Derek McLane’s Set is terrific, but swallows up the performance which should not be in a house this size. (No fault of the designer) Intimacy is part of what it has going for it. I liked the piece better the first time, but if you haven’t Fully Committed or are a fan of the Modern Family actor, it’s fun.
Photos by Joan Marcus
Fully Committed by Becky Mode Based on characters created by Becky Mode and Mark Setlock Featuring Jesse Tyler Ferguson Directed by Jason Moore Lyceum Theatre 149 West 45th Street Through July 24, 2016
