The Uncle Junior Defense
Master Class – Review
Before even discussing the Manhattan Theatre Club production of Master Class, can we take a moment to appreciate the incredible photo of Tyne Daly? To quote Norma Desmond; they don’t make faces like that anymore.
In fact, they’ve slowed down the production of actresses like Tyne Daly. She has what is known as presence. She changes the electricity in a room. She has a smile (not employed in this production) that starts in her eyes and goes down to her toes. It does not rely upon precision dental work, but on her using her entire body as her instrument.
How apt then that she should portray a fictionalized Maria Callas as written by Terrence McNally. Master Class is a well crafted, less than riveting play about Maria Callas in her later years. It lacks the overall power of the more recent; “artist as subject of a play,” Red. However it has many prolonged moments which satisfy and linger.
The setting is an auditorium in which Ms. Callas is holding a master class for advanced opera students. Her narcissistic ramblings and outbursts will remind you of your worse workplace moments. Underneath her posturings and hurtful tongue however, are some truly golden nuggets of teaching.
The two-act play, directed by Stephen Wadsworth, is interspersed with very gracefully set flashbacks of Ms. Callas. Original recordings are used to great effect. The music, live and recorded, helps to give this play some needed dimension. Two of the three opera students are given the opportunity to really sing, and it is truly magical. It was during those moments that I stopped “watching” and became entranced.
The flashback scenes are when things really get interesting, dramatically speaking. This is both a product of the script and of having Ms. Daly perform monologues. I must admit an emphasis on the latter, as the script did nothing to prevent me flashing back to Ms. Daly performing “Rose’s Turn.” It is a testament to the actress embodying the character, that I cringed at her portrayal of Aristotle Onasis. Tyne Daly could probably utter those vulgarities, but as Maria Callas? It was horrifying. In a good way.
As the premise of the play is a master class, the house lights are often up and the fourth wall is more scrim than wall. I grew increasingly tense each time Ms. Daly lobbed (what I considered to be rhetorical) questions at the eager to participate audience. I think this could have been somewhat offset by not having the house lights as high. The script probably does not dictate a wattage. While I’m at it, I would probably lobby for a smaller house. It is a small play, and while the Samuel J. Friedman theatre is not huge, it’s a bit out of proportion.
Tyne Daly last performed with the Manhattan Theatre Club in Rabbit Hole. Like Rabbit Hole, the reason to see Master Class is the opportunity to see Tyne Daly.
Betty Ford
Betty Ford has died. I will never be confused for a political analyst, and my childhood memories are as suspect as anyone’s. However, I am struck with the idea that Mrs. Ford was an American pioneer. Long before the Huffington Post, the country knew Mrs. Ford’s opinions on serious social issues. Decades (and generations) before any First Lady would be criticized for being politically vocal, Mrs. Ford made her position known on such subjects as legalized abortion, the ERA and premarital sex (remember, this was the 1970s, premarital sex was still up for discussion as a social ill.)
Before we had the luxury of watching newsreaders have their colon examined on national television, Betty Ford went public with her bout of breast cancer. Before there were little pink ribbons, Mrs. Ford inspired tens of thousands of women to be screened and seek treatment.
Forty years before people would make a career from their public struggles with addiction, Mrs. Ford went public with her struggles. She helped to create the treatment center which is now such a part of the American vernacular it is used as a verb.
Long before Gawker or AwfulPlasticSurgery.com, the world knew (and saw) Betty Ford’s face lift. Almost unrecognizable to the yet untrained American eye, Mrs. Ford lifted her face proudly.
I know little, if anything of her husband’s politics (save for the pardon) but I am willing to venture that Mrs. Ford’s “firsts” outweigh her husband’s. For better or worse, she really was our nation’s first; Public Figures, They’re Just Like Us!Bet
The Motherf**ker With The Hat – Review
A hefty discount and an imminent closing, motivated me to see The Motherf**er With The Hat yesterday. I was not alone. Every seat was filled and hopefuls filled the box office and trolled the line looking to score a ticket. “Score” being an interesting choice of words in a play about substance abuse.
The Hat (please allow me this abbreviation) has received fabulous press and is billed as a 90 minute comedy. The cast, as illustrated at left, is marquee worthy. Directed by Anna D. Shapiro (August Osage County) and featuring Bobby Cannavale (Mauritius) I wasn’t filled with All My Sons (featuring Mrs. Cruise) apprehension. The applause which greeted each famous person as they came on stage indicated what drove the audience to this production. The (almost) manic laughter that greeted each line lent a very sitcom- set feel to the occasion. The play is not funny. Amusing at times, and there is one laugh-out-loud line towards the end, but overall? Not funny. And that’s okay. I wasn’t there for stand-up. The play is very straightforward. There are no surprises, despite the gasp of the woman next to me when a paramour was revealed. Theatre etiquette prevented me from asking her; “Really? There are only five people in the cast. Who did you think she was sleeping with?”
What is interesting about the play itself, is its accurate depiction of human beings, particularly their relationships with alcohol and drugs. On paper, these characters are well developed and realistic. Stephen Adly Guirgis has written intelligently about mental frailty. Having endured (the first 30 minutes) of Next To Normal, I do not take this accomplishment lightly. It is far too easy to create cartoonish characters and saddle them with enough business and cheap dialogue to indicate “troubled person here.” Guirgis does none of that. Instead he has written an intelligent depiction of real people. Unfortunately however, it isn’t a very interesting play. There is not much of a story. It’s not boring, it’s just that there is no dramatic tension. I have not decided how much the direction and performances exacerbated this shortcoming.
Most of the dialogue was yelled for 90 minutes. I can not fathom how these actors do eight performances a week! The stage is miked, but the actors are not. This is mostly an issue for Annabella Sciorra, a lovely delicate actress saddled with a made for film voice. Her thin head voice simply can not work in a theatre. It is a shame for she really is a fine actress. I’m not sure why every other performer, save Yul Vazquez was yelling. Was Ms. Shapiro using the device in lieu of dramatic tension? I’m not sure. I just know I found it to be distracting. A bit sitcom-y even.
Speaking of sitcoms, I wonder if Ms. Shapiro has ever witnessed someone using cocaine. Their demeanor, perhaps even speech pattern, changes a wee bit after using. I found it odd that when the users slip (and of course, they slip) there was no discernible difference in their demeanor. Addicts change when they use, that’s why they’re addicts. I don’t think the script was written; “characters shall show no changes.” I think it was a directorial decision.
Chris Rock delivers his dialogue well. He is best when seated as he does not know what to do with his body when standing. He is serviceable when reciting his lines. He did not connect with anyone, but wonderfully, neither does his character.
Elizabeth Rodriguez plays the pivotal role of Veronica. We are to see Bobby Cannavale’s character (Jackie) through his relationship with her. There is no chemistry between these two people and this caused a ripple effect in plausibility. I could not understand Jackie’s unraveling, as I could not see his lifeline to Veronica. Perhaps if she had stopped screaming for a moment? I don’t know. I suspect she was just miscast, and not just because lifetime cocaine users do not have that kind of muscle definition.
The absolute gorgeous stand-out of this production is Yul Vazquez. His character and his portrayal are fully formed. Interesting that he is the only non-addict in the group. He was funny and lovely and had the best mini-monologue of the entire play. I cared deeply for him. I am frustrated by the notion that more Mr. Vazquezes and fewer headliners might have made this a great show.
I would like to read this play and tease out on my own what the producers saw. I suspect something merely got lost in the translation.
Get Ready For The Summer
It’s that time of year again. Summer. A season only second to Christmas in it’s forced hyped gaiety. Do I sound like a bikini-clad Grinch? Before I reflexively apologize, perhaps I should explain my resentment. Unlike Christmas, summer delivers me no easy out of the frenzy. I can’t exactly wave the religion flag as my get-out-of-gaiety card, can I? Or can I? Can I blame my disconnect to patriotism (Memorial, Independence, and Labor; the trifecta of summer flag waving) on being the spawn of sixties liberal reform Jews? Doubtful, considering I love nothing more than a hometown parade. But wait, what about the grandparents who scraped together the scraps of their working class paychecks for a week or two in the Catskills every year? Don’t those incredibly dismal and depressing black and white photographs (with wiggly white borders) prove a genetic inability to conform to the seasonal culture of fun. Puhlease.
My seasonal shortcomings are my own. I love cultivated nature (botanical gardens, english box hedges and the like) but am most certainly about as indoorsy as they come. That must be part of my “problem.” And by “problem” I don’t mean to imply that I am anti-summer. Far from it. I enjoy an enormous straw hat and a strappy sandal. I find nothing quite as lovely as the sight of the ice cream man (a man dressed in immaculate white doling out snack?!) It is instead the notion (pummeled by magazines, television and the like) that I should be ENJOYING MYSELF! This enjoyment should take the form of preparing/eating my meals out of doors (so much nicer in theory than in practice,) relocating to places remote or exclusive and/or adopting an entirely different life/persona for three months.
I love the summer in the city. Just love it. There is a quiet and sanity that feels (don’t ask me why) European. But even as I sit at a cafe nursing a cappuccino, or at the Boat Basin, working my way through a mango mai tai and mahi mahi taco (say that really really fast!) I feel I am not living up to expectation. What is most queer about this complex, is I have no idea why! I do not succumb to any other media expectations (of which I am aware.) Yet every year, at the end of May, here I sit, an involuntary Scrooge (in a stunning straw hat.)





