On The Record: Reviews from the 1997-98 Season
by Margaret Croyden
"The Judas Kiss" -- The Agony of Oscar Wilde
The Broadhurst Theater
235 West 45th Street
329-6200
"Gross Indeceny, The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde"
Minetta Lane Theater
18 Minetta Lane
307-4100
NEW YORK, May 14 -- Writing about Oscar Wilde in the "New York Review of Books," the
critic/editor Jason Epstein called Wilde a prophet and a man
whose behavior and dreadful punishment was a foreshadowing of
future attempts to control morality and impose a sense of
conformity upon individuals. Indeed a prophet, for the trial
and punishment of Oscar Wilde for gross indecency at the height
of the Victorian era is still as relevant today as it was in
1895.
Oscar Wilde dared to live beyond bourgeois notions of morality and its imposed restrictions. At the time of the Oscar Wilde trials, in 1895, the law against homosexuality was strictly enforced--and those who practiced it were subject to imprisonment. Finally in 1956, English law decriminalized homosexual activity. But in 1895, Oscar Wilde was convicted of being a homosexual, thrown into jail after three miserable trials, and condemned to hard labor for two years. He emerged a broken man, unable to write, his reputation destroyed, and deserted by his lover for whom he sacrificed everything. He lived only two years after his release from prison and died in Paris at the age of forty-six, alone and penniless.
Only a few years before, Wilde was the toast of London. Two of his most successful plays were running in the West End, "The Importance of Being Ernest" and "The Ideal Husband." He was accepted as a wit, an intellectually gifted poet and playwright, and after many struggles, had finally reached great success in the theater. His friends included Frank Harris and George Bernard Shaw who thought Wilde was one of the best comic writers of his generation.
Yet, when he fell in love with Lord Alfred Douglas and came under his spell--when (against the advice of his friends) he initiated a suit against Douglas's father for libel and had to withdraw it because the half mad father had compelling evidence against him-- when the father then issued a counter suit, charging him with gross indecency--Wilde refused to flee to Paris to avoid the trial which again friends warned could not be won. So against all reason, Wilde chose to face the trial.
Here the mystery begins. Why did this brilliant man, who had worked incessantly to maintain his image and who had the intelligence to understand the mores of his time, contribute to his own downfall amid warnings from his own friends and lawyer? To this day, despite all the memoirs, letters, biographies, plays, and films about Oscar Wilde, the motivations that led to his self-destruction remain inconclusive.
Yet writers cannot resist opening up the subject again. Two plays have arrived that portray Wilde's life from different vantage points. Downtown, at the small Minetta Lane theater, "Gross Indecency, The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde," a docu-drama using original sources, depicts Wilde's ordeal during the three trials, as the title indicates. The second, at the Broadhurst theater uptown, is "The Judas Kiss" by the British playwright David Hare staring Liam Neeson.
In "Gross Indecency," Moises Kaufman has done a masterly job of writing and staging the work with a group of versatile actors (many doubling in their roles) who dramatize the devastating atmosphere of Victorian England. We see the press' self-righteous, scurrilous attacks on Wilde; the cruelty of the public which instantly turned against him, the acrimony of prosecutor and judge who treated him worse than a common criminal, the philistine questioning on the morality of his art by the Court and by the Crown itself and the overwhelming hypocrisy of the ruling classes, who themselves were frightened of being accused. Surely this play, taken from original sources, is a most scathing indictment of the social and political precepts of the Victorians.
More striking is the resemblance to our world today. The extraordinary hatred for those different from themselves is as prevalent today as it was in Wilde's time: the continuing antagonism and discrimination against homosexuals, the press's puerile interest in gossip disseminated by disreputable journalists as well as respectable ones, the incessant voyeurism into the private sex lives of public officials, the unregenerate hatred between politicians and their malevolent attempts to discredit each other, the acrimonious drumbeat of the moral arbiters who preach their shibboleths as gospel but in reality are the gauleiters waiting to hang nonconformists. Clearly, the Oscar Wilde story and everything it represents has not vanished from our world. It is but a chilling reminder of the possible consequences for those who defy society's proscribed mores.
In contrast to "Gross Indecency," David Hare's "The Judas Kiss," staring the magnificent Liam Neeson as Oscar Wilde, does not describe the trials, but focuses mainly on the mystery of Wilde's relationship with Lord Douglas (Bosie) and Wilde's irrational self-destructive behavior. In Act one, set in the Hotel Cadogan (designed in stunning Victorian style by Bob Crowley), Wilde is about to leave London to avoid imminent arrest. His bags are packed, his friend Robbie is there to help him catch the train, and yet at the last moment Bosie persuades him to stay and face the indictment. And so he stays. Wilde already feels doomed and "trapped in the narrative" that traveled inexorably toward his final destruction; he still believes that what he has done was done "out of love...the purest I have ever known in my life...More perfect, more vital, more telling, more various...The redeeming fact of my life. It is what I have left. It is what remains to me."
Notwithstanding the question of whether Wilde acted out of love as he says, or for more complicated reasons, playwright David Hare focuses on Wilde's obsession with Bosie and his ultimate betrayal. Wilde cannot answer Robbie who asks why Bosie is Wilde' love object. No one dares to ask another that question, Wilde says. For him love is a mysterious, fantastical phenomenon, an image of intense reality, vital to his zeitgeist. It was for romantic love that he put himself on the cross. "I cannot live without you," Wilde says when Bosie leaves him. The "governing principle of my life has been love. But of yours, it has been power," says Wilde. Bosie did achieve power; he was the instrument of Wilde's downfall and worse, he destroyed Wilde's most powerful weapon--his art. Wilde never wrote another line after his imprisonment. In the end, self- sacrificing love proved to be the Judas' kiss, the kiss of love betrayed--the love that dares not speak its name is the love that killed Wilde.
In an extraordinary nuanced and moving performance, Liam Neeson as Oscar Wilde is a commanding figure on stage, not only because of his magnificent build, but also because of his presence and a certain poetic empathy that seems to be part of his being. In the past, we have been accustomed to seeing Wilde as a witty, debauched dandy uttering epigrams and bon mots, like one of his characters in "The Importance of Being Ernest." Neeson has cut across these conventions and preconceived images. In Neeson's hands, Wilde emerges as a genuine human being: witty but compassionate, sardonic and biting, but always emotional; one who cries easily but has enough rage to swallow up the world.
As a true star, Neeson dominates the stage for two and a half hours and speaks Hare's finest poetry, even when sitting slumped in chair for almost the whole of Act II--a remarkable feat that mesmerizes the audience into a profound silence. In a role that could have been reduced to pathos and self-pity, Neeson has an amazing power to be simple, intense, and moving all at once. When Bosie leaves Wilde in the end, the scene is horribly bitter, but Neeson plays it with a poetic texture that profoundly resonates with the audience. And leaves one startled by the luminous and transcendent quality of his acting.
As Neeson portrays him, Wilde is more sinned against than sinning--a man who loved not wisely but too well. Neeson and his clever director Richard Eyre have presented an unusual picture of a complicated man of letters whose misery was induced by his mistaken commitment to romantic love--in a way a tragic figure.
In the role of Lord Alfred (Bosie), Tom Hollander a well known, accomplished British actor, has come under some nasty criticism. Admittedly he is short and Mr. Neeson towers over him. So what? Admittedly he is played with a good deal of whining and self importance--a petulant little cad. But that is exactly the point. Bosie was like that and the actor renders the character perfectly. The playwright and the director are trying to say, yes, Wilde and Bosie may have been an unlikely pair. But any couple can fall in love, despite how others perceive them. What constitutes the perfect love affair defies an answer. No parameters or formulas have ever been set or maintained. Obsessive love, sacrificial love, love betrayed, love romanticized have been indelibly stamped on the human consciousness and accepted as the mysterious workings of the human heart, never to be explained rationally. To criticize the mysterious attraction of Lord Douglas and Wilde is to miss the point. It was a mystery. And so are all the many aspects of love. Wilde knew this. And accepted it. And paid.
David Hare has written a thoughtful play. And Liam Neeson has proved again to be one of our finest actors, unafraid to tackle a challenging role. See "The Judas Kiss" before it closes. It has a limited run. [Croyden]
“HARRY AND THE CANNIBALS” PREPARE AN INDIGESTIBLE MEAL
“Harry and the Cannibals”
June 4 to June 14, La MaMa E.T.C. (First Floor Theater), 74A East Fourth
Street
Presented by La MaMa E.T.C.
$12/TDF
(212)475-7710
reviewed by Brandon Judell, June 7, 1998
Playwright/director Susan Mosakowski wants to be outrageous and prolifically
so. Though this is our first encounter, I must say her resume is impressive.
She’s been awarded a Rockefeller Playwriting Fellowship, an NEA Playwriting
Fellowship, and three Northwest Fellowships. She’s directed readings for audio
books with the likes of Sir Ian McKellen and Claire Bloom, has adapted for
stage “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” and “Dante’s Inferno,” plus has a huge
pile of her own produced plays stacked on her shelves at home.
Her latest, “Harry and the Cannibals” is about body part appropriation. It appears Harry, whom we never meet, is dead. Before his untimely demise, he promised his wife (Louise Favier) that they would live and love together forever. To do so, he donated his organs and more for transplant. Now all Louise has to do is find who’s got 51% of Harry.
Luckily all of the recipients are living in the same jungle and are hanging out at the same down-and-out bar. Primatologist Mary (Eva Patton), who is planning to adopt a talking ape (David Giambusso) as her child, has Harry’s ears; Dr. Lacuna (Frank Deal), an unfit shrink, his heart; Bob (Lars Hanson), a brittle seismologist, his corneas; McCoy (Malcolm Adams), a frazzled Middle- East reporter, his liver, kidney and pancreas; while Frank Stein sports part of Harry’s brain. Now all Louise has to do is sniff them out.
Blessed with a beautiful, ingenious set by Paula Longendyke, appropriately wacky outfits by Julia N. Van Vliet (although they are little too clean and ironed for jungle wear), and clever staging by Mosakowski, the play seldom holds your attention. The mostly miscast actors are playing at being off-the- wall. They’re one-note cartoon characters who have the same take on every line. Considering their lines aren’t that great to begin with and neither are the takes, this total affect achieved is humdrumness.
Among the males, only Pete (Sean Weil) as a mad, horny, former mortician achieves a few moments of true lunacy. But then Ms. Favier as Harry’s widow walks on, and suddenly the play comes alive. The first few times this brunette, beauty dressed in tasteful black, just struts back and forth across the stage without lines. Then she has her big sniffing scene, trying to sense whether the scent of her late love’s body parts is on various pieces of furniture. Then she opens her mouth and the angels sing.
Like the great Black-Eyed Susan who graced the majority of the late Charles Ludlam’s plays, Ms. Favier makes the absurd seem possible. She's able to combine sexiness with ridiculousness. She can also transfigure the mundane into something palatable, and sadly she's forced to accomplish that in spades here.
Mr. Ludlam, by the way, once wrote a manifesto for his theater company. He noted in the instructions for its use: “Test out a dangerous idea, a theme that threatens to destroy one’s whole value system. Treat the material in a madly farcical manner without losing the seriousness of the theme. Show how paradoxes arrest the mind. Scare yourself a bit along the way.”
Take heed, Miss Mosakowski. “Harry and the Cannibals” is a play that was apparently written because it was time to write a play. It lacks wit and soul or an authentic vision of craziness. The cast tries hard to be ludicrous. They only succeed in being an irritant.
But then on the plus side, this is one smart-looking production. That’s something in the scheme of things. [Judell]
SHAMANISM, THEATRE, HEALING
By Melinda Given Guttmann
This review of Yara Arts' "Flight" at La MaMa is the beginning of a long
article on Shamanism, Theatre, and Healing which focuses on my examination of
performances, texts; as well as describing my primary research in
participating in contemporary shamanic events. In 1975 David Cole's The
Theatrical Event, and E.T. Kirby's Ur-Drama, the Origins of Theatre were
published. They both posit Shamanism as the origin of both Eastern and
Western theatre, but rely on anthropological references to support their
theses. In the last year, I have begun to participate in Shamanic ceremonies,
which universally include the use of psychogenic plants. So far, I have
participated in Native American healing ceremonies; as well as ceremonies in
Bali, and most recently in remote areas of the Peruvian Amazon. Shamanism
is pre-historic and entered the English language from the study of the Tungus
people of Sibera where tribal healing through Shamans was documented in the
19th Century. The Shaman was the first actor-performer-healer. Shamans, male
or female, transcend normal human consciousness and are called "masters of
Ecstasy," traveling on varying cosmological planes, and serving as
intermediaries between the visible and invisible worlds. All of the arts owe
their origin to the spiritual acts of Shamans. The Shamans who have survived
various political oppressions are eager to share their knowledge and wisdom
with those of us who have lost the ability to utilize song, dance, and
performance as literally healing for both the body and the mind. I would
appreciate the assistance of readers who know of Shamanic performances, books,
or have had Shamanic experiences to e-mail their contributions on this subject
to me which I will incoporate in this project. (MGG)
NEW YORK, May 1 -- The process which Virlana Tkacz and her collaborators in Yara Arts Groups use to create their original theatre piece makes them not only artists, but also adventurers, ethnographic scholars and primary, field researchers in the anthropology of theater. Beginning in 1994, Tkacz returned to her ancestral Ukraine, in the former Soviet-Union, and brought back both texts and performers for a theater piece entitled "Yara's Forest Song", a bi-lingual intermingling of cultures in which poetics, song, movement, and setting were directorally shaped into a strikingly spare and powerful poetic condensation which continues to mark her present methodology.
Flight re-inhabits the mysterious mytho-poetic space of the Buryat people of Mongolia, which Yara Arts began exploring last year in their chamber opera, "Virtual Souls." While "Virtual Souls" illuminated the origins of the famous ballet "Swan Lake," which is a central legend of the Buryat people, "Flight" is based on the discovery of fragments of texts of a legend of a 16th century Buryat Princess which even contemporary Buryats are unaware. While "Virtual Souls" sent naive contemporary Americans into Ilud Tempus, what the Aborigines call "dream time" (the moment of origin of all creation), "Flight" explored the nature of time by having contemporary characters interact with historical, mythical figures through the magic of Shaminism in the eternal present.
Flight is a nineties innovative, minimalist and subtle exploration of Shamanism, comparable to by Richard Schechner's "Dionysus in ‘69," which attempted to primal ecstasy in the audience by engaging performers and audience in an abandoned dance. Shechner's work was the impetus for scores of international theatres to re-work ancient concepts of theater's function as a healing ceremony. Until the 1960's, Aristotilian conceptof theater as "mimeses" or "imitation" of life dominated American Theater. Its major artists were "fourth wall" illusionists of Realism, grounded in character, plot, and text. Although avant garde experimentation was bountiful in Europe in manifold forms, theater in America dragged behind the plastic arts and dance in theoretical and deconstruction of forms.
What distinguishes "Flight" from "Dionysus in ‘69" is that the audience becomes witness rather than participant in the Shamanic experience. While the aesthetic aspects of "Flight" are more refined, Tkacz retains an aesthetic distance from the audience.
The story of "Flight" begins with the mystical force which pulls an American young man and woman to Mongolia. They, with the aid of a Buryat guide, marvel with song at the ravishing beauty of the land. I would have preferred that the personae of the Americans been substitutes for Tkacz herself, sophisticated theater and mythopoetic researchers, rather than the innocent, naive Americans abroad presented to us. The mysteries of the experience beg for the self-reflexive reflections of the researcher's own experience. The mystery begins when the tourists find a knife, which has been lost by a sixteenth century Buryat Princess--who mystically breaks the time barrier and appears in the present with her woman Shaman; the latter is played with great exterior and interior beauty by Donna Ong. The present and past merge in the eternal moment when her blurred image is caught in a poloroid snapshot. The lives of the contemporary tourists and their guide (with the aid of a contemporary male shaman forcefully portrayed by Sayan Zhambalov, an extraordinary "throat singer") become merged increasing with the past which presents itself vividly in the present. The trio discover fragments of the story which would be unknown by the Buryats today of the Princess who sacrificed herself and her great love to save her country against barbaric invaders.
Tzacz has made a momentous discovery, and a Yara Arts an exquisite work of art. Present Buryats who have escaped and recovered their spirituality from decades of Soviet repression are both Shamans and Bhuddists today. Although there is no interweaving of Bhuddist practice in the piece, the Bhuddist concept of the interconnectedness of all peoples and nature is the primary revelation of "Flight." The climax of the piece occurs when the two tourists are possessed by the Princess and her lover, taking on their personae, the young woman becoming not only the Princess, but also one with nature: her eyes, she sings "are rain", her ears are "thunder." The physical journey is transformed into a metaphysical journey.
Flight is a work in progress and the cast and technical artists spoke with the audiences after the breathtaking one-hour performance, which left one hungry for the experience to continue. Tkacz said that the incidents were formed from the actual process of searching for a text with which the Buryat and American performers and musical artists could create and collaborate. Apparently they observed a secretive Shamanic festival, but changed both the music and prayers they documented, feeling it would be an impingement on the sacred to exactly reproduce the chants and music of the Shamans. The music composed and played by Genji Ito with the collaboration of Erzhena Zhambalov were an arresting, ravishing melage of Ito's innovations with tradional Shamanic song and drum beat.
I believe that audiences should be participants and not witnesses to the Shamanic aspects of Flight. The Winter publication of the journal Shaman's Drum, has an article on Shamanism and music by Kira Van Deusen, which posits that Mongolian Throat Singing (which appears in "Flight") and the Shamanic prayers are ways of creating spiritual bridges for invoking and communicating with helping spirits, and for evoking sacred energy in the minds of listners. The vibrations of "throat singing" are believed to have a healing effect on the listner. I regret that Tzcaz did not use the literal chants and prayers which she experienced--who knows what effect they may have made on her audience.
The effects already achieved are moving, beautiful, and relevatory of an unknown world both to us and to the Buryats whose spiritual traditions have been buried by a technological, materialist era of dark times and dark nationalism. This luminous nationalism gives us all hope for redemption, that the crooked places shall be made straight. [MGG]
"High Society" -- The Life of the Rich
St. James Theater
246 West 44th Street
239-6200
Opened April 27, 1998
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden April 29, 1998.
A plethora of revivals from the 1930s and '40s have recently
opened on Broadway, and one wonders why long forgotten, passé
works seem to attract talented producers? Are they trying to
gimmick up these aged chestnuts hoping to rekindle an nostalgic
era that might expand business, or do they lack the imagination
and talent to create something new and fresh? But alas, the more
Broadway entrepreneurs try to rekindle the past, the more they
fail. First there is the saccharin "Sound of Music," followed by
the simplistic "Ah Wilderness," and the deadly "The Deep Blue
Sea," to name a few. Now "High Society" the Cole Porter musical
movie of the 1940's, based on Philip Barry's play "The
Philadelphia Story," has arrived. We remember the incomparable Katherine Hepburn as the charming Tracy Lord who originated the role on stage and screen, a role written expressly for her. And then came the perfect high society type, Grace Kelly, teamed with Bing Crosby in the Barry comedy, this time, reworked as the Cole Porter musical, renamed "High Society." And now fifty years later a "new" "High Society" now on Broadway--somewhat changed, but nevertheless, out of date and lifeless.
By now people are familiar with the old drawing room comedy's thin story line depicting the "plight" of the young patrician Tracy Lord who, after a divorce, is engaged to marry someone whom her snobbish family and friends deem unfit for her--a man from the working class who had become a nouveau riche executive. The Lord family do not work of course; they give parties, drink endless glass of champagne, get roaring drunk, talk nonsense and, worse still, pretend to have wit.
On the eve of Tracy's wedding, everything is turned around when a reporter arrives to cover the event, and her ex-husband also appears, who you know will win her back after she dumps her fiancee. In the course of the action, Tracy is depicted as an ice goddess, cold and unfeeling; by the end of the play, she is supposedly transformed into a warm human being. By what means is unclear, either in the script or by the actress playing the role. Oh yes, a pesky little sister pretending to be wiser than her elders is on the scene; so is a drunken alcoholic, skirt-chasing uncle; and an estranged father of the bride who suddenly appears and becomes reconciled with his wife, and a chorus of maids and butlers who act as singing commentators, dance little innocuous dances (with trays of food in hand) and fill-in while the scenery is changed.
Some familiar Cole Porter songs are charming, but a favorite one; "I love Paris" is ruined by Tracy and her silly sister's attempt at farce while singing the lyrics. "Let's Misbehave" is the best production number; at least there is some semblance of vitality.
A Philip Barry high comedy of manners needs a scintillating cast who can perform with grace and sophistication. But the director mysteriously injected farcical elements into the production, hampering the actors' characterizations and creating a sillier atmosphere than is necessary. Arthur Kopit, an experienced and well recognized playwright, has tried to breathe some life into the lines, but he has not succeeded; the text remains pedestrian. Some new Cole Porter songs have been added, but that doesn't help either.
In the main role, Melissa Errico is badly miscast. She is unequipped to play the engaging Tracy Lord (and certainly she is no match for the inimitable Kate Hepburn). Conventionally pretty, her personality and her acting are synthetic. Though she is gussied up with a white face and fiery red lips in the style of the period, she is nevertheless unattractive and charmless. And unbelievable in the extreme. There is an air of amateurishness about her, as though she were in a school play trying very hard to please, and in her effort, dragging out every cliche known to beginners. She dances well but her singing is colorless and too loud (a result of her bodymike maybe, which hinders more than helps). Although she has a beautiful figure and wears her costumes well, she cannot capture the cool sophistication needed for the role. Which is a pity, since the actress playing Tracy Lord must carry the play, not sink it.
Some of the actors however are better than others. John McMartin as the drunken uncle makes the most of his role; he has a good comedy sense and livens up his scenes. Daniel McDonald, playing the estranged husband who wins Tracy back, is handsome and debonair, and tries to give his part a touch of Philip Barry. But Tracy's obnoxious little sister played obnoxiously by Anna Kendrick is another annoying feature of the production. Child actors are always tough to like; they are obviously cute, coy, and clawing and watching them trying to act grown up and clever, even if the part calls for it, is a chore--and a bore.
The other actors are typical singers and actors usually found in Broadway musicals. They sing, they act, they dance, they joke, but they cannot save the show. We have come a long way from the forties when Bing Crosby had only to sing a few songs and everyone would swoon. With creative work like "Ragtime" and "Lion King" on Broadway, recycled, kitsch musicals will not do. Audiences deserve something better. [Croyden]
"Upstate," written and directed by Crystal Field
March 19 to April 11
Theater for the New City, 155 First Ave. (at E. 10th St.)
Presented by Theater for the New City
(closed)
Reviewed by Larry Litt March 27, 1998
Just for the Record I think it appropriate that you
know that I’m a writer who has for many years spent my summers in small towns
in the Catskill Mountains. I love the Catskills because they are the source of
many lovely memories for my adult life. I have never felt more alive than when
waking up on a gorgeous summer morning, I walk out of my fishing
shack/writer’s studio to breathe mountain air, hear water racing over the
rocks in the stream next to the shack and see the outline of mountains against
the blue and white sky. I spend the days exploring mountain trails and yard
sales, then writing the nights away. It’s the best possible summer while still
at home.
I also don't want anyone to criticize it for the wrong reasons. And I know there's plenty to criticize. So I took offense when Crystal Field, writer and director of Theater for the New City’s premier production of her comedy “Upstate,” points to the mountains as a place where writers go to create silly little plays for children after they win NYSCA (New York State Council for the Arts) grants. Maybe they do, but most of us go there for real recreation and inspiration.
Field’s “Upstate” follows the NYSCA grant worthy playwright Richard Place (Jonathan Slaff) on his adventure to find a place to write. He's spent the grant money on a copy machine. Who knows why? Richard is commissioned by NYSCA to write a children’s play. Slaff tries hard to make Place a long suffering New York City liberal who is even willing to starve himself to near death for a good cause. But we never see his motivations. It’s not in the writing. I’m sure the playwright who created this play knows what it’s like to be a frustrated crusader for social justice and world peace, but she doesn't tell us a real thing about the inner life of the character. He seemed so out of place (not a pun) at a Greenpeace starve-in. Well, this is a comedy, so I guess she doesn't have to. We're supposed to automatically know, and therefore be "in" on the jokes, about the playwright's political life. I for one missed it.
Place’s love interest is a book editor named Bella (Susan Brennan) who is so shallow that I wondered if she had ever read a book. All she wants is for Richard to fulfill himself, whatever that means. Maybe it’s the “whatever makes you happy” syndrome that carries over into all the other characters. None of these one-dimensional stick figures offers any resistance to anything except for the character of Arthur, played by Alexander Bartenieff.
The only reason to see this play is for the upbeat character acting of Slaff and Bartieneff. Bartenieff plays Richard Place’s twenty-something cousin, or nephew depending on the expository moment. He’s trying to become a filmmaker or video artist or cliché of a modern media student. His resistance is manifest in his obnoxious behavior, that sort of half man and half whimpering child we see in so many new independent movies about young people in confused lust. That Richard doesn’t murder him, which would have made for an excellent plot complication and maybe justified Arthur’s meager existence, is a miracle. Certainly Arthur’s dropped in there for comic relief. Indeed, Bartenieff’s forceful, cloying physical style raises some hopes for the rest of the play.
Finally Richard and Arthur go to their rich, obviously Jewish Uncle Max’s (Don Arrington) country house in the Catskills, hence the mysterious name of this play. It’s an old Rockefeller estate, not one of the rich Rockefellers we're told, but one of the good Rockefellers. What the difference? Well, the good Rockefellers are the rich ones who started NYSCA which has ever since given ever dwindling grants to arts organizations and artists in New York. Which Rockefeller was that? Why Nelson, of course. And would you believe his ghost (Kevin Mitchell Martin) lives in the house upstate where Richard is writing his children’s play? I know you don't believe it, but believe, believe.
The ever considerate Arthur invites five of his Bard College friends to spend the weekend at the house as a diversion. They perform a pagan, gaiaistic ritual where we finally get to see their middle aged bodies dance around a red light fire. Meanwhile Arthur is inventing Rube Goldbergesque devices that inevitably blowup the property. Perhaps it should have been destroyed earlier, in the first act to save us the trouble of figuring out why the Bard students take Richard’s unfinished children’s masterpiece and perform it at Bard for the NYSCA case worker Mr. Lawrence (Craig Meade). How do these people know each other? [Litt]
"The Cripple of Inishmaan" A Rare Treat
The Joseph Papp Public Theater
425 Lafayette Street
New York, N. Y. 10003
Through May 10
(212) 539-8500
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden April 9, 1998
One of the most beautiful and touching plays to reach the
American stage is "The Cripple Of Inishmaan" at the Public
Theater. Written by a young Irishman, Martin McDonagh, already
hailed as the most important voice to reach our shores, this play
is bleak, funny, sad, and moving. Performed by a splendid cast (all Americans, except for the leading role), it is a rare treat to see
such ensemble acting. Credit must be given to the director,
four-time Tony winner, Jerry Zaks, who has staged the play
meticulously; not a laugh is lost, not an emotional moment is
false. From the instant the curtain rises on a bleak, bare, stone
walled house on one of the Aran Islands off the west coast of
Ireland in 1934, the mood and tone of the play is apparent. This
is a mini tragedy about wasted lives in a poverty stricken,
claustrophobic Ireland where people have good hearts-- albeit
idiosyncratic--but are doomed to failure.
The play centers on a poor, orphaned boy crippled from birth, living with his adopted aunts and ostracized by the villagers who address him as Cripple Billy--the only name we know him by. A movie company has come to shoot a film in this remote village-- Robert Flaherty's documentary "Man of Aran" -- and most of the inhabitants, with little excitement in their lives, hope to get a part in the film--especially Billy. By sheer willpower, he connives to get a screen test for the film, and is whisked away to Hollywood, only to find that the city does not match his dreams.
As you can see, the plot is comparatively simple, but the play has plenty of texture. Especially in the playwright's use of language. The dialogue is Irish to the core with its melody and poetry that typify the best Irish writers. The playwright repeatedly uses certain words and phrases to express the psychological aspects of the characters and his delicious use of humor that masks the despair of the villagers is particularly clever. Moreover, the townspeople are quintessentially Irish--in their lingo, their jokes, their warmth and their foolishness. But even their foolishness is lovable. Take the character of Johnnypateenmike (notice his name). He is the man who disseminates "news" to the townspeople. And what news: idiotic small talk, like a choice hen has disappeared. To add to his craziness, he supplies his mother with enough whiskey to kill her so that he can inherit what little money she has. Yet, he is funny and, in the end, sympathetic.
The actor, Donal Donnelly, is so authentic in the role, it is hard to believe he is acting; his performance is seamless. His accent is perfect, his timing is perfect and, with his scraggly beard, unkempt trousers, and whining voice, he is a true comic character. Then there are the two "aunts" --played beautifully by Elizabeth Franz and Roberta Maxwell--who love Billy. One is a pessimist, the other an optimist, both are full of Irish witticisms and Irish foreboding. They carry on conversations that are ostensibly empty chatter, but their loneliness is poignantly clear.
An important character is Helen, a bawdy, filthy-mouthed girl (played with appropriate gusto by Aisling O'Neill) whom Billy loves. She is a cursing, aggressive, nasty girl but in the end, she too is redeemed.
Finally Cripple Billy, played by Ruaidhri Conroy who created the part in London to critical acclaim, is a master in projecting Billy's distorted, crippled body, his twisted spine and neck, and skinny misshaped legs --and this he does without self-pity or sentimentality. But his aura of sweetness is immediately explicit and enormously moving. Just to look at his face is to know the whole story. A lonely, abandoned child is haunted by the possible suicide of his parents, and dreams of escaping the miserable environment that imprisons him. He talks to cows, sits on a fence for hours looking at them and withstands the taunts and insults of people who cannot call him by his rightful name without adding "cripple" to it. With the exception of his"aunts" people cannot see the essential beauty beneath the disfigured body. Mr. Conroy, a gifted actor, succeeds beautifully in a difficult role that demands expert control of the body; he is quite remarkable in creating the awful deformity and at the same time, projecting a portrait of youthful frustration, at the mercy of a backward environment.
To be sure, the play has no profound philosophical meaning, and perhaps the plot even sounds familiar, but the work has a certain force and beauty of its own. The acting, the dialogue and the basic humanity underlying the work make for a genuine emotional experience...which in our theater is indeed rare. [Croyden]
"Cabaret"--A Shocker
"Cabaret"
Roundabout Theater Company
Kit Kat Club
124 West 43street
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden March 23, 1998.
One of the drawbacks to reviving big hits of the past like "Cabaret" is that one always remembers the original production. "Cabaret" is one of those memorable shows that remains indelible in a theatergoer's mind. Not only was the original directed by Harold Prince, a huge success, but who can forget the Bob Fosse film staring the great Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey, both playing their signature roles. Now we have the NEW "Cabaret" staring the English actress Natasha Richardson directed by Sam Mendes, also English, who first produced the work in London to glittering reviews.
Natasha Richardson may be the star of "Cabaret" but the true star is director Sam Mendes, who obviously was intent on upgrading the show. Taking it much further than Harold Prince or Bob Fosse in his depiction of decadent Berlin in the 1930's, as the Nazi's were taking power, Mendes zeros in to the ugly debauchery, and repellent grunge of the Kit Kat club players--its chorus of sordid hookers, and their odious MC. The "girls" are filthy, smelly, and grotesque, with bizarre hairstyles, raggedly underwear, torn stockings, and distorted half-crazed, drugged faces.
Their MC is a slimy, sinister, gutter rat, with an androgynous stark white face, painted red lips and naked, glittering nipples whose vile obscenities overpower every scene. When we first meet this sinister thug singing the familiar "Willkommen," beckoning us to enter his seedy club, he is barechested, wears a leather jock strapped tightly around his crotch to emphasize his genitals, which he repeatedly handles. We know at once that we are in a stinking hell hole, a rat's sewer at the time of the Nazis. It is a remarkable entrance indeed.
In the face of this ghoulish characterization which fascinates the audience, Natasha Richardson, as Sally Bowles, the lead singer in the cabaret about whom the play was written, is somewhat at a disadvantage. In Richardson's interpretation, Sally Bowles, coming from a middle-class English background, is somewhat of an outsider. While she too looks terrible with her torn stockings, bleached blonde hair, and ratty clothes, she is not quite as disgusting as the rest. Underneath is a vulnerable young woman gone astray, albeit a hooker.
Casting Natasha Richardson as a low-down cabaret singer, (with a heart of gold), the director has taken a risk, but regrettably, Richardson, who attempts to give the part a new twist, is not believable. Sally Bowles is funky; Richardson is not; Sally Bowles is sexy; Richardson is not, despite her strutting around in her underwear; Sally Bowles likes her Bohemian life in Berlin, albeit her sordid existence. Sally Bowles is a charmer, a seducer; she attracts men; she uses them; she is not a naive character unaware of her circumstances.
But whatever Sally Bowles is, she is not a proper English lady, a quality that Richardson tries to shake, but her natural gentility comes through. In Natasha Richardson's interpretation, her position in the club, and her desire to remain there is hard to justify.
Fortunately Alan Cumming's MC is brilliant. A remarkable performer, with an agile body and a rubber face, he more than captures the seediness of his character. He is flamboyant, raunchy, sleazy, and ugly. He is a master of the nasty look, the dirty gesture, the insidious body movement, the lifting of a smutty eyebrow, the beckoning of a crooked finger and the totally lascivious presence--all worked out to perfection. His is a world of sexual gestures, bumps and grinds, and behavior so garish and intentionally shocking that the audience seems mesmerized.
But compelling as he is, Mr. Cumming overplays his hand. He loves mugging and his sexual vulgarity is excessive; there is too much crotch groping, too many exposed behinds, outstretched legs, and simulated fornication. This is an in your face performance where more is less. Lewdness may be appropriate but after repeated obscenities, the actor rather than the character becomes obnoxious. Moreover, the barrage of sexual images scream at us throughout the evening and soon the repetition becomes tiresome.
In the role of Clifford Bradshaw, ostensibly the standin for author Christopher Isherwood, who wrote the original Sally stories, John Benjamin Hickey is ineffectual. The part is underwritten as well. The character's sexuality is in question. An admitted homosexual, he suddenly falls in love with Sally and when she becomes pregnant, he offers to marry her and take her home. All of which is unbelievable. Nothing leads up to this. The relationship between the two had never been developed so that the action is illogical.
A glaring bit of miscasting is Mary Louise Wilson in the important role of Fraulein Schneider. Ms. Wilson, a talented actress acclaimed for her one woman show, "Full Gallop" sings so badly and loudly and is often off key. Nor can she make up for it by acting the part either. She seems totally out of place. In fact, one of the mysteries of this production and a major flaw is that no one in the show can really sing. Don't be looking for Natasha Richardson, nor anyone else in the company, to belt out the wonderful Kander and Ebb songs.
When the cast does sing, they bellow out their songs in raucous, crude, tones made all the worse by ear splitting body mikes that ruin the famous numbers. Perhaps the director intended Sally to be untalented; nevertheless, he should have cast someone who COULD sing, and at the same time demonstrate that she is a second rate performer.
Not content to stage the show in a regular theater, the director wanted the audience to be involved in a real club. So the Henry Miller theater has been designed to resemble the Kit Kat club with tables and chairs and red lit lamps. Before the show begins, some dirty looking, bedraggled, hookers dressed in foul clothes and ripped stockings (worn throughout the show), do their stretches, and splits, wiggle their behinds, suggestively spread their legs, and telegraph what we will see repeatedly when the actual play begins.
All the while, waiters walk around the "club" selling drinks to the customers. At heavy prices. The idea of forsaking the real theater for a club is a novel idea if it works. But the audience is forced to sit on hardback, uncomfortable, shaky chairs with a lamp in front of them that obstructed the view. Moreover, the scenes that take place away from the club--the rooming house, for example--the stage is completely bare. Only four doors at the rear and a chair remind us that we are not really in a club at all, so why the gimmick?.
Admittedly, the director is full of ideas, yet after a while the show curiously lags. There is no climatic buildup. The tone is set in the first half hour and never changes or develops. And without an exciting Sally Bowles and a cast that can sing as well as act, something very precious has been lost--the Kander and Ebb score. After all "Cabaret" is listed as a musical, but music and the musical arrangements all give way to a deliberate assault on the audience in favor of a tawdry excessive shock treatment. Which in itself is not enough to tell the ironic story of Berlin at history's most crucial and tragic moment. [Croyden]
What is art?
ART
The Royale Theater
242 West 45th Street
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden March 1st, 1998
ART, written by Yasmina Reza, which opened at the Royale Theater on March 1st, is a play that every serious theater goer should see straightaway. Marvelously acted by Alan Alda, Victor Garber and Alfred Molina, translated from the French by Christopher Hampton, and directed with painstaking detail and precision by the talented British director Matthew Warchus, this 90 minute intermissionless farce which turns serious half way is one of the wittiest and cleverest works to hit Broadway. Not that it is a complicated or even emotional play; it is distinguished by a flawless production and first class acting in a play that is minimalist, comic and subtly intellectual.
The plot is deceivingly simple. Serge, a doctor (Victor Garber), buys an all white painting for $40,000. His best friend, Marc, (Alan Alda) is shocked by Serge's taste, and begins a steady barrage of merciless criticism precipitating a break in their longtime relationship. A third friend, Yvan (Alfred Mollina), acts as intermediary between the two antagonists and is more interested in maintaining a pleasant friendship than in commenting on the art. Perplexed and saddened by the fierce battle between his friends, Yvan also becomes a target for abuse, precisely because he takes no position. The men continue to denigrate each other in an absurdist repartee reminiscent of the hilarious Steinfeid characters. These middle-class yuppies passionately debate questions of art (and life) with the fervor of true intellectuals, only to create the funniest dialogue on the Broadway stage.
But what is behind all the comedy? Why are these men so offensive to each other over a painting? Using art as a comic metaphor, the playwright's intention is to expose the vacuity of the characters' relationships and the misplacement of their emotional lives. Underneath their anger and so-called erudition are the psychological underpinnings of rigid, opinionated, ideological poseurs who cannot tolerate opposing ideas. Marc, the worst offender, is an insufferable egotist and self-centered philistine pretending to be the unchallenged arbiter of art and culture. Yet he is hard-pressed to explain his extreme reaction to the painting except to exclaim over and over that it is "shit." He apparently thinks of himself as his friend's mentor and is outraged that Serge's taste should differ from his own.
Serge is a novice who collects art because it is chic. He can neither articulate his love for his painting nor proclaim any esthetic judgment; he is more interested in what the picture's resale market price will be. Yvan, a simple, working class fellow, vacillates to win his friends' favor, only to be castigated for his ambivalence. Straightlaced and unpretentious, he is the only sympathetic character in contrast to his cold and unfeeling friends. At least he admits his ignorance and tries desperately to save the friendships. But these relationships are so precarious that one wonders what kind of friendship these men had in the first place and why they would be worth saving.
The author cleverly establishes a kind of dialectic between the characters which adds to the fun. She allows them to change their arguments from time to time, so that the audience doesn't quite know for whom to root. One minute you support the Alan Alda character because you also hate the picture; at the same time you abhor his unrelenting ridicule. Next you sympathize with the badly humiliated collector but you can't respect his trendy art. Only Yvan catches your sympathy; he is the only rational character. And he is no intellectual. Nor was he meant to be.
Though the arguments are played for comedy, underneath some important problems are raised. The notion that strong opinions lead to unbalanced, dogmatic fights, and furious personal insults, despite longtime friendships that crumble under severe attacks are important points in the play. In fact, what is the meaning of friendship between these men? Wisely, the playwright offers no solutions and only poses more questions.
The meaning of art is another problem subtly raised. What is art, how do people view a painting, who can define art, can it be objectified, or is all art (and life) finally a subjective experience? No one in the play formulates a clear-cut definition of art. Nor can they. Maybe art, like life itself, is whatever one perceives it to be--and wants it to be. To be blessed with a strong vision and able to see --art, relationships, life-- from various vantage points is itself an art. Perception is the key to everything. Which in the final analysis justifies the author's use of art as a metaphor.
The acting is unimaginably brilliant. Against an almost bare stage (all white of course) designed by Mark Thompson, the actors, dressed in either black or grey, give seamless performances. Alan Alda, as the malicious Marc, obsessed with hatred. delivers his vitriol with a laugh and devastating one- liners. Victor Garber, a weak man seduced into paying any price for art, is the perfect foil. But the scene stealer is the dazzling Alfred Mollina delivering a ten minute comic tour de force describing the absurdity of his life--an extraordinary piece of acting.
It is a pleasure to report that a cleverly written play with sophisticated dialogue, with actors who can act, and with directors who can direct, proves that the theater is decidedly not dead, but very much alive, and kicking up a storm on the stage of the Royal theater. [Croyden]
"The Capeman"
MarquisTheatre, 1535 Broadway
(212) 382-0100
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden January 30,1998.
The Capeman," Paul Simon's first Broadway musical which opened
on January 29th, had all the makings of a first class production.
What could be more inviting than music by Paul Simon, book by
Nobel laureate Derek Walcott, and direction by avant garde
choreographer Mark Morris? But even before the opening
(postponed several times), the buzz was bad. After a few weeks
into rehearsals, Simon had fired several cast members as well as
the first director, whom he replaced with Mark Morris only to
fire Morris and hire four-time Tony winner, Jerry Zaks, who
doctored the final show (though Mark Morris is credited as
director in the program). Simon also received bad publicity for
arrogant putdowns of Broadway, and an unflattering profile in the
"New York Times" did not help either. Still one went to the
theater disregarding all the gossip and hoping that the show
would prevail.
But it did not; it was a noble try, but Paul Simon is his own worst enemy. Here we have a talented, masterful composer, one of the country's best known songwriters for more than three decades, winner of numerous Grammy awards, an artist known for his social consciousness and a mover and shaker for various charitable social causes--certainly an intelligent and gifted artist. How did this show with its $11 million investment fail? What went wrong?
Unfortunately Simon, with his considerable ego, took over the production at the very beginning not only as chief musician, but as writer, director, and lyricist, thus muddying the waters. With no experience with a Broadway musical, he was later forced to retreat somewhat. But by then many cooks had already spoiled the broth. Derek Walcott, may be a brilliant poet, but his metier is not Broadway and he and Simon, reportedly were far from compatible. (They both shared the credit for the book and the lyrics). The basic fault however is Simon's. He had overwritten the score and apparently wouldn't budge: there were enough songs to accommodate ten shows; he mixed salsa, gospel, rock and a variety of forms that added to the confusion of the text. Plainly the songs overtook everything: story, characters, development of ideas, dramatic climaxes--all became secondary in favor of the music. True, some songs were catchy and moving, but as a whole, the music was not deep enough to carry the day. An opera or in this case, a pop opera, needs either brilliant music or a stunning production--two elements missing here.
The story depicts the life of Salvador Agron, who as a teenage Puerto Rican gang member kills two youths, is sentenced to death, but then is commuted to a long term prison sentence, and while incarcerated, learns to read and write. In the end he publishes his story about prison life. The boy is shown at three stages of his life: as a child with his mother in Puerto Rico, as a young killer, and as a grown man who, acting as narrator, remembers his past and understands it on another level.
One of the problems is that sympathy for the young man turned killer, though a true story, is difficult to accept. The psychological aspects of his life leading to the murder are not sufficiently dramatized. We are told (not shown) that his step father beat him, that he lacked self esteem, that he was influenced by his poverty and his Puerto Rican background, that he was pressured by the gang, that he was delighted to wear the famous cape (symbol of the Vampire gang) which gave him a sense of power. We gleam this information in bits and pieces from the underwritten text. And it is not enough. Even the murder does not reach any dramatic heights; it is done fast and furious behind an iron gate; we hardly see it; there is no buildup; the moment comes from no where and ends quickly.
To their credit, Simon and Walcott tried to show different sides of the problem: the killer's mother, a poor woman struggling against poverty and longing for her homeland; the mothers of the slain youths who cannot forgive the killings; the sadism of the police and the press toward Puerto Ricans; the meanness of prison life, and the frenzy of the media. Some of these scenes are moving and emotionally compelling, particularly when Ednita Nazario, in the role of the mother, has the stage. A fine actress with a beautiful singing voice, her scenes are the most memorable--but she is somewhat stereotypical; the good, religious Catholic woman who depends on God and the church for salvation. Her role in the upbringing of the boy is a blank.
Another problem is that the narrative is all too familiar. Haven't we seen and heard this story somewhere--in the movies, on the stage, in television, on the front pages of the tabloid press? If one tells this story again, one needs to find a new and fresh point of view, or invent a magnificent production with brilliant dramatic acting, or create music so compelling that it is sufficient in itself so that dialogue and story line are unimportant. But in this show, we need the story, we need the dialogue, we need the information to carry the weight of the tragedy. The music alone will not suffice.
Finally the staging is amateurish. No wonder. You don't hire Mark Morris, a choreographer, to handle a big Broadway musical (which he had never done before) and then cut the dancing to an uninspired scene or two. You don't create immense sets that dwarf the actors. If you must have such sets, you had better fill up the space. You don't hire actors who sing well but can't act, who can barely get across the stage. Mr. Ruben Blades, playing the mature Agron, has no energy, lacks charisma and theatrical presence; he just walks through the show. The young Agron, Marc Anthony is better, but without a character to develop, he faded fast. Only Ednita Nazario (the mother) held her own. So did Sara Ramierez in a small part of the young Indian woman who sends Agron letters in jail.
Having said all this, the show, because of its important subject matter does provide some tension and dramatic interest, but only in the beginning, particulary in its opening number"Born in Puerto Rico," an evocation of Agron's life in his native land, and the sad dirge "Can I Forgive Him" sung beautifully by the victims' mothers. But by the second act, all the flaws are there; and the audience's energy is sapped, the actors seem tired; the show drags. You want the curtain to come down fast. The writers, the producers, everyone involved --two many hands in this-- apparently did not know how to resolve the story, whatever there was of a story, and everything became worse.
I couldn't help thinking of the world wide success of "West Side Story" years ago, also about Latino youths, but that was another generation. Right now the theater cannot support another "West Side Story" except if it involves geniuses like Bernstein, Robbins and Sondheim--and a plot stolen from a master. [Croyden]
"Three Sisters" by Anton Chekhov
Brooklyn Academy of Music
Lafayette Street
Brooklyn, New York
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden February 10,1998
An important event of this year's theatrical season
occurred at the Brooklyn Academy where, under the leadership of
Harvey Lichtenstein (who, as always, brings to our town exciting
and original productions) the renowned Moscow Art theater
presented its acclaimed production of Chekhov's "Three Sisters."
This production also celebrated the 100th anniversary of the
founding of the famous Moscow Art. Not only was "Three Sisters"
reviewed favorably by the New York critics, but members of the
company were honored at the Actors Studio, the renowned academy
known for popularizing the Stanislavsky method that originated
with the Moscow Art.
One of the chief spokespersons for the company is Anatoly Smeliansky, Associate Artistic Director and a leading scholar and historian of Russian theater. He recently published the "Complete Works of Stanislavsky," "The Moscow Art Theater Encyclopedia," and is at work on "Russian Theater After Stalin" (Cambridge University Press). He is well known in theatrical circles having lectured widely in America and Europe.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon, Smeliansky appeared at my apartment for an interview at three in the afternoon and left at six--he is a great conversationalist. Charming, erudite, a man of extreme intelligence and urbanity, Smeliansky described the present situation in Moscow.
"The Moscow Art Theater today is divided into two companies, which happened in 1987 under Gorbachev, just before the breakdown of USSR. It was the first example of Glasnost, and signified the greatest change in the structure of the theater," he said. "Because of the divisions in the company, it was decided to establish two theaters: One in the tradition of Gorki, the other his theater in the tradition of Chekhov. Apparently this division signifies the conflict that still rages in Moscow: i. e., Chekhov the humanist and Gorki, the propagandist. It is the Moscow Art Theater/Chekhov that opened at the Brooklyn Academy with "Three Sisters", a production that some hailed at as a new beginning.
"We had the problem of how to reconstruct the theater," Smeliansky continued, "it had become unmanageable with its 180 actors; now it is cut to 60. Having a large company insured the actors their yearly salary but weakened the productions. Actors had to be used, and some had outgrown their usefulness. There were numerous attempts to reorganize but under the Soviet regime it was impossible despite the company's attempt hundreds of times... The Moscow Art Theater had been canonized and the theater was so entrenched as a Soviet institution, it could not be moved away from its traditional role until Glasnost."
Smeliansky recalled that Gorbachev came to see "Uncle Vanya" on the eve of the May Day parade in 1985. It was unusual for a head of state to attend the theater the night before the traditional parade. At that point members of the company surmised that a change would soon be forthcoming. And it was.
It was decided that because of the conflicts in the company, the troupe would be split in two. So today two companies stand side by side.
"The big difference now," Smeliansky said, "is the decannonization of the Moscow Art. And the desire to form a family environment among the actors, which was impossible with 180 members. Sometimes the director could hardly remember the names of the actors."
All sixty-five actors are now under contract, guaranteed for one season. The Government still supports the Moscow Art; it is considered a national treasure, but unfortunately the company cannot rely on the meager subsidy (about 25% of the budget) that only goes for salaries, not for the cost of productions. The box office takes in about 10 % of the money needed. The rest has to be raised.
"We are using the capitalistic way," Smeliansky said. "We raise money from private sponsors, not that our investors make back their money. What kind of money can you make from Moscow Art? As far as the audiences go, it is the cheapest entertainment for Russian people; they don't care about ideology or politics or serious matters in the theater. People cannot afford restaurants or clubs--it is too expensive. The theater is not cheap--$4 or $5-- but it is the only place where people feel alive. Someone is sitting next to you; you become a neighbor of somebody."
Apparently the most difficult problem of the Moscow Art Theater is producing contemporary plays, a scarcity in today's Russia. The Theater is still confined therefore to the classical repertory --Chekhov, Gogol, Dostoevsky and so forth. Ironically under the Soviets some new playwrights were produced, but the very same writers stopped writing because they have nothing to say, and presumably they are somewhat embarrassed about their propagandistic role under the Soviets.
When asked why Russian intellectuals as well as ordinary folks do not speak about their past, or why nobody has been tried for crimes, or why the KGB is still in power, or why archives have not been opened (as the Germans' have), Smeliansky said:
"People in Europe had a different problem. The regime was imposed on them from the outside, but for the Russians it was their own creation. They did it to themselves. If not for Gorbachev, the Russians would wait for a hundred years more for someone to come along and free them."
It was suggested that the drama of Gorbachev and the overthrow of the regime were perfect topics for a play, so why was no one writing about this?
"When people think of the past, they think not of the regime but they have nostalgia for their youthful days. And with that feeling the truth about the country is often minimized. People find it hard to divorce their motherland and their essential love of the country from the evils the country perpetrated. They remember their village, their families, their youth, their childhood. That becomes your memory. I have beautiful, strange memories of my childhood, and of my family.
"Another reason people don't criticize the past, is because they are dissatisfied with the present. Wild capitalism is so disgusting to them, that they prefer the past with its accommodations and its predictability of life. Yes, it has been a problem how Russians are trying to overcome their past. Every day there were programs on TV and in the papers about the past, and eventually people got sick of it. People want to forget, they want entertainment, not entertainment like in the U.S. for the rich, but entertainment for the poor to get away from their hard lives. The want consolation and we seek to create an art of consolation, not political theater. If you don't see the changes in your life for the better, then there is a disillusionment with the present and life is often compared to the past.
"The past was not, of course, glorious even for the theater. Every actor had a salary but some never touched the stage. The Moscow Art was completely under the control of the Communist Party for many years,though the situation changed when Gorbachev came to power. When the company toured, of course, there were several people who went along presumably to watch for defections. We got used to it; it didn't even matter; it was a fact of life. It all depended upon the kind of person leading the theater. Oleg Efremov, our director, was never a collaborator, he never signed anything, and we never staged any play that glorified the system; I am Jewish and to invite me to be the dramaturg was an heroic act, even though I was not a member of the party."
To change the subject he was asked, what was the practical advantage of the interchange between Russians and Americans?
"We would like to show an ideal kind of theater, how it should be; it has nothing to do with the reality of theater today, but ideals are important. What is the point of theater--just to earn money? A lot of businesses are more profitable than theater. As for the past, I must say that great pressure produced some great theater: Sovremennik and Taganka. (two non-traditional theaters). I agree that about 95% of the theaters were bad because of the propaganda but 5% of it was magnificent."
And one supposes that we have to be thankful for that. [Croyden]
"Richard II" and "Richard III" In Repertory
Theatre For A New Audience
423 West 46th Street
February 15, 1998
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden February 20, 1998.
"Richard II" is Shakespeare's most important history play.
It begins the tragic chronicle of the civil wars that was almost
the ruin of England. And it is most gratifying that Theater for
A New Audience has chosen to open its Spring season with this
work (in repertory with "Richard III"). Richard II was the
first king to be deposed and murdered at a time when lawfulness and civil rights had virtually no place in the realm. What worked
in England was power, and all glory to those who could achieve
and hold it. Kings were anointed as messengers of God and to
disobey a monarch was either to be banished or killed at the will
of the king. But if a king were not careful, rebellions could
begin very easily, and a king like everyone else could lose not
only his crown, but his head.
This is clearly demonstrated by the plot in Richard. Before the play begins, Richard is suspected of murdering his uncle Gloucester for treason. As a result of the accusations and counter accusations, two nobles are banished, his powerful cousin Bolingbrook and the equally powerful Mowbury, each of whom accuses the other of having a hand in the murder of Gloucester. While Bolingbroke is exiled, Richard confiscates Bolingbroke's enormous wealth and property to fund a military expedition to Ireland. Furious about the king's illegal act, the forces around Bolingbroke organize; the nobles take sides; plots are fomented leading to an ominous cabal. When the King returns from abroad, he discovers a virtual coup d'etat. He is alone, deserted by his men--even by his uncle York--and is at the mercy of Bolingbroke.
With no support from his allies, betrayed by his courtiers, Richard is forced to abdicate. And in one of the most poetic and moving scenes in the play, he delivers the famous "Hollow Crown" soliloquy in which he surrenders his crown, his scepter and all his wealth to the insurgents. Summarily arrested, he is thrown into the tower and then murdered. Bolingbroke ascends to the throne and becomes Henry IV, but like his predecessor, his crown weighs heavily on his head. He instructs his henchmen to murder Richard's former friends as well as those he thinks are opposed to his rule.
The blood bath is on. Power is gained, but power must be sustained by any means. The civil wars have begun and the theme of the "Henrys," Shakespeare's next play, is foreshadowed. That will be followed by "Richard III," a play about another tyrant and usurper, who will seize the crown by murdering everyone in his way, including his brothers; but finally he will be defeated by Henry Tudor, thus ending the War of the Roses between the Lancasters and the Yorks, and ushering in the dynasty of the Tudors.
What is fascinating about "Richard II" is Shakespeare's genius in depicting the specific details of the relationship between character and politics, between the blind hubris of the powerful, who exploit their position, and those who (at any sign of weakness) compromise their loyalty, desert their leader, inform, lie, and join the enemy camp. It all depends who is on top at the moment. Shakespeare is impeccable in depicting the ambivalence, the ambiguities, the self interest, the opportunism and the blatant ruthlessness that underlie the decisions of the players involved in the brutal arena of political gamesmanship. We see the duplicity of the King's courtiers. Quick to betray their monarch, they are unconcerned with the morality or legality of deposing a king. We see the treachery of Richard's uncle York who, at the beginning of the insurrection, defends Richard, only to be persuaded to throw in his lot with the rebels. Relatives count for nothing in that world. Everything is possible in the struggle for power: lying, duplicity, hypocrisy, informants, turncoats, prison and murder. As Bolingbroke becomes king, he quickly establishes a police state; there are no trials, no hearings, only instant arrests and murder. So much for the future Henry IV. And for the tactics that seem all too familiar.
As for the depiction of Richard in this production--he is played as a tragic poetical hero who, unaware of his gross incompetency and greed, discovers too late what kingship means; yet through his misery, he becomes humanized. Ironically, he has brought on his own destruction by his own corruption, yet by the end of the play he emerges as a sympathetic figure. Obviously Shakespeare pitied him: he endowed the character with the most poetical lines in the text. The passages that begin with "Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings..." and "What must the king do now?..." are supreme examples of the beauty of the language which reflects Richard's despair and his growing awareness in the face of blatant power. To be sure, Richard is unsympathetic at first, especially when he visits his dying uncle John of Gaunt and cheerfully awaits the old man's death. But Richard is no ordinary villain; by the end of the play, he grows in stature and understands what has happened to him, but too late; his self awareness is rewarded by death.
One of the most important factors of this new production is that the director, Ron Daniels, did not try to modernize the play. Many directors are so fearful that we poor fools in the audience will not get it that they do all kinds of maddening things--cast men in women's part, change the text to fit their concepts and in general, muck up the greatest playwright who ever lived, trying foolishly to improve on him. True, the costumes in "Richard II" are not of the period, but they are not an eyesore either. The men wear long, black or grey gangster-type coats; under their jackets they wear silver breast plates and on their heads, when ready for battles, the familiar medieval head dress associated with the crusaders.
The set design by Neil Patel is particulary effective. A giant rose window is encased in the background, its reflections gleaming on the floor; on the walls are many lighted candles that immediately evoke Medieval times. Other than that the space is virtually empty, the better for the actors to move about creating interesting patterns.
Because the play needs no upgrading, and is relevant for all time, the director Ron Daniels stuck faithfully to the text. What a pleasure to hear the words without the usual mouthing and inaudibility associated so often with Americans playing Shakespeare. No need for English actors, no need for amplification. The diction is clear and forthright, but in some cases there was too much shouting.
Richard is played by Steven Skybell, an actor of considerable force and versatility. He carried off the big scenes effectively, but he sometimes lacked the poetic quality of the language. His deposition scene is delivered simply enough, each line crystal clear, but still the delivery fails to move; the poetic quality is missing. Bolingbroke is miscast; he lacks the physical presence of the usurper and future king. True, he should be icy cold but not colorless. The rest of the cast gives adequate, workmanlike performances, although in some cases actors are too conventional. Still, the company has the feel of a ensemble and the major scenes do work.
Despite the flaws in the production, the total effect is compelling. The pacing is swift, the action moves quickly, and though the play is over three hours, it doesn't feel that long. The company holds the audience in its grip creating a necessary and compelling tension. The main thing here is that "Richard II" is wonderful to see and listen to. It is to this company's credit that the essential play does come off, and that the evening is well spent. [Croyden]
"Ragtime"
Ford Center For the Performing Arts
213 West 42nd Street
556-4700
Reviewed by Margaret Croyden January 26, 1998
The long-awaited and heavily-advertised musical extravaganza
"Ragtime" finally opened on Broadway January 18th. Not only did
this three-hour musical arrive with the fanfare of an amazing
merchandizing campaign, but it also inaugurated the Ford Theatre for
the Performing Arts--an amalgamation and reconstruction of two
old houses, the Lyric and the Apollo. Built and owned by the
enterprising Garth Drabinsky, CEO of Livent Company (who is also
producer of "Ragtime"), the Ford theater, beautiful in itself,
occupies an important space on the "new" Broadway and 42nd
Street, now a mecca for lavish show business events.
"Ragtime" under the supervision of Mr. Drabinsky, himself, began its advertising campaign about a year ago when it opened in Toronto (it is currently playing in Los Angles) and giant advertisements have been in place ever since. With this huge merchandising blitz (estimated to cost $2.25 million) well under way for the Broadway opening, anticipation was high. So was the advance ticket sale, rumored to be $17 million. A block of VIP tickets for $125 was a selling point. With VIP tickets come your own private lounge, free drinks, and line-free bathrooms.
Hype pays off. It must, considering the $10 million investment in one of the most lavish technological productions yet to be seen on Broadway. On stage is an old model T. Ford, an airplane, a railway, J. P. Morgan's library, the old Pennsylvania Railroad station, Ellis Island, the stature of Liberty, Atlantic City, the streets of Harlem, the East Side Jewish ghetto and a suburban New Rochelle home. There is also a huge cast doubling, tripling, singing, dancing, acting and generally carrying on. The creative team is formidable. With book by award winning Terrence McNally based on E. L. Doctorow's best selling novel, an experienced director in Frank Galati, the lighting genius of Jules Fisher, the scenic wizardry of Eugene Lee, costumes by the well-established designer Santo Loquasto, choreography by Graciela Daniele and music and lyrics by Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens, it would seem such a company of talent could not miss.
Yet, "Ragtime" is curiously empty. The story depicts an America at the turn of the century, seen through the eyes of three families. There is a white upper class Wasp family: a "good" mother who adopts an abandoned black baby she finds buried alive (!) in her garden, her staid conservative husband, her progressive younger brother and her precocious son who acts as narrator. Then there is the black family: the woman who abandons her child and her charismatic songwriter lover who had deserted her (only to return prosperous and ready to claim his family). The third family is the immigrant Jewish peddler and his young daughter, who struggle with poverty throughout the story but as expected, the man rises above his station in the end.
The historical figures representing social and political viewpoints of the time--Emma Goldman, Booker T. Washington, J. P. Morgan, Henry Ford, Stanford White, Evelyn Nesbit and Houdini--interact with the fictional characters. But that confuses the story line. Fact and fiction are mixed together in an unappealing stew, which fails to delineate the two. Besides, the historical figures do not come to life; their function is symbolic; they are there as cardboard figures that depict the class struggle. Their views--and their dialogue--are one dimensional and hackneyed. They resemble agitprop characters of the thirties mouthing a party line. In the nineties, this becomes tiresome.
The three families are not drawn well, either. We know from the beginning that the "good" Mother will represent white liberalism, that the black mother will be killed and become a martyr, that the black song writer will become a radical revolutionary seeking revenge for the murder of his woman (only to be shot down), that the white brother will unite with the blacks in their fight (black-white unity), that the immigrant peddler will become rich and famous and meet up with Mother who, when her domineering husband dies, is free to marry the immigrant. With a fully integrated family of black, white, and Jewish children, they will all live happily ever after. So there are goodies and baddies, racists and protesters, flag wavers and union wavers, strikers and capitalists, nasty police and oppressed blacks. The events, predictable early in the show, obliterate any chance of suspense so that we are left with a slow- paced, clawing melodrama.
The music is another problem. It is peppered with saccharin melodies and sugar-coated lyrics, whose catch words (whenever you can catch them) are "dreams," "hope" and "justice." They are yelled, forced, repeated and whispered; the singers are so heavily miked that any possible nuances are killed. Everything is sacrificed to push the play's message--a boring appeal to political correctness. For all the screaming, shouting, and sloganizing, we are not moved.
Beside this, the show is overproduced: too many repetitive scenes, too much movement, too many people, too many irrelevant numbers (do we need a song after every scene?), too many projections, and too many theatrical effects. (Were the producers competing with the movies?). Is it necessary to bring on an automobile, a plane, a railroad, Penn station and J. P. Morgan's house? This overplay of scenery tends to distract from what could have been a compelling experience, but the disconnect between the massive sets and the characters' emotions diminishes the story's human qualities.
Two artists are worth mentioning. Brian Stokes Mitchell, the lead who plays the black songwriter, moves, speaks, and sings with grace and authority. He is a strong, appealing presence on stage and brings to each scene an energetic sexuality. Another is scenic designer Eugene Lee. A remarkable talent, Lee has created virtually an entire city, a stunning feast of glass, arches, domes, vaults, metal gates, fences, columns, stairways, even the old Penn Station--iron and steel everywhere. Bold, big and sometimes beautiful in its design and execution, Lee's work, in itself, is an artistic triumph. Ironically, the human values are dwarfed before the spectacular architecture.
What does this say about the "new" Broadway run by giant corporations? Is this large scale technological extravaganza endemic to the future of musical theater and the Disney influence that now dominates 42nd Street? Maybe corporate millions will give new life to "old" Broadway. But "Ragtime" is a poor example. Despite the money, the technical brilliance, the giant advertising, the manufactured hoopla, three hours of "Ragtime" is draining. Please, "new" producers: the least you can do is cut down your shows to the usual two hours. If you can't get it going in two, it will not come alive in three. [Croyden]
Laughing Around Town with Larry Litt
NEW YORK, Feb. 9 (NYTW) -- What’s going to happen to poor Lewis Black? Doesn’t he know that special effects crazed Hollywood and the new American lowest common denominator silly sitcom television producers haven’t found a use for intelligent, acerbic, iconoclastic political satirists, unless they’re willing to mellow their rant into neutral banalities. And what about us, the small, desparate, pitiful audience who seek political satire, even if it costs a few dollars to realize our quest?Seeing Lewis Black in his one-man show “Black Humor” at the Cherry Lane Theatre reminded me why we should support more sophisticated nightclubs. I wanted to drink as Black explained his positions on our contemporary life. His accentuated sentences, his sly self criticsms, and his impish provocations made me want to toast each gag with a healthy swig of vodka.
Black isn’t one of these new kid-on-the-block comics. He doesn’t dig into the obviousness of his sex life or his abusive-possessive family for material. What a relief! I see dozens of so-called comics a month. The ethnic/family/nerd formula they perpetuate is killing the comedy tradition. But it’s still attracting casting directors for mediocre television roles in sitcoms about nothing. They should take a good, hard long look at Lewis Black. He’s a smart, barbed sacrificial scapegoat in the land of warm and fuzzy sarcasm. His cynicism is reserved for the powerful, not the poor girl or guy next door. And especially not his mom.
I know. I sound like an old curmudgeon. So forget it. Go see Lewis Black. He’ll make you laugh if you get any of the unsubtle news from the sex crazed keepers of the moral flame media. He gets my award as comic of the year for not doing TV commercial parodies. Thank the gods of satire and facetia.
Black Humor: the Comedy of Lewis Black
Written and performed by Lewis Black
Limited engagement to March 1
Presented by The Cherry Lane Theatre Company
38 Commerce Street, NYC
Wed & Thur $25.00; Fri, Sat & Sun $27.50; Student rush (subject to
availability 30 minutes prior to curtain) $15.00
(212) 239-6200
I’m not sure, but I think one of the reasons people love interactive dinner theater shows is the fact that they can see people make fools of themselves over a plate of fried chicken cutlet and vegetables. When I found myself at “Revenge in the Mob” currently playing in Arno Ristorante on West 38th Street, I knew from the moment I walked in the door that this show is a parody based on films about Italian gangster types. No subtlety here. Greasy haired guys dressed in shiny suits. It’s a good thing Italians can take their stereotypes and make a fun night out of them.
The best thing about “Revenge in the Mob” are the two beautiful and talented singers. Rosie Babolini played by lovely Susan Campanoro transforms the chaotic opening of the show with a belting rendition of “Big Spender” that sets the mood for entertainment. Then Lulu Sportelli portrayed by sultry Marilyn Matarrese breaks the banality of waiting for a meal with one of the slowest, sexiest versions of “Great Balls of Fire” I’ve ever heard. It made my heart pound while I fell in love. If the show had stopped there I would have been satisfied.
But the mob, the boys, the wiseguys must to go on. They ramble, play tough, talk with their hands and then emote about mob hits and who’s going to be the capo da tutti, whose mama is who’s, and a whole bunch of leadership issues that make Washington under Clinton look sane. It’s fun if you’re willing to forget that these macho icons are caricaturing real people who really kill and engage in criminal behavior that costs society a vast amount of grief and money. Fortunately for the show’s theme there is a moral reversal at the end. But I tink dere shudda been a song, baby.
I thought I could learn something about the past, both theatrical and so called real history, by seeing Jean Cocteau Repertory’s “The Man in the Glass Booth” revival at in the Bouwerie Lane Theater. This very odd play by Robert Shaw the actor, first produced in 1964, asks many pertinent questions that many have come to think are dated in 1998. But the main point, that the people, not all the people, but most of the people of Germany and Europe are complicit in the Holocaust still haunts the world political and humanitarian stages. Witness the controversy over the stolen paintings now admittedly held iin American museum collections. How did they get there and who really owns them?
Revenge in the Mob
Produced by La Famiglia
Created, conceived & Written by Benedetto Geraci
Directed by Gene Terinoni
Arno Ristorante
141 West 38th Street
Thur, Fri & Sat $60.00 (includes show, dinner, tax, & tip)
1-888-MOB-BOYS
For me “Man in the Glass Booth” is a precursor of “Hitler’s Willing Executioners” by Sternhagen, the extremely provocative book that examines his influences on the rest of Europe’s population. I think it’s time we examined the whole European system of categorizing by race and religion. Eugenics, ethnic politics in the name of science, is still with us. Can you imagine cloning non ethnic beings-neutrals? They’d hate us all.
Cocteau Rep’s veteran actor Harris Berlinsky carries the show almost by himself. He towers over the rest of the cast. The rest of the cast serve as pawns in the gross game milionaire Sam Godman plays on the high strung Jewish world of the sixties. Thankfully director Eve Adamson rightly knew they should let him have his head. The show has been extended through April 24.
Presented by Jean Cocteau Rep at the Bouwerie Lane Theatre, 330 Bowery.
Thursdays through Saturdays at 8:00 pm, Sundays at 3:00 pm, some Wednesdays at 8:00 pm
Admission $29 Fri & Sat 8:00 pm and Sun 3:00 pm, $24 other times, $20 seniors, $12 students, TDF accepted.
Box office (212) 677-0060.
PERFORMANCE DATES: January 16, 17 (previews), 18 (opening), 22, 23, 31, February 1, 4, 5, 6, 8, 14 (3:00 pm and 8:00 pm), 15, 18, 19, 20, 28, March 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 21, 22, 25, 26, 27, April 4, 5, 8, 9, 10, 18, 19, 22, 23, 24.
[Larry Litt]
"GUY'S DREAMIN'" (a review)
and DHARMA DREAMS WITH JEAN CLAUDE (an interview)
"Guy's Dreamin'," created and performed by
Jean-Claude van Itallie,
Court Dorsey and
Kermit Dunkelberg
Composer/Percussionist: Tony Vacca
Directed by Kim Mancuso and Joel Gluck
November 6 to 16, La MaMa E.T.C., 74A East Fourth Street
Presented by La MaMa E.T.C.
in conjunction with Pilgrim Theater and Shantigar Foundation (Closed)
An ominous, rapturous rush of sacred gongs draws us into the precise,
condensed poetry of the collective creation "Guy's Dreamin'".This mesmerizing
performance as concise as Haiku, as intriguing as a Zen Koan, presents us
with three men in black intensely engaged in answering an ambiguous question,
"Is its neck broken?" The three move exquisitely while making abstract
sounds, and forming various patterns of wings; forming pyramids, one carrying
another on his shoulders, in an increasingly provocative rhythm. Has a bird
died? Are these men birds or angels?
This piece presents riveting confessional images from the performers' lives centering on death of parents; homosexual and heterosexual epiphanies; and spiritual seeking. These performers give us a fresh paradigm of manhood in the nineties.
In fact, the performance is comprised of syncopated flashes of painful and comedic memories which are revealed through abstract sound, singing, and precise language which reverberate with the work of the Open Theatre's Sound and Movement, and Grotowski's sacred, poor theatre. The three participate in each other's texts, constantly changing form, a kaleidoscope of unconnected lives interwoven by their common dreams and themes.
A medical student from Normal Illinois takes LSD and embodies his god-like, Dracula experience to a wild drum beat. A gay man wrestles with a vengeance with a future lover in a leather bar in San Francisco. A young man meditates by the mystic Aurobindo's tomb overwhelmed by silence. The three sing the children's song, "Winken, Blinken, and Nod," and we are off sailing with them on their non-linear journeys, reminding us of how our own journeys are shaped by such small, vivid encounters with self and the world.
Jean-Claude van Itallie's debut as an actor proved to be the most stunning performance of riveting movement, language, and voice. He spoke of his European father, garbed in cashmere with a foulard, terrorizing and enticing his family; and in a more tender mode, of his bringing his mother on the Ferry to Fire Island with a row of men in suits and ties and brief cases; juxtaposed with the homosexuals in the Pines with their fuzzy sweaters; and his delight that his mother preferred the frivolous garb of his friends and lovers.
This performance piece with its arresting narratives, magnificent music, and elegant direction celebrates male gender with a fresh sensibility and should continue to travel its wonders around the planet.
WHAT WAS THE CREATIVE PROCESS BEHIND THIS WORK?
The following aree notes from an interview with Jean-Claude van Itallie, who at 61 is handsome and radiant. He also moves like a silver fox.
Jean-Claude, who has been a Tibetan Buddhist since l968, is said the piece could have been called Dharma Dreaming. Dharma is the Sanskrit word for reality, teaching, and dream. Jean-Claude has interwoven these three concepts in his workshops at Esslen, the Omega Institute, the Open Center, and at his home in Massachusetts for 20 years.
He integrates everything he knows into performance; from his Anti-nuke days, to his work with the woman he calls the best acting teacher, Carol Fox Prescott. He call acting an "act of high meditation in action." The performer must be fully conscious, and aware of myriad details from the depths of his being, to where the stage ends in "constantly progressing concentric circles of reality." He calls the "act of creation" as the "act of breathing to the belly--with the out breath as Joy!"
Jean-Claude finds that Joy permeates everything even painful experiences--finding Joy in the "exorcism of dark hidden places." He believes that the primary rule of his acting technique and creativity is "authentic experience expressed in specific images through the body." He practices what he preaches, and believes that this process of "energy flowing in the present" is as necessary for a meaningful life as well as for significant art. He works for an art which has healing power, which he terms the "yoga of theatre."
Jean-Claude is presently re-issuing his text of The Tibetan Book of the Dead as a text to be read aloud, for those in crisis, or who are dying, especially victims of AIDS . He is most proud that his house in the country is becoming a foundation for artistic and spiritual practices. The house was named "Shantigar"--Peaceful Home by his teacher Shigham Trumpga, who spent his year of retreat there. A large barn is being converted into a space for workshops and the development of theatre pieces.
This is a good moment to praise Jean-Claude van Itallie for the canon of his work. Like "Guys Dreamin'," Jean-Claude's innovative plays have universal, serious themes and an architectonic structure. In l967, he became internationally famous with his work with the Open Theatre, "The Serpent" based on the book of Genesis. He has written over thirty plays including what has been called the watershed play of the sixties, "America Hurrah." Among his major works are "The Tibetan Book of the Dead"; "Struck Dumb" based on his experience with Open Theatre Director's Joe Chaiken's stroke and aphasia; "Bag Lady"; and widely produced English versions of Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" and "The Cherry Orchard." He is a genius at profound, concise, striking images and words, which reverberate with mythical power.
In l977 in The Drama Review, Jean-Claude first dreamt of becoming a performer. He wrote about his creative process which continues today that"an artist perceives reality with a wider and more intense vision. . .each new good play is a new language." He compared the technique of writing plays to shooting arrows in "Zen and the Art of Archery": "You shoot an arrow a hundred thousand times, and each time it's not quite right, and then when you are about to give up, you shoot the arrow, and it just happens to be right." Jean-Claude calls his workshops the Healing Power of Theatre and his arrows continue to shoot into our hearts. [Melinda Given Guttmann]
Richard Foreman's "Pearls for Pigs" which had its premiere at the Hartford Stage Company on April 4, was featured at Montreal's Festival of the Americas, where I saw it on June 7. This was the first opportunity Montrealers had to discover Foreman's unique open-ended, plotless, zany Ontological-Hysteric Theatre, and - though mystified - they loved it. Now New Yorkers can enjoy this madcap "dance of theater" at Tribeca Performing Arts Center, 199 Chambers Street (212-279-4200) starting December 3.
The set is a familiar Foreman dreamscape, filled with crumpled pieces of paper, blackboards with barely legible words on them, used furniture, blood soaked rags, lamps, portraits and, of course, those space defining Foreman strings on which hand letters and punctuation marks dangle. This time, however, a miniature proscenium theater in the rear of the stage, seems to be the focus of attention. Above it all, the inscription "Oh No!" sets the tone of desperation as peculiar sounds [loud thuds and other abrupt, startling noises] - punctuate the evening's events. At the center of the piece is the Maestro [splendidly portrayed by David Patrick Kelly], an actor caught up in a whirlwind of questioning the artist's position in the world and the purpose of theater. This is not "Stop the World, I want to get off." He wants the world to CONTINUE, he says, he just wants HELP!
Help for what? and from whom? A Dr. Fishman, for one, a therapist dressed as a scuba diver who practices his golf strokes on a severed head. A soulful Pierrot, whose "poor brain has been damaged by life." Columbine, the seductress, and four large male dwarves who scurry about in black lace stockings and garters. They all challenge the Maestro, prod him, tease and confront him.
They even bow down to him - the great artist, theater creator/director [Foreman ?], ridiculously dressed in white tulle skirt and feathered hat. He is revered of course, but ultimately alone. They are unable to answer his questions. In desperation, he appeals for help to a secret spectator. No one volunteers so he offers himself up as sacrificial victim. He is beheaded, but not for long. For in theater, everything is illusion, of course, including the obviously fake horse galloping across the stage at the end of the play. And theatrical illusion is what Foreman is trying desperately to challenge. He is throwing "pearls to the pigs" and all they want is make-believe. Ultimately, the Maestro's dizzying quest for just "one single person who feels his words reverberating;" someone who thinks about things, who will willingly suffer a genuine "Mind Attack!", seems to have been to no avail. Or has it?
As the Maestro says, he wants to challenge the world with "perplexing raw material, which, he hopes, will keep the world from falling into rigidity and spiritual death." With "Pearls for Pigs," the audience has a chance to take up this challenge and run with it. [Philipa Wehle]
The Love Suicides at Amijima by Monzaemon Chikamatsu, English
translation by Donald Keene
Nov. 28 to Dec. 7
8 pm Thu.-Sat., 3:30 pm Sun. Matinee
La MaMa E.T.C. (First Floor Theater)
74A East 4th Street
$12.00
Resv: (212) 475-7710
Reviewed by Larry Litt November 29, 1997
From the beginning of their evolution in Kyoto during the eighth century,
Buddhist morality stories, whether told by traveling mendicant
preacher/performers as "rakugo" or performed as plays by resident monks, have
dwelt on the sacrifices humans make in order to save face. This translates as
living with the knowledge and guilt that one's name and being is known to be
less than perfect. It is essential to the Buddhist tradition that almost all
the characters in morality tales live up the layers of imposed obligations to
the Emperor, state functionaries, one's own familial clan and immediate
family, as well as friends and enemies with whom a character makes foolish or
deadly serious pledges.
Knowing fully the dogmatic nature of life in 18th century Japan, playwright Monzaemon Chikamatsu's 1721 tragedy of sexual passion and misplaced loyalty reminds me why I'm glad I wasn't living during that highly charged pre-Meiji era. The story of innocent family man Jihei's (James Sobol) love for the beautiful prostitute Koharu (Clea Rivera) as told in English by The Narrator (Ray Ford) and acted by a Western cast leaves me confused as to the adaptive concept of director Kazuki Takase.
I would think Takase wants to convey the emotional universality of these characters for modern audiences. Instead I felt that the actions of Jihei's insistently loyal but betrayed wife Osan (Kristin Bennett) were portrayed as a spousal duty to her husband's flagrant infidelity with the prostitute Koharu. It's not made clear why a wife would sell all her worldly goods to redeem and then house a prostitute in her marital home. There's no sense of any of these character's psychological interactions except as told, not acted. It could have been a news item related on a gossipy street corner, rather than a full blown family tragedy waiting to be played out as a moral lesson for theater goers.
The seven actors perform barefoot in stylized Japanalia costumes that are neither authentic Kabuki nor Western. It was like watching Star Trek meets a couple of really poor Japanese whores through the time tunnel. Then there's a bit of singing and dancing to give the impression of gaiety in the"yoshiwara" section of the city reserved for prostitutes and other men's amusements like gambling and drinking.
In the imagined brothel Jihei's rival Tahei (Henry Leyva) challenges the lovers by threatening to redeem Koharu, in effect buying her away from Jihei. The Madame (Elisa de la Roche) gives sage advice to Koharu, "serve well each client as a man who needs you especially tonight's samurai (Mark Hattan)".
Contemporary composer Genji Ito's music is the most authentic contribution to the performance. He and koto player Masayo Ishigure created the necessary atmosphere to keep at least one foot in Japan.
Takase's attempt at westernizing an Oriental classic is an experiment with a desire to keep the play alive for a new, foreign audience. If I was supposed to be moved my Osan's sacrifice, or even question her supreme offering to her loathsome and weak husband, I was given no strong reasons. She is unsympathetic, neither as symbol of spousal loyalty nor devoted motherhood. Without empathy and compassion for Osan the morality is merely one of rigid marital custom. Families break up over love and money problems everywhere throughout history, in this case both. So why should we care about this family's story in particular?
We should care because this is a telling drama with a distinctly Buddhist twist. It reveals a special Japanese Buddhist perspective on the states of grace one achieves by total sacrifice. The lovers, weak and unsympathetic as they are, nonetheless will go to heaven because their love is pure, even though altogether wrong. Their destructive acts affect many homes and families, still they don't care. Love conquers all, but only death conquers love. They know they must put an end to their lives in order not to destroy the entire pyramid of family, community, and state or they and their families will be disgraced and destroyed by it.
What other fate than a lovers' suicide by the beautiful Amijima River, overlooking a serene Buddhist monastery. Can anything be more perfect a setting for self-destruction than cherry blossoms covered with snow besides a running brook at dawn? Yes. Keeping this classical drama in its original form as a Kabuki play. Perhaps transported back to that dangerous time when people died for their honor instead of calling lawyers to defend them would make a beautiful sacrifice. [Larry Litt]
Bloody Yakuza In A Bloodier Scotland
Daisan Erotica in "A Man Called Macbeth" in Japanese
with simultaneous Shakespeare in English on headsets
Adapted from Wiliam Shakespeare's Macbeth by Takeshi Kawamura
Directed by Takeshi Kawamura
Opened Nov. 6, limited engagement to Nov. 8 (closed)
Presented by the Japan Society
at Lila Acheson Wallace Auditorium
333 East 47th Street, NYC
$22 members/$25 non-members
(212) 832-1155
NEW YORK, Nov. 10 (NYTW) -- William Shakespeare may be the idealized center of the so-called Western Canon in some academic minds, but the Daisan Erotica troupe from Tokyo has moved the center to a totally off kilter tilt with their adaptation of "Macbeth" as an allegory for yakuza (Japanese gansters) power struggles and the madness of criminal paranoia.
Director Takeshi Kawamura has decided that Macbeth himself is not one but three characters, and therefore personalities, evolving over the term of the play's action. The first Macbeth is a gunman, gambler and stuttering henchman in the mob. He has no interest in gang ascension until he is chosen by Shakespeare the Fifth (Kawamura).
This is an inspired non-traditional Shakespearean moment. Kawamura as Shakespeare the Fifth takes a paper sign reading "Macbeth" from underneath his tuxedo and pastes it across the selected actor's body like an unavoidable tattoo. From that action until his later reassignment this actor is Macbeth. The playwright has become a god for Macbeth's character, ordaining him with a future more involved in the play than the rest of the mobsters. The actor becomes willing, ready and able to be possessed by the character. Is this a reflection on the frustrations of casting compared to the assembling of a diabolical gang. Could anything be more similar or filled with uncertainty?
Along with Macbeth's unique future comes the prophecy of the three witches, wildly dancing and occultly demonstrative in brightly colored, flairing kimonos. They predict Macbeth's rise to Capo da Capo as well as Banquo's descendents eventual rise to that same fearsome and doomed throne. From here on the play becomes a wild ride through the Tokyo night with gunfights, samurai sword battles, executions, visits to the normally sedate but currently berserk bath house, Lady Macbeth's religious fanatacism, insanity, itching, conspracy and of course murder, murder and more murder.
It's the murder of Duncan that brings the second Macbeth to his peak of madness. Now he's afraid of knocking sounds and his body is crawling with insects. He kills his own loyal body guards to cover his crime. Eventually the ghost of Banquo haunts Macbeth at a dinner party for the assembled yakuza members. Macbeth as always is obsessed with prophecy. He goes to a bathhouse in Hell where the three witches reveal his pre-ordained future.
In an instant a new Macbeth is chosen, one who doesn't care about the play that he's in. Shakespeare the Fifth's girl friend is killed by mistake in a gunbattle. The gangsters throw darts at the history of Shakespearean film versions. Chaos ensues and the cast rebels, deciding to act out Macbeth's story in their own way. Lady Macbeth goes berserk, dances like a dervish until she drops from religious obsession and bloodlust guilt. Macbeth is alone, deserted and preparing for the final battle. Malcom wins, but must put finality onto the three Macbeth's downfall. So he kills Shakespeare the Fifth, an act of destruction to the aforementioned Western Canon. Maybe.
Yes, it's a lot of energy and fun watching this version of "Macbeth" with a young and highly charged cast of 14. Contemporary rock and classical music surround the action adding a mix of eras and places. I was reminded of the mayhem and acrobatics of commedia dell'arte troupes, clearly an influence on Daisan Erotica. Oh, you want to know about the Erotica part of their name. Well, the next time they're in town, which I hope is very soon, I promise you'll be amazed at the variety of body types that can fill a stage. And of course they're all beautiful as well as bloodthirsty. [Larry Litt]
SOMETIMES IT'S BETTER TO STAY HOME
There seems to be a fallacy out there in Cabaret Theater land. Aside from
thinking that word (or the like) is screamingly funny, CT people think
that, if you put four physically life-sized performers and a big piano on
a small stage and serve dinner, you automatically get a show equal to the
best of "Forbidden Broadway," fail safe.
Not so.
The latest attempt to sail the shoals of sophomoric spooferie during dinner is at the Triad on West 72 Street and is called Secrets Every Smart Traveler Should Know. Without resorting to the obvious "Smart travelers should stay off 72 Street," let's try and find out what went wrong here, as seen on November 5, live.
No, first let's rejoice in what went right. First, bassist Jay Leonhart. As all bassists worth their salt should, he looks at all times as if this stage, this theater, are the last places he would want to be caught dead on and in. God forbid he will react to or even acknowledge you, his audience. I want him to do a one-man show. His songs are on an intellectual level -- and I don't mean they're brainy but they happily complement and join with one's own intelligence -- way above anything else on 72 street or environs (Michelin travel guide word). A delight. Well worth a visit. Worth a detour. (two Michelin travel guide phrases).
Of the four nominal performers, James Darrah seems to me to have a talent beyond the just easy. Everything he does has at least a little more than is on the page, be it Lesley Davison's knowing song, "Naked in Pittsburgh" or the Noel Coward takeoff.
Of the rest, "knowing" is an operative word. The level of travel humor is not geared to the knowledgeable traveler but to the gawk-eyed who think it hysterical that there are no bowling alleys in Bruges or that foreign languages are funny. This loses me, I'm not interested in people who don't know anything: they can't be spoofed and they're not worth trying to spoof (right, Glenn?). Lyrics, rhymes, are not clever enough. Little is a surprise. I didn't feel like I was flying First Class.
The other performers are Kathy Fitzgerald, Liz Maconahay and Michael McGrath. The have their moments but are basically generic. Material seems to be by everybody around, including Stan Freeman who is also on stage at the piano. Nobody is more professional than Freeman but here he seems to be on automatic pilot. His "Salzburg" number offended me. There is a parody there but not this one.
"Secrets Every Smart Traveler Should Know" plays at the Triad, 158 West 72 Street, Mon, Wed, Thurs, Fri at 8pm; Sat at 7:30 and 10:30; Sun 3 and 7:30pm. $40. An a la carte menu is available from one hour before departure. No minimum. (212) 799-4599.
End of snot-nosed review. This one, anyway. [Wex]
A GLITTERING FACADE MEETS A NON-HERO
"Cabaret" again. Legeti Artists and American Cabaret Theatre opened its
four event season at the Teresa L. Kaufmann Concert Hall (92nd St. Y) on
November 8. The late show, 9:30, had all the feel of a late show.
It began with the ever-redoubtable (whatever that means) Lilianne Montevecchi, with Dick Gallagher at the piano. No need to explain Montevecchi, she is ever-present and may she always be, except for this evening. Her idea of warming up an audience is by full frontal assault, horse laughs included. She was going to give a French lesson: funny, I didn't sign up for one. She pushed.
And then she sang. That was better and the selection of songs was good. It would have been better if she had tried to be herself instead of Piaf (with infinitely less range than Piaf), Liza, and maybe even June Allyson. There were still manic moments and that laugh. She did not dance.
The pianists changed without missing a note and Jean Pierre Cassel was aboard. Cassel made his first film in 1936 and has a huge film career behind him speaking French and English in mostly self-effacing roles. So when did he become a song and dance man? Never. He is relaxed, laid back, his English diction is wonderful, and he sang whatever he wanted to sing, not bothering with transitions. The fact that he can't carry a tune didn't stop him one bit. He was wearing immense taps on his shoes.
If we thought we were being entertained at our Senior Citizen Center before, we now had an exhibition of Advanced Tap for Older People (it's big in Paris). Cassel came back after that and tried to teach Tap in an embarrassing audience participation segment. "Tea for Two" went on way beyond cocktail time.
Montevecchi returned so that Cassel and she could sign off together. Why were they there? Why were we there? Had we been to school? [Wex]
"Jewish Stories Paris Brussels"
A two-part evening comprised of Jean-Claude Grumberg's
"Mama'll Be Back Poor Orphan" and Serge Kribus' "Boris
Spielman's Big Comeback"
Presented by Ubu Repertory Theater, 15 W. 28th St., November 11-23,
1997
Director: Jonas Jurasas
Reviewed by Philippa Wehle, Nov 12, 1997
Ubu Repertory Theater's latest production, "Jewish Stories Paris Brussels,"
offers an engaging evening of two plays that treat similar themes in
distinctly different forms and language: "Mama'll Be Back Poor Orphan" by
French author Jean-Claude Grumberg and "Boris Spielman's Big Comeback" by
Serge Kribus of Belgium. In excellent translations by Suzanne Quittner Beal,
both plays explore the scars left on the children and grandchildren of the
Holocaust, "orphans" as it were of parents whose lives remain a mystery to
them. How can they remember the "before afterwards" in Grumberg's son's
words, when their parents have given them so little to go on? Or as Henry
says to his father, in Kribus' intriguing play, "Tell me about the war. You
tell me. I want to hear your story, not books."
The unhappy "orphan" in Grumberg's "Mama" is a 62 year old man recovering from an eye operation. In his foggy post-op delirium, he calls up childhood visions of Mom the Provider and Mean Mom the Disciplinarian as well as more recent memories of Cranky Mom in a nursing home endlessly watching the TV with the sound off. As for Papa, he appears as he was at 42, the year he became one of the "sacrificed, the herded, the burned," as he puts it. Uninterested in his son's life, he only wants to know if his sacrifice was worthwhile. Neither parent answers the son's yearning to know how things really were between them or what life was like "before." "We were husband and wife" is all they can say.
Even when the son attempts to share his knowledge of the Holocaust with his Mother [he tells her of a debate in which he spoke about how the Jews suffered during the war], she angrily cuts him off with "You didn't suffer, you were a baby. Babies don't suffer." As for his books - he is a writer - she dismisses them out of hand. As far as she's concerned, people only want to read love stories. Doctors, nurses, even God, are of no help to him either. In the end, he is left to go off on his own, a sad Chaplinesque figure, suitcase in hand, walking down a receding corridor.
Kribus' son, Henry Spielman, on the other hand, claims he wants no part of the past. He has no desire to "remember," or so he says. He is stuck in the present and a sorry present it is. His wife and children have left him and he has lost his job. As if that weren't enough, his father whom he hasn't seen in over a year, suddenly appears at his door with the news that he plans to move in with him.
As the evening progresses, Father and Son reenact old injuries and open up new wounds. Both seem determined to strain their already tenuous relationship; the father, a master at oneupmanship; the son, well trained in the art of getting his father's goat. They argue, they shout, they threaten each other between brief moments of rapprochement. Boris, the Father, an elderly Jewish actor, has just been cast as King Lear in the upcoming production at the National Theater of Belgium. It is his "big comeback"and the parallel between Lear's lamentations about his children and his own relationship to his son is obvious.
While Boris criticizes Henry for just about everything, Henry contradicts everything his father believes. He insists, for example, that there is no difference between Jew and Gentile. Indeed he is convinced, or so he says, that all men are the same; "We all descend from the fish," he exclaims. "There were fish before Moses! Forget the Jews! " To which his Father, in genuine anguish, responds: "You think you can look forward without looking back? What would you have done in my place? If we don't remember who will?"
Still there are softer moments, moments of mutual reassurance and even a hint of tenderness, especially in the closing scene. The father, taken ill after drinking too much at a restaurant with his son, has collapsed in Henry's arms. They are in the middle of a busy highway, it seems. Here, Greg MacPherson's lighting and Brian Hall's sound design are particularly effective as they combine to create the sense of heavy traffic surrounding the isolated pair. Despite the flashing lights and sounds of police sirens and cars whizzing by, father and son are united in a close embrace at last.
Thanks to the ever inventive designer Watoku Ueno, the set effortlessly links the two plays together. A minuscule three sided hospital room, composed of windowed walls and a wooden floor, encloses the poor "orphan" of Grumberg's play in his nightmare haze. Doctors, nurses, Mother, and even God pop in and out of the window panes or walk unexpectedly into his space. For Kribus' piece, the corridor down which Grumberg's son disappears at the end of his Calvary, becomes Spielman Jr's apartment, a sort of railroad flat, empty but for a black telephone with an endlessly long cord. The window panes now turn into cupboards where vodka and glasses are stored or walls on which framed photos of Henry's estranged wife Charlotte hang, painful reminders of a former life.
Jonas Jurasas has rightly chosen to stage Grumberg's play in a Richard Foremanesque manner [Foreman minus the myriad assorted odd objects.] Like Foreman, Grumberg puts his character through an intense, short [35 minutes] ordeal, bombarding him with visits from doctors, hospital directors, anesthesiologists, nurses and of course the ever present Mama of the title. Jerry Matz, the son, executes his role of frightened child/confused patient masterfully. Yet something is missing to achieve a stronger sense of the man's very real pain. After all, the doctors and nurses, the hospital director, are not apparitions; they are real, even though, in his confused state, they seem transformed into menacing figures. Perhaps they need to be more manic, more aggressive in order for the audience to feel the strength of his disorientation and his anxiety.
Kribus' characters, on the other hand, are realer than real. There is no need for objects to make this clear. The ever present, very long telephone cord with which the son incessantly fiddles is superfluous [hats off to Nick Plakias for not tripping over it] as are the framed pictures of Charlotte. Kribus' drama is in the words - in the rapid fire dialogue, the frantic, driven pace and of course the delivery. The Father, superbly captured by Jerry Matz, is all bluster and grand posturing - a modern day Lear cum Ed Koch. He is a grand character, capable of cruel barbs as well as humorous self deprecation [he imagines the headlines the day after opening night: "Boris Spielman: King Dethroned, Public Groaned."] And of course he is a difficult act to follow. Nick Plakias as the son [he also played assorted characters in Grumberg's play] handles this well, managing to hold his own against such a "monster." He is especially appealing in his softer moments and understandably abrasive in his fits of fury.
"Boris Speilman's Big Comeback" as well as "Mama'll Be Back Poor Orphan" are both worth a trip to Ubu to savor these very appealing "Jewish Stories." [Wehle]
A Pathological Fish Story
"La Trota" (The Trout) in Italian and English
Written and performed by Dario D'Ambrosi
Opened Nov. 6, closes Nov. 16
Thursdays through Sundays at 7 pm
Presented by La MaMa E.T.C. in association with Teatro Patologico - Roma
74A East Fourth Street
$12/tdf
(212) 475-7710
Reviewed by Larry Litt November 8, 1997
NEW YORK, Nov. 9 (NYTW) -- Is a person mad, touched in the head, not right, because we say so or because madness declares itself in possession of the mind and soul of the afflicted? When Dario D'Ambrosi plays an aging madman in his one person performance piece, "La Trota (The Trout)," we are forced to ask the question, "Can an actor ever really be as mad as the real thing or is the role an entertainment holding back the real pain of mental illness?"
Maybe this is why I see and understand D'Ambrosi more as a benignly berserk contemporary commedia dell'arte character than as a fugitive from an institution. His deranged character mends broken plates with a glue that holds nothing together like a mind that slips away trying to hold thoughts that identify objects for their real function. Sexual attachment to a pair of pantyhose is not uncommon anymore, not since one can buy soiled panties from internet websites. Cemeteries for body parts are unnecessary since we buy and sell organs and limbs on demand, globally. Joy in bowel movements is a Freudian and common sexual topic in many magazines and plays. The fact that Shit is Big Business because of the consumer distributive culture that brings food to our tables is taught in schools as the classic economy of scales. Not wanting to kill an animal for a meal is a basic tenet of vegetarianism. And finally, seeking love under the sea has become a subject for fantasy movies like the glamorous "Splash."
So why is D'Ambrosi's character mad? I think because he is alone and completely at ease with a world that doesn't contain criticism from anyone but its alienated master. The old man is the epicenter of his own opinions about life, love and death. He asks not to be disturbed by the outside world, but he needs sustenance from it. He is more a poor eccentric, unloved by women because he is dirty and unromantic, yet not unpoetic in that populist way of war veterans living as hermits in Oregon.
He is mad from lack of caring for his appearance, but he is not different from the old coots one sees wandering the streets of New York talking to themselves. "La Trota" is a chance to go home with one of these silly codgers and spend some time with his rituals and ordeals, his loves and pain. D'Ambrosi has observed well the characters who slip through the cracks of modern society. Now he's brought one of them from Rome to visit. [Litt]
SEXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE
Sex Industry (two one-acts): "A Decent Job" & "Closets Full of Juicy Plums"
Opened Oct. 16th, closed Oct. 26th, 1997
Produced by and performed at Theater for the New City
155 First Avenue at E. 10th Street
212-254-1109
NEW YORK, Oct. 28 (NYTW) -- Bina Sharif's two one-act plays clustered under highly charged silk and satin lingerie as "Sex Industry" at the Theater for the New City proves once again that women can get away with the most lust filled allegories while men are limited to confessions of perverse desire, or are merely defenders of fully corseted, panty hose protected morality.
In "A Decent Job" two young lingerie clad sex kittens dance for a horny bank executive while he contemplates, implements, then praises masturbation for fear of sexual harassment accusations. While trying to evoke contemporary social disparities, Sharif's idea isn't as clear as it could be. When The Banker (Kevin Mitchell Martin) says he's a socially responsible citizen because he provides jobs for young women whose preposterous dreams of fame and fortune will never be realized, I think Sharif means the dreams of playwright's whose themes are more repellent to the establishment than attractive to the tourist population that supports New York's uptown theater. One can make the same point using language as art rather than rant.
I for one would have been far more content if The Banker was called The New, Rich Producer who places casting notices for shows that will never be produced while auditioning actresses for nude roles. Banking, at least, is a highly litigious industry that protects its workers from widespread harrasment abuses, whereas non-union theater auditioning is about as regulated as garment center sweatshops.
Nonetheless, I must admit I enjoyed the dreamy, erotic dancing by Amy Minty and Michelle Wright. Clearly they studied their parts well. I didn't understand the unnatural bit of experimental theater thrown in at the last minute. Sharif needed an ending, so she brought on the cops screaming about morality. The playwright seemed to be without a clue for a great curtain line.
This sex farce is an obvious morality satire about work produced without regard to the talent needed to make it anything more than lap dancing. Oh where are the days of witty burlesque comedians and second bananas who told jokes instead of jacking off. Tits and ass may be a staple of adult show business, but without sharply honed wit it's merely breasticulated titillation and g-string clad asininity.
"Closets Full of Juicy Plums" proves that sexuality doesn't need specific nudity to be incredibly funny. This second, and far funnier, play in Sharif's evening was filled with the scatologically and erotically charged atmosphere that makes one hope for more Sharif in the same vein. Amy Minty gives Julie, a wonderfully immature and silly character, the believability that makes the sexuality of this teenage girl ooze with innocent yet knowing perversion.
Jerry Jaffe as Julie's stepfather is an over grown bear feeding on the honey of an hyperactive, stimulated beehive. His evocation of the purity of tasting unprocessed nectar is a paean to the real joy of unbridled indulgence in the taste of femininity.
But it was Bina Sharif herself who stole the show with her characterization of Julie's school principal. The two women talk heart to heart about the joys of sex and bowel movements, and the dangers of desiccated female sensuality. Is it true that old pussy is bad pussy? Hmm. That give me an idea for a play. [Litt]