Emily Fishbaine
Last night I went to see the closing performance of the Ballet Hispanico's fall season at the Joyce. I know it's not theatre, per se, but I wanted to mention it as an interesting and worthwhile performing arts company. Tina Ramirez founded it in 1970 as an educational and producing organization, and it now has three branches: the Company, the School of Dance, and Primeros Pasos, a dance education program. Originally founded to provide underprivileged Latino youth with training, performing, and creative opportunities, it is now an internationally recognized company that has an annual turn at the Joyce Theatre (8th Ave and 19th St.).
The training program includes influences including classical ballet, contemporary or modern dance, and Spanish dance techniques. All of these techniques were visible in last night's performance of Club Havana, Caravanserai, Tito on Timbales, and a special tribute performance to long-standing company member, Irene Hogarth-Cimino. Club Havana was a tribute to another era, full of nostalgia for a time when Americans could jet down to Cuba for a romantic weekend. The piece was broken into sections according to various Latin dances. I found that it referenced certain stereotypes, from, as mentioned before, an earlier era; it was a crowd pleaser meant to warm up an audience of mixed age and background. But the dancers soon busted through these confines with the sheer glee of performing. The piece was a lot of fun, and as it progressed, the choreography loosened a bit and gave various individual performers the opportunity to shine. The second piece was set to the music of Carlos Santana, but I didn't recognize his style at all until about midway through. It was the experimental piece of the evening, starting with the dancers under a thin plastic tarp that they were manipulating to the undulating music. I thought, oh, no... not another new-agey interpretive-dance dance piece. The costumes were body suits in various neutral colors with ribcage-like shapes sewn on. However, as the piece progressed, it became more and more complicated, with several virtuosic moments, and many, many lifts. The partnering was notable, showing off the unusual strength of both partners: these were not your typical classical lifts. The final piece, Tito on Timbales was a joyous tribute to the music of Tito Puente. I found the choreography to be bland, but enjoyed the swirling costumes, the fabulous live band (The Latin Percussion Rhythm Ensemble), and a few stand-out dancers. Finally, Irene Hogarth-Cimino danced a touching solo as a tribute to her career. I can only assume that she is bringing her career to an end based on her age and the emotion with which she took her bow, though I have no real information on this-- that is only my guess.
Standouts of the evening: Candice Monet McCall did everything with incredible precision and couldn't keep a smile off her face. Natalia Alonso didn't seem to break a sweat and her lithe flexibility bordered on dangerous. Eric Rivera was a slick, sexy, and precise veteran. Nicholas Villeneuve seemed a tired by the end, and his dancing was sometimes cautious, but his spirit shone through, and he was clearly a supportive partner. Rodney Hamilton and Angelica Burgos also had standout moments. All of the dancers had great moments, but overall, the dancing was inconsistant, and I could see some dancers thinking about the choreography, or struggling to make it through a difficult passage. However, as a New Yorker familiar with some of the best and most polished dancing in the world, it was actually an interesting experience to watch some dancers struggle where we expect them to be flawless. Frequently, we almost don't acknowledge dancers as human like the rest of us; their bodies seem to be otherworldly. That humanity and that visible struggle was new, and appropriate for a company affiliated with a teaching organization. I hope to see them next year or the year after and am curious to see the improvement of various company members. This plucky company is worth supporting, for both its dancing and its mission.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The Seafarer
Emily Fishbaine
The Seafarer is a Christmas play. It’s not the biblical story of Christmas, nor is it in the spirit of the hyper-commercialized holiday fluff that surrounds us from Halloween to December 25th. But it is truly in the spirit of Christmas (and the new year) in the sense that it offers a reminder of what the possibilities of redemption feel like. This play does not particularly tackle new ground. Its conceit is one found throughout literature and film. However, Conor McPherson’s new take is lovely, well-acted, poetically told, and most of all, hopeful.
The play revels in the comedies (and humiliations) of everyday life, starting with Sharky (David Morse) rising to clean up after yet another of his brother’s nights of debauchery. It takes place over the course of twenty-four hours, from Christmas Eve morning through Christmas day. We are gradually introduced to Richard, Sharky’s older, blind brother – played by an exceedingly nimble and sharp Jim Norton – and Ivan, a friend, played by an endearing Conleth Hill. We learn that Sharky has come home to take care of Richard. McPherson slowly, through sweet and seemingly innocuous gossip and banter, reveals to us bits and pieces from their lives, most notably, Sharky’s apparently violent past.
Time passes, and preparations are made for that evening’s get-together with Niki (Sean Mahon) and his mysterious guest, Mr. Lockhart (Ciarán Hinds). Shortly after the guests arrive, Mr. Lockhart reveals himself to be the Devil and declares that he has come to play Sharky in a game of poker for his soul. But it is not this revelation that makes the play special—in fact, I found it to be sudden and a bit forced. However, from this point on, the casual Christmas poker game takes on new import, and settles into a more comfortable rhythm that builds through to the end, as Sharky wrestles with the possibility that his life might end tonight.
The play pivots around Sharky, and his sober presence. Mr. Morse does a very fine job quietly keeping his motor running, and allowing his inner tension to mount as the play progresses. I felt great sympathy for Sharky as a lonely, aimless, angry man. We learn about various aspects of his life: missed opportunities, potential illicit and lost loves, and the fact that he may be guilty of manslaughter. But again, what I walked away with was the importance of everyday things, and the love that we experience everyday from those around us. In the end it is chance and love that saves Sharky, and this seems to be McPherson’s main point.
This production is certainly set up to highlight the writing (which may be why I’ve found it hard not to spend so much time focusing on it in this review). I must admit that this is my first exposure to a McPherson text, so I have little to compare it to, though I hear that this is one of his first real attempts at a dialogue (and not monologue) based play. Perhaps because of this, the structure feels a little formulaic and comfortable. He does include a few beautiful monologues and uses the characters’ drunkenness as a vehicle for musings on the afterlife, hell, and faith. Mr. Hines has an eerie monologue describing hell as an immensely magnified feeling of self-loathing that was, if not terrifying, certainly affecting. And Mr. Norton has a stunning bit about a dream he had where he could see, which turned into a gorgeous portrayal of total and unpretentious faith in God.
McPherson directed the piece himself, so the writing and language take precedence. It took me some time to get past the brogues, and at times I missed lines even late in the play. But it didn’t matter—the ensemble’s cohesion and clear physicality successfully communicated meaning where language failed or was absent. There were fantastic moments, such as Richard’s Christmas song medley, and in general, this ensemble was incredibly on point in their comic timing and togetherness.
The design was unimposing, and quietly supported the story. The action centers in the basement portion of Richard and Sharky’s apartment, and is both a little dingy and homey at the same time. It is a warm heart, surrounded by cool and mysterious outside spaces. The upstairs hallway is shrouded in a lace scrim, and has very low lighting, serving as a vaguely menacing entrance and exit; you never know exactly who is arriving through that hallway until they are well into it. There is also a moat of space surrounding the set, and a back walkway that is referenced continually. Rae Smith, who designed the sets, seems to be suggesting that the world outside the apartment is slightly threatening, and offers little to the apartment’s inhabitants. There was one stunning conjunction of set and lights when Mr. Lockhart gives his speech about Hell that in fact made it feel like that basement apartment was the only lonely thing that existed in the entire universe.
I was a little skeptical about the idea of having Sharky play the Devil for his soul, and the idea still feels a little glitzy. However, the execution of the idea is unusual, and McPherson uses it to get at something deeper. He pointed to the cycles that our lives can fall into, the seeming inability to break out and change, even with our best efforts. He points out that sometimes, missed chances are almost as “sinful” as overtly awful deeds. While this play was not groundbreaking, if you’re looking for a thoughtful, enjoyable piece that has optimism and hope for the survival of a human soul, it is very worthwhile; we do need to be reminded now and then that all is not lost, even at our worst moments.
The Seafarer is a Christmas play. It’s not the biblical story of Christmas, nor is it in the spirit of the hyper-commercialized holiday fluff that surrounds us from Halloween to December 25th. But it is truly in the spirit of Christmas (and the new year) in the sense that it offers a reminder of what the possibilities of redemption feel like. This play does not particularly tackle new ground. Its conceit is one found throughout literature and film. However, Conor McPherson’s new take is lovely, well-acted, poetically told, and most of all, hopeful.
The play revels in the comedies (and humiliations) of everyday life, starting with Sharky (David Morse) rising to clean up after yet another of his brother’s nights of debauchery. It takes place over the course of twenty-four hours, from Christmas Eve morning through Christmas day. We are gradually introduced to Richard, Sharky’s older, blind brother – played by an exceedingly nimble and sharp Jim Norton – and Ivan, a friend, played by an endearing Conleth Hill. We learn that Sharky has come home to take care of Richard. McPherson slowly, through sweet and seemingly innocuous gossip and banter, reveals to us bits and pieces from their lives, most notably, Sharky’s apparently violent past.
Time passes, and preparations are made for that evening’s get-together with Niki (Sean Mahon) and his mysterious guest, Mr. Lockhart (Ciarán Hinds). Shortly after the guests arrive, Mr. Lockhart reveals himself to be the Devil and declares that he has come to play Sharky in a game of poker for his soul. But it is not this revelation that makes the play special—in fact, I found it to be sudden and a bit forced. However, from this point on, the casual Christmas poker game takes on new import, and settles into a more comfortable rhythm that builds through to the end, as Sharky wrestles with the possibility that his life might end tonight.
The play pivots around Sharky, and his sober presence. Mr. Morse does a very fine job quietly keeping his motor running, and allowing his inner tension to mount as the play progresses. I felt great sympathy for Sharky as a lonely, aimless, angry man. We learn about various aspects of his life: missed opportunities, potential illicit and lost loves, and the fact that he may be guilty of manslaughter. But again, what I walked away with was the importance of everyday things, and the love that we experience everyday from those around us. In the end it is chance and love that saves Sharky, and this seems to be McPherson’s main point.
This production is certainly set up to highlight the writing (which may be why I’ve found it hard not to spend so much time focusing on it in this review). I must admit that this is my first exposure to a McPherson text, so I have little to compare it to, though I hear that this is one of his first real attempts at a dialogue (and not monologue) based play. Perhaps because of this, the structure feels a little formulaic and comfortable. He does include a few beautiful monologues and uses the characters’ drunkenness as a vehicle for musings on the afterlife, hell, and faith. Mr. Hines has an eerie monologue describing hell as an immensely magnified feeling of self-loathing that was, if not terrifying, certainly affecting. And Mr. Norton has a stunning bit about a dream he had where he could see, which turned into a gorgeous portrayal of total and unpretentious faith in God.
McPherson directed the piece himself, so the writing and language take precedence. It took me some time to get past the brogues, and at times I missed lines even late in the play. But it didn’t matter—the ensemble’s cohesion and clear physicality successfully communicated meaning where language failed or was absent. There were fantastic moments, such as Richard’s Christmas song medley, and in general, this ensemble was incredibly on point in their comic timing and togetherness.
The design was unimposing, and quietly supported the story. The action centers in the basement portion of Richard and Sharky’s apartment, and is both a little dingy and homey at the same time. It is a warm heart, surrounded by cool and mysterious outside spaces. The upstairs hallway is shrouded in a lace scrim, and has very low lighting, serving as a vaguely menacing entrance and exit; you never know exactly who is arriving through that hallway until they are well into it. There is also a moat of space surrounding the set, and a back walkway that is referenced continually. Rae Smith, who designed the sets, seems to be suggesting that the world outside the apartment is slightly threatening, and offers little to the apartment’s inhabitants. There was one stunning conjunction of set and lights when Mr. Lockhart gives his speech about Hell that in fact made it feel like that basement apartment was the only lonely thing that existed in the entire universe.
I was a little skeptical about the idea of having Sharky play the Devil for his soul, and the idea still feels a little glitzy. However, the execution of the idea is unusual, and McPherson uses it to get at something deeper. He pointed to the cycles that our lives can fall into, the seeming inability to break out and change, even with our best efforts. He points out that sometimes, missed chances are almost as “sinful” as overtly awful deeds. While this play was not groundbreaking, if you’re looking for a thoughtful, enjoyable piece that has optimism and hope for the survival of a human soul, it is very worthwhile; we do need to be reminded now and then that all is not lost, even at our worst moments.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Is He Dead?
Jason Platt
I was quite unsure of what to expect when I walked into the Lyceum to see this long lost/newly discovered Mark Twain play. (It was written in 1898, then forgotten until discovered in 2002 in his private papers). Previews had only just begun when the strike hit, so I knew nobody who had scene it, the advertisting campaign has been unagressive, and of course the piece hasn't ever been performed. To my great delight -- and likely that of 1,000 others -- the production is outstanding.
The plot is a simple one. A painter, Jean-Francois Millet, who is deep in debt and down on his luck, decides to fake his own death in order to drive up the prices of his paintings. He then masquerades as his twin sister to reap the financial benefits. Then there are of course a number of other complications; the piece is a rowdy combination of farce and unapologetic melodrama, so there is a villain avec mustache as well as frequent door-slamming and shenanigans. Given its almost amateurish simplicity, whether the play works on its own or could succeed in any other production is a more complicated question, but the direction of Michael Blakemore is so tight and precise, and the cast give such fantastic performances that the play is one of the most enjoyable theatrical experiences I have had in years.
As Millet, and cross-dressing as his fake sister, Norbert Leo Butz is nothing short of incredible. As Millet alone he is not particularly memorable, but once he puts the dress on . . . dear me, the part and the play immediately shift into fourth gear. Thankfully, this happens quite early, and we are treated for an hour and half to the obvious relish and bliss with which Butz devours "Daisy." The supporting cast -- and this is an ensemble piece when one considers the farcical nature -- are also very strong and beautifully energetic, particularly Michael McGrath and David Pittu. Blakemore has done an outstanding job in handling this text, which because of its over-the-top humor and often stereotypical matter could easily fall flat, but he has everyone on the same page and enjoying themselves. It did take some time for the audience to catch up on the fact that we were all meant to revel in the ridiculousness (indeed, the first scene is somewhat slow and unengaging, though this may change as previews continue), but once the viewers committed themselves to playing along, it was downright raucous. There are one or two questionable directing decisions, particularly the convention of having actors be lit by specials when delivering asides to the audience (but only sometimes), but nothing so frustrating as to ruin the piece.
The design of the play is very good if unexceptional. Peter Davison's perspective sets are great fun and quite lovely, though the door-slamming did at times have the effect of a small seismic disturbance. Pakledinaz's costumes (particularly in the second act when everyone is rich and happy) are sumptuous. His dresses for Butz-as-sister are just, well, they're just super.
I must admit that it is very infrequent that I not only enjoy, but subsequently admit to enjoying, a piece with as little intellectual and artistic depth. Aside from the basic commentary on the art market and values of pieces there is very little to stimulate the mind. However, there is a great deal of the historical nature to enjoy. The piece plays up both its melodramatic and farcical influences, engaging the audience in a sort of appreciation for theater history gone by. Similarly, for the art historians in the audience, the play makes a number of visual gags out of the fact that Millet's masterpieces (The Gleaners, The Sower, Evening Prayer) can't be bought for any price; each new painting revealed by the actors garners a laugh.
I would be curious to know just how much of the piece is Twain and how much is David Ives (who adapted it), because there seems to be just a tad too much self-referential humor and po-mo irony for Twain, though god knows the numerous jokes at the expense of the French and Germans are likely his. In the end, though, the question is academic; the production is delightful and engaging, and an absolute success, without question a step forward for the Broadway gruel. I will now make a joke that every shameless reviewer will at least be tempted toward. Is He Dead? No. And I hope this play won't be for quite some time.
I was quite unsure of what to expect when I walked into the Lyceum to see this long lost/newly discovered Mark Twain play. (It was written in 1898, then forgotten until discovered in 2002 in his private papers). Previews had only just begun when the strike hit, so I knew nobody who had scene it, the advertisting campaign has been unagressive, and of course the piece hasn't ever been performed. To my great delight -- and likely that of 1,000 others -- the production is outstanding.
The plot is a simple one. A painter, Jean-Francois Millet, who is deep in debt and down on his luck, decides to fake his own death in order to drive up the prices of his paintings. He then masquerades as his twin sister to reap the financial benefits. Then there are of course a number of other complications; the piece is a rowdy combination of farce and unapologetic melodrama, so there is a villain avec mustache as well as frequent door-slamming and shenanigans. Given its almost amateurish simplicity, whether the play works on its own or could succeed in any other production is a more complicated question, but the direction of Michael Blakemore is so tight and precise, and the cast give such fantastic performances that the play is one of the most enjoyable theatrical experiences I have had in years.
As Millet, and cross-dressing as his fake sister, Norbert Leo Butz is nothing short of incredible. As Millet alone he is not particularly memorable, but once he puts the dress on . . . dear me, the part and the play immediately shift into fourth gear. Thankfully, this happens quite early, and we are treated for an hour and half to the obvious relish and bliss with which Butz devours "Daisy." The supporting cast -- and this is an ensemble piece when one considers the farcical nature -- are also very strong and beautifully energetic, particularly Michael McGrath and David Pittu. Blakemore has done an outstanding job in handling this text, which because of its over-the-top humor and often stereotypical matter could easily fall flat, but he has everyone on the same page and enjoying themselves. It did take some time for the audience to catch up on the fact that we were all meant to revel in the ridiculousness (indeed, the first scene is somewhat slow and unengaging, though this may change as previews continue), but once the viewers committed themselves to playing along, it was downright raucous. There are one or two questionable directing decisions, particularly the convention of having actors be lit by specials when delivering asides to the audience (but only sometimes), but nothing so frustrating as to ruin the piece.
The design of the play is very good if unexceptional. Peter Davison's perspective sets are great fun and quite lovely, though the door-slamming did at times have the effect of a small seismic disturbance. Pakledinaz's costumes (particularly in the second act when everyone is rich and happy) are sumptuous. His dresses for Butz-as-sister are just, well, they're just super.
I must admit that it is very infrequent that I not only enjoy, but subsequently admit to enjoying, a piece with as little intellectual and artistic depth. Aside from the basic commentary on the art market and values of pieces there is very little to stimulate the mind. However, there is a great deal of the historical nature to enjoy. The piece plays up both its melodramatic and farcical influences, engaging the audience in a sort of appreciation for theater history gone by. Similarly, for the art historians in the audience, the play makes a number of visual gags out of the fact that Millet's masterpieces (The Gleaners, The Sower, Evening Prayer) can't be bought for any price; each new painting revealed by the actors garners a laugh.
I would be curious to know just how much of the piece is Twain and how much is David Ives (who adapted it), because there seems to be just a tad too much self-referential humor and po-mo irony for Twain, though god knows the numerous jokes at the expense of the French and Germans are likely his. In the end, though, the question is academic; the production is delightful and engaging, and an absolute success, without question a step forward for the Broadway gruel. I will now make a joke that every shameless reviewer will at least be tempted toward. Is He Dead? No. And I hope this play won't be for quite some time.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Queens Boulevard (the Musical)
Adam Marple
What a fun show! I have not had a night of theatre in which I have smiled through the entire event before. Taking on the guise of a wedding party that we are all invited to, Queens Blvd. (the musical) is Chuck Mee’s newest show to open at the Signature Theatre, which has decided to premiere three of his newest works as their season. The event of the night starts the second you walk into the theater. With music blaring and the set noticeable upon entrance, all you can think is, “This is so tacky, so bright, so Queens.” The set for this show is an amazing amalgamation of everything you have ever seen if you have been to Queens. The point is driven home even more when you remember the plastic antiseptic Times Square you had to walk through to get to the theater. All the blinking lights and crazy billboards in Queens Blvd seem authentic and genuine, they feel lived through. In a retelling of the classical Indian story of Shakuntala, we are invited to attend the wedding of Shizuko (played by a stunningly joyful Michi Barall) and her husband Vijay (played by Amir Arison in a fantastic Off-Broadway premiere). With a DJ as narrator through the piece, we as an audience are invited to participate, and we gladly come along for the ride. Asking if there are any newlyweds (yes, two days) and who in the audience has been married the longest (a couple in front of me - 62 years), we are regaled with Jell-O shots and Polaroids to remember this occasion by.
Queens Boulevard (the musical) is called a musical in the loosest sense. 'Musical' is in parenthesis for a reason; this is a karaoke musical, a montage musical. The plot is very thin, but the writing is so good that you don’t even mind. There are some amazing moments with certain characters (there are 40 off them) and there are some of the greatest speeches that I have heard in any of Chuck Mee’s plays. What is not very good is the choreography. It’s as if the choreographer heard that this was a karaoke musical and they thought they could phone in the dancing as well. While Michi Baral and Amir Arison are fantastic the rest of the cast leaves something to be desired. It’s as if in search for the most multicultural cast around, they didn’t look for the best multicultural cast around. Characters aren’t just made with fake moustaches and loud accents. It was amazing to see the city we all live in proportionately represented on stage. It was disheartening, however, to see the sea of shining white faces staring back at them. If only the theatre were to bring in the people whose culture is being represented on stage, then something amazing would happen. There are problems in the middle; the director, Davis McCallum, falls into the trap that many directors that tackle Chuck Mee’s texts fall into. The episodic nature of his writing demands that you drive from one scene to the next; Mr. McCalum decides to give us blackouts and musical underscoring instead. But you get so much joy out of this piece that all is forgiven at the amazing ending. Will this change the face of theatre? No. It could introduce many new people to a form they have never seen but the real change will come to the attitudes of people. You cannot leave this love letter to Queens without being happy and being glad you are alive. Then you walk through Times Square again and actually think about hopping the N, R, W to the other borough that seems so much more real.
What a fun show! I have not had a night of theatre in which I have smiled through the entire event before. Taking on the guise of a wedding party that we are all invited to, Queens Blvd. (the musical) is Chuck Mee’s newest show to open at the Signature Theatre, which has decided to premiere three of his newest works as their season. The event of the night starts the second you walk into the theater. With music blaring and the set noticeable upon entrance, all you can think is, “This is so tacky, so bright, so Queens.” The set for this show is an amazing amalgamation of everything you have ever seen if you have been to Queens. The point is driven home even more when you remember the plastic antiseptic Times Square you had to walk through to get to the theater. All the blinking lights and crazy billboards in Queens Blvd seem authentic and genuine, they feel lived through. In a retelling of the classical Indian story of Shakuntala, we are invited to attend the wedding of Shizuko (played by a stunningly joyful Michi Barall) and her husband Vijay (played by Amir Arison in a fantastic Off-Broadway premiere). With a DJ as narrator through the piece, we as an audience are invited to participate, and we gladly come along for the ride. Asking if there are any newlyweds (yes, two days) and who in the audience has been married the longest (a couple in front of me - 62 years), we are regaled with Jell-O shots and Polaroids to remember this occasion by.
Queens Boulevard (the musical) is called a musical in the loosest sense. 'Musical' is in parenthesis for a reason; this is a karaoke musical, a montage musical. The plot is very thin, but the writing is so good that you don’t even mind. There are some amazing moments with certain characters (there are 40 off them) and there are some of the greatest speeches that I have heard in any of Chuck Mee’s plays. What is not very good is the choreography. It’s as if the choreographer heard that this was a karaoke musical and they thought they could phone in the dancing as well. While Michi Baral and Amir Arison are fantastic the rest of the cast leaves something to be desired. It’s as if in search for the most multicultural cast around, they didn’t look for the best multicultural cast around. Characters aren’t just made with fake moustaches and loud accents. It was amazing to see the city we all live in proportionately represented on stage. It was disheartening, however, to see the sea of shining white faces staring back at them. If only the theatre were to bring in the people whose culture is being represented on stage, then something amazing would happen. There are problems in the middle; the director, Davis McCallum, falls into the trap that many directors that tackle Chuck Mee’s texts fall into. The episodic nature of his writing demands that you drive from one scene to the next; Mr. McCalum decides to give us blackouts and musical underscoring instead. But you get so much joy out of this piece that all is forgiven at the amazing ending. Will this change the face of theatre? No. It could introduce many new people to a form they have never seen but the real change will come to the attitudes of people. You cannot leave this love letter to Queens without being happy and being glad you are alive. Then you walk through Times Square again and actually think about hopping the N, R, W to the other borough that seems so much more real.
Wooster Group’s Hamlet
Adam Marple
When you hear the concept behind The Wooster Group’s Hamlet, currently running at the public until December 2nd, you ask your self, “Why?” To do the bard’s greatest work isn’t in question. To do the bard’s greatest work in front of and in conjunction with Sir John Gielgud and Richard Burton’s filmed stage version from the ‘60’s is. In 1964 Sir John Gielgud decided to direct a modern dress Hamlet starring Sir Richard Burton. It was going to be shown in over 800 movie theaters across the country and was a major event of its time that has yet to be rivaled (though the Metropolitan Opera is coming close). Filmed with 17 different cameras from varying angles, it was miles away from the electronovision version of the “shot directly on” filmed versions of stage performances. But with the Wooster Group’s Hamlet you never truly know why they have decided to mix live performance with the filmed version of the story they are representing.
However it is endlessly fascinating. The company recreates the blocking, intonations, and jump cuts of the film. The film, shown on a 40-foot screen behind the live actors, plays the 1960’s film version, while in front of the screen The Wooster Group imitates what is going on behind them. It is a directing and design tour de force where the actor gets lost in the process. How can anyone act in this show? Isn’t it all just imitation? Amongst other questions you ask yourself if you are paying attention to the story or the staging? Could they both be the same? At one point in the show I said that nothing was being illuminated from this process. By the end I realized everything was being illuminated whether they intended it or not. When the camera shifts to a close-up the actors literally move their universe downstage. When the camera takes another angle, so does the stage. Space is manipulated in a way that I have never seen before and may not have understood without the film going on behind it. The Wooster group uses technology to actually “ghost” away characters from the film so that all that is left is the empty film stage, or an arm, or head, or simply voice. It makes you focus on the live actors on stage that you sometimes forget about. As always The Wooster Group is fucking with theatre, but to what end? What are they asking? You don’t listen to the story so much as feel the tone and understand the psychology of the piece. They are also assuming you already know Hamlet well enough to understand what is going on. Does everyone know Hamlet well enough though? Everyone thinks they do, but do they? What about Romeo and Juliet?
This is pure imitation. But, imitation is the highest form of flattery. You realize what they are attempting is damned hard, but they fall a little short. You actually wish they had more precision behind it. Contrary to one critic’s comment of being “Shakespeare Karaoke,” this piece has something behind it. However, it could not support itself until the end. I would have loved for the technology to be stripped away and be left with an actor on an empty stage speaking the greatest poetry the English-speaking world has ever known. Shakespeare’s language was too powerful for any technology that The Wooster Group threw at it. And maybe that is the point they wanted to make. But I doubt it. They are known for their bravado and technological extravaganzas. At the rate that this show is selling out and extending I doubt they will hesitate to look at theatre any differently or any clearer than they have been for the last 30 years. As you leave the theatre with far too many questions bouncing through your mind, two things will stand out: endlessly fascinating, but why?
When you hear the concept behind The Wooster Group’s Hamlet, currently running at the public until December 2nd, you ask your self, “Why?” To do the bard’s greatest work isn’t in question. To do the bard’s greatest work in front of and in conjunction with Sir John Gielgud and Richard Burton’s filmed stage version from the ‘60’s is. In 1964 Sir John Gielgud decided to direct a modern dress Hamlet starring Sir Richard Burton. It was going to be shown in over 800 movie theaters across the country and was a major event of its time that has yet to be rivaled (though the Metropolitan Opera is coming close). Filmed with 17 different cameras from varying angles, it was miles away from the electronovision version of the “shot directly on” filmed versions of stage performances. But with the Wooster Group’s Hamlet you never truly know why they have decided to mix live performance with the filmed version of the story they are representing.
However it is endlessly fascinating. The company recreates the blocking, intonations, and jump cuts of the film. The film, shown on a 40-foot screen behind the live actors, plays the 1960’s film version, while in front of the screen The Wooster Group imitates what is going on behind them. It is a directing and design tour de force where the actor gets lost in the process. How can anyone act in this show? Isn’t it all just imitation? Amongst other questions you ask yourself if you are paying attention to the story or the staging? Could they both be the same? At one point in the show I said that nothing was being illuminated from this process. By the end I realized everything was being illuminated whether they intended it or not. When the camera shifts to a close-up the actors literally move their universe downstage. When the camera takes another angle, so does the stage. Space is manipulated in a way that I have never seen before and may not have understood without the film going on behind it. The Wooster group uses technology to actually “ghost” away characters from the film so that all that is left is the empty film stage, or an arm, or head, or simply voice. It makes you focus on the live actors on stage that you sometimes forget about. As always The Wooster Group is fucking with theatre, but to what end? What are they asking? You don’t listen to the story so much as feel the tone and understand the psychology of the piece. They are also assuming you already know Hamlet well enough to understand what is going on. Does everyone know Hamlet well enough though? Everyone thinks they do, but do they? What about Romeo and Juliet?
This is pure imitation. But, imitation is the highest form of flattery. You realize what they are attempting is damned hard, but they fall a little short. You actually wish they had more precision behind it. Contrary to one critic’s comment of being “Shakespeare Karaoke,” this piece has something behind it. However, it could not support itself until the end. I would have loved for the technology to be stripped away and be left with an actor on an empty stage speaking the greatest poetry the English-speaking world has ever known. Shakespeare’s language was too powerful for any technology that The Wooster Group threw at it. And maybe that is the point they wanted to make. But I doubt it. They are known for their bravado and technological extravaganzas. At the rate that this show is selling out and extending I doubt they will hesitate to look at theatre any differently or any clearer than they have been for the last 30 years. As you leave the theatre with far too many questions bouncing through your mind, two things will stand out: endlessly fascinating, but why?
Monday, November 12, 2007
August: Osage County
Julie Brook
I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how we can wake up a theater audience: what will ask them to sit forward in their seats and listen, ask questions, in new way? August: Osage County is not an innovative idea. It is not a play that is breaking ground with a surprising way to reach the audience, but I cannot remember the last time I was in an audience that was breathing, gasping for air, with a play in the way the audience did at the performance I saw of August: Osage County. I sat in the back of the orchestra and at the end of the second act of a THREE ACT play saw an audience that didn’t want to leave their seats. Truth be told, I saw this play in Chicago as well. It was a third or fourth preview and at the time it felt like I was watching the fruition of a truly American play that filled the entire theater. I was not sure how it would feel away from Steppenwolf’s home, yet the Imperial Theater was filled with “ooohs” and “no”’s and gasps all night.
Tracy Letts has written an epic play that does not surprise in its tactics or its language, but does in its humanity, humor and tragedy. The play is set in a large country home of the Weston brood in Pawhuska, Oklahoma on the “Plains” as they say, different than the Midwest or the West; we have an acute sense that this house is isolated, solitary. The matriarchs are two sisters, Violet Weston and Mattie Fae Weston, played by Deanna Dunagan and Rondi Reed respectively. The play begins with Beverly Weston, Violet’s husband, (played by the playwright’s father Dennis Letts) hiring a housekeeper played by the illusive and strong Johanna Monevata. What follows is a family drama like none we have seen in a while on the stage. What Tract Letts has accomplished with this play is a family so big we can find ourselves somewhere in it and get comfortable, find ourselves laughing with understanding. But then the moment we get comfortable it all falls apart, and we fall apart with the Westons. The first and second acts of August are spellbinding. Letts has written a play that he admits comes from his own family experience AND was inspired by his artistic family at Steppenwolf (the majority of the cast are company members). The result is a play that has the neurosis of a family and the energy of a family, but its problem is that at its end it is trying to accomplish too much. For the first time in the third act I felt myself and the audience lean away because there are too many family secrets revealed, and there are so many in such a short period of time we begin to feel the theatrical desire to tie up all the loose ends with a bow. Families bows are not all tied, mine certainly aren’t, and I think August would have landed more at the end without pulling all the lines to their most unexpected end.
That being said, I am not sure it entirely matters. That is to say that the play is still one of the best-written family dramas I have seen on stage for as long as I can remember. It is epic and personal and that is not often done well. Some of the scenes in this play made me laugh in a way where I wasn’t laughing at the people onstage, but really laughing with them and in their house. So the last act doesn’t fulfill the standards set by the acts before, oh well, I still felt I was a part of an audience during August in a way that the stiffness of a Broadway house does not often allow . . .
It needs to be said that the performances in this production bring this script to life in a way that is striking. Amy Morton plays Barbara Fordham and takes over the family with the terror and accountability of an apprehensive matriarch and then responds to her new role with heartbreaking neurosis. She is our way into this family. We meet her as the eldest daughter who has left but struggles with the guilt of it, and we watch her painfully pulled between her husband, daughter, and parent's desires. Jeff Perry plays her husband, Bill Fordham, whose genuine sweetness truly makes his transgressions acceptable and human. Her daughter, Jean, is played by the shockingly clear and strong Madeline Martin. With her young voice and adult sensibility we feel in her a child pushed and pulled between growing up and still stamping her kid foot. This is a cast where it is hard to leave anyone out. Rondi Reed and Francis Guinan are the sister and brother-in-law who allow you to see love in a clear and fallible way. The two seem to be connected with a cord throughout the play as they weave in and out of scenes with their squabbles and their references to each other, and their son played by Ian Barford is hopelessly endearing in all his problems. The Weston sisters are completed with the spot-on neuroses of Karen Weston, played by Mariann Mayberry, the daughter with a one-sided view of almost everything AND Ivy Weston the individuated and martyred middle child, played by the refreshingly straightforward Sally Murphy.
The problem I had was with the overall direction by Anna D. Shapiro. Her beats within the scenes were lovely, full and clearly directed with a precise comic timing. It is the overall seams between the scenes and the design that left me feeling this house could even be more full. The set by Todd Rosenthal is a generous open house, three levels high. At no point in the production did the house feel full with this family. At no point did I feel Shapiro really expand the play between the scenes so we felt the energy of a truly bursting house that could really contrast the amazing intimacy she found in the smaller scenes. The set and lighting design did not feel entwined with the staging. The sound by Richard Woodbury was incredibly effective and the lighting design in the third act (by Ann G Wrightson) is sharp and beautiful, but the elements didn’t seem to build or tie in through the whole of the play. After the third act ended when I felt there was still more that could be fleshed out, I realized the true strength and muscle of this play. It could be fuller; it could be more seamlessly filled with the design and the script and the direction, but again, I am pretty sure it doesn’t matter. When you have performances like these, and an ensemble doing some of the best work in reference to each other I have seen, AND a play that surprises you with its storytelling, the problems are insignificant.
August: Osage County should be seen by as many as possible once the strike is over. It could inspire new theater audiences with its accessibility, while challenging them with its complex issues and family humor. I wonder if with a bit more shaping this family could really grow into its house and have a more permanent address as an important American play. I am pretty certain Tracy Letts and the powerful cast have accomplished this even with the cracks shining through because it is a play that feels incredibly alive and necessary: everything we need right now in American storytelling on stage.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Bingo With The Indians
Jason Platt
Adam Rapp is nothing if not prolific; Bingo With The Indians is the third new play by Rapp to have its New York premier this calendar year, following shows at Playwrights Horizons and Rattlestick. Bingo, like most of Rapp's plays, has an undercurrent of otherworldliness, an over-the-top intensity to the expletive-laden mundanity of everyday life that generally divides his audience into two sects: those who follow him with a pseudo-rock star devotion, and those who find him irrelevant. Bingo With The Indians will likely serve as fodder for both.
The play follows the exploits of an underappreciated theatrical troupe who make the trip to New Hampshire to rob a church bingo game in the hopes of getting seed money to fund their next production. One question surely to be asked is whether you like your theater to be about theater; not in a subtle metatheatrical sense, but rather in the form of a mockumentary. The questions and problems of creating theater (or any art) -- its meaning in an unappreciative world, its self-important irrelevance, its transformative power -- pervade the piece. Rapp presents both sides of the question, portraying the New York troupe as the ultimate, obliviously highbrow group of downtown youths, while also giving a deeply moving portrait of Steve (the New Hampshire teen who runs the motel they stay at), who desires nothing so much as to be taken to the city to lose himself in the dissolving reality theater offers. This dialogue regarding the significance of theater in the contemporary world is by far the most interesting and engaging aspect of the play, and its resolution (or lack thereof) perhaps the most frustrating. It feels as though Rapp never comes down cleanly on one side of the issue, though one suspects he is attempting to, particularly given the ending (a sequence that would be a spoiler to give away, but suffice it to say there is significant quoting of Chekhov). Indeed, the text at times almost feels like a conflation of three or four unrelated texts, all with their own rhythms and focus, which does at times undermine the piece.
However, if anything can lead one to glossing over the piece's discrepancies, it is the fantastic performances given by the cast, all members of the Bats, The Flea's resident (unpaid) acting company. Evan Enderle in particular gives an enormously heartbreaking performance as the fragile and hopeful Steve (one of the most moving pieces of acting I have seen this year), and his often stage partner Rob Yang is also fascinating as a chilly, manipulative stage manager. The other actors are strong as well, though their characters frequently feel unplumbed, almost certainly due both to Rapp's writing and directing. Rapp has particularly always had a problem with creating female characters, which continues with the three women in Bingo. Such a situation could likely be rectified by having a director other than the writer heading the production and lending another perspective, but Rapp appears bent on maintaining full control over his productions.
At a fairly taut 90 minutes, the piece never loses any momentum, though those not particularly enchanted by gratuitous nudity and scatological humor may find themselves checking out: there were numerous grimaces and eye-coverings in the audience throughout the play. That being said, the play does leave one with a question, and I continued to engage in a discussion with my friends long after the piece was over, which is achieved so infrequently these days. If you are looking for an intense and intimate (I cannot emphasize that enough) theatrical experience, this is certainly going to be of interest to you, and the performances carry the day. However, if you have not found yourself attracted to Rapp's work in the past, this is not the piece to convert you.
Adam Rapp is nothing if not prolific; Bingo With The Indians is the third new play by Rapp to have its New York premier this calendar year, following shows at Playwrights Horizons and Rattlestick. Bingo, like most of Rapp's plays, has an undercurrent of otherworldliness, an over-the-top intensity to the expletive-laden mundanity of everyday life that generally divides his audience into two sects: those who follow him with a pseudo-rock star devotion, and those who find him irrelevant. Bingo With The Indians will likely serve as fodder for both.
The play follows the exploits of an underappreciated theatrical troupe who make the trip to New Hampshire to rob a church bingo game in the hopes of getting seed money to fund their next production. One question surely to be asked is whether you like your theater to be about theater; not in a subtle metatheatrical sense, but rather in the form of a mockumentary. The questions and problems of creating theater (or any art) -- its meaning in an unappreciative world, its self-important irrelevance, its transformative power -- pervade the piece. Rapp presents both sides of the question, portraying the New York troupe as the ultimate, obliviously highbrow group of downtown youths, while also giving a deeply moving portrait of Steve (the New Hampshire teen who runs the motel they stay at), who desires nothing so much as to be taken to the city to lose himself in the dissolving reality theater offers. This dialogue regarding the significance of theater in the contemporary world is by far the most interesting and engaging aspect of the play, and its resolution (or lack thereof) perhaps the most frustrating. It feels as though Rapp never comes down cleanly on one side of the issue, though one suspects he is attempting to, particularly given the ending (a sequence that would be a spoiler to give away, but suffice it to say there is significant quoting of Chekhov). Indeed, the text at times almost feels like a conflation of three or four unrelated texts, all with their own rhythms and focus, which does at times undermine the piece.
However, if anything can lead one to glossing over the piece's discrepancies, it is the fantastic performances given by the cast, all members of the Bats, The Flea's resident (unpaid) acting company. Evan Enderle in particular gives an enormously heartbreaking performance as the fragile and hopeful Steve (one of the most moving pieces of acting I have seen this year), and his often stage partner Rob Yang is also fascinating as a chilly, manipulative stage manager. The other actors are strong as well, though their characters frequently feel unplumbed, almost certainly due both to Rapp's writing and directing. Rapp has particularly always had a problem with creating female characters, which continues with the three women in Bingo. Such a situation could likely be rectified by having a director other than the writer heading the production and lending another perspective, but Rapp appears bent on maintaining full control over his productions.
At a fairly taut 90 minutes, the piece never loses any momentum, though those not particularly enchanted by gratuitous nudity and scatological humor may find themselves checking out: there were numerous grimaces and eye-coverings in the audience throughout the play. That being said, the play does leave one with a question, and I continued to engage in a discussion with my friends long after the piece was over, which is achieved so infrequently these days. If you are looking for an intense and intimate (I cannot emphasize that enough) theatrical experience, this is certainly going to be of interest to you, and the performances carry the day. However, if you have not found yourself attracted to Rapp's work in the past, this is not the piece to convert you.
Friday, November 9, 2007
The Brothers Size
Adam Marple
Full disclosure here- I was invited to this preview by the some of the Artistic Staff and attended the after party where I was wined and dined.
That being said I believe that I can give an objective opinion on this show.
The Brothers Size is a new play by Tarell Alvin McCraney that received it’s first presentation at the Under the Radar festival earlier this year at the Public, and was picked up for a fully supported presentation as part of the Public’s season. While it has been done before, it still has little flaws that keep it from truly standing out amongst the otherwise stellar Public season.
When you walk into the theater, you immediately hear the drumming of Jonathan Pratt (who does a phenomenal job as foley artist and soundtrack to the production) and are struck by the sheer simplicity of the design. I emphasize the simplicity because two set designers are listed in the program, yet all you see is a pile of white polished rock, three acting cubes, and a bucket of sand. A sharp contrast to what’s going on next door with Wooster Group’s multimedia extravaganza Hamlet. Yet by the end, all the simplicity felt absolutely necessary.
So many things about this show felt essential and necessary, but so many things felt overlooked. For the first time I understand what a dramaturge could have done for a production. It needed another eye, it needed someone else to say “No”, “Yes, and…” or “Why.” Why are the costumes non-essential? Why introduce sound from an outside source when we’ve been listening to live drums for an hour? Why does only one character have on shoes? Why is everyone shirtless? These simple silly questions keep you from getting into the play early on. It took me a long time to finally immerse myself in the story and I heard a similar complaint from many in the audience.
But, once you were in it you were in it. It’s a wonderful story. Nothing groundbreaking or new here script wise, but quite the opposite, it’s very old. It plays fast and loose with an old Yoruba myth that we are all familiar with whether we realize it or not: familial love and the sacrifices we will make for it. The piece is beautifully acted by three hard working actors who fight every minute of the play to keep the through line taut. There’s a moment toward the end that truly makes the audience brace up and coalesce around them, and just as quickly it turns on a dime and throws us in a new direction. I haven’t heard an audience gasp in quite a long time, but we were at the point of loving these characters so much that we hated to see anything happen to them.
Directing wise there was no clear beginning, and the end was blown. Tiny little things throughout kept the play from rising above good, to become great. I nitpick because it’s so close to being great. After being done earlier this year and having such wonderful support, it’s sad to see such little things keep this show from shining. In a season of such amazing shows, playwrights, and actors this show will get lost. It’s almost there. But it’s the “almost there” quality that will make it disappear. I hope not, I hope I’m horribly wrong. Because it is good, almost great, but definitely good. Go and see it if you have the chance, but be prepared to wish for more and regret the lack of a dramaturge.
Full disclosure here- I was invited to this preview by the some of the Artistic Staff and attended the after party where I was wined and dined.
That being said I believe that I can give an objective opinion on this show.
The Brothers Size is a new play by Tarell Alvin McCraney that received it’s first presentation at the Under the Radar festival earlier this year at the Public, and was picked up for a fully supported presentation as part of the Public’s season. While it has been done before, it still has little flaws that keep it from truly standing out amongst the otherwise stellar Public season.
When you walk into the theater, you immediately hear the drumming of Jonathan Pratt (who does a phenomenal job as foley artist and soundtrack to the production) and are struck by the sheer simplicity of the design. I emphasize the simplicity because two set designers are listed in the program, yet all you see is a pile of white polished rock, three acting cubes, and a bucket of sand. A sharp contrast to what’s going on next door with Wooster Group’s multimedia extravaganza Hamlet. Yet by the end, all the simplicity felt absolutely necessary.
So many things about this show felt essential and necessary, but so many things felt overlooked. For the first time I understand what a dramaturge could have done for a production. It needed another eye, it needed someone else to say “No”, “Yes, and…” or “Why.” Why are the costumes non-essential? Why introduce sound from an outside source when we’ve been listening to live drums for an hour? Why does only one character have on shoes? Why is everyone shirtless? These simple silly questions keep you from getting into the play early on. It took me a long time to finally immerse myself in the story and I heard a similar complaint from many in the audience.
But, once you were in it you were in it. It’s a wonderful story. Nothing groundbreaking or new here script wise, but quite the opposite, it’s very old. It plays fast and loose with an old Yoruba myth that we are all familiar with whether we realize it or not: familial love and the sacrifices we will make for it. The piece is beautifully acted by three hard working actors who fight every minute of the play to keep the through line taut. There’s a moment toward the end that truly makes the audience brace up and coalesce around them, and just as quickly it turns on a dime and throws us in a new direction. I haven’t heard an audience gasp in quite a long time, but we were at the point of loving these characters so much that we hated to see anything happen to them.
Directing wise there was no clear beginning, and the end was blown. Tiny little things throughout kept the play from rising above good, to become great. I nitpick because it’s so close to being great. After being done earlier this year and having such wonderful support, it’s sad to see such little things keep this show from shining. In a season of such amazing shows, playwrights, and actors this show will get lost. It’s almost there. But it’s the “almost there” quality that will make it disappear. I hope not, I hope I’m horribly wrong. Because it is good, almost great, but definitely good. Go and see it if you have the chance, but be prepared to wish for more and regret the lack of a dramaturge.
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