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The Other Place – Review

30 Dec

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We are who we think we are. Thoughts grow and change over time, but we remain a composite of our memories and our ideals. What happens when those factors don’t grow or change but dissipate? Not in one fell swoop, but slowly and then with ferocious speed that sputters and slows only to resume its pace once more. Who are we when our memories ooze and morph like the innards of a lava lamp? When an illness has no exact start time, how do we differentiate between who we were before and who we are now?

Those questions are just some of the powerful and profound concepts delivered in the mere 80 minutes of The Other Place (Manhattan Theatre Club.) Written by Sharr White with a delicacy and excruciating insight rarely seen in concert with such powerful playwriting. The play is told with many flashbacks and to great psychological thrilling effect. Things are seldom what they seem and that’s what makes Mr. White’s writing so fine. Life is messy, human behavior is diagnosable but not predictable.

Laurie Metcalf is Juliana, a brilliant and accomplished scientist who currently works for a drug company. The drug she’s helped to create is for (yes) dementia. We are introduced to her in her very best condition as she reenacts her first diagnosable episode. She is a somewhat unreliable narrator and it is through her eyes that we view her marriage and her diagnoses. The introduction of her husband Ian (Daniel Stern) and the strength of her doctor (Zoe Perry) helps us to tease apart the narrative. It is an achingly real and raw narrative with a substantial dose of complexity. We learn of the layers of loss and regret and are left wondering how to separate psychic pain from a psychic degenerative wound. Ms. Metcalf is captivating. She is a lithe vibrant powerful woman who must devolve into a heap in a very short period of time. No matter how exacting the writing, in a lesser actor’s hands this feat could go terribly wrong. Ms. Metcalf is on stage the entire time and it is simply not possible to avert one’s eyes. She is wonderfully matched in intensity and artistry by Mr. Stern and by Ms Perry and John Schiappa who play multiple roles. It is a tight and complementary ensemble.

The fluidity of this production is due to the grace of Joe Mantello’s direction. On paper The Other Place might be indecipherable. But with spot on sound (Fitz Patton), lighting (Justin Townsend), precise video (William Cusick) and a pitch perfect set (Eugene Lee & Edward Pierce) the story unfolds gracefully and beautifully.

This is a play whose power and artistry linger. If there was any flaw (and it can be argued there wasn’t) it’s a little tidiness towards the end. It is a rare night at that theatre in which your mind and your soul are put so thoroughly through their paces.

The Other Place opens January 10th.

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Picnic – Review

27 Dec

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There are theatrical experiences so real, so raw that it is only when the house lights go up that you remember where you are. Time passes imperceptibly and there is no one to your right or left, just those people up on the stage. Such is the mesmerizing effect of the Roundabout Theatre Company’s Picnic (by William Inge.) Directed by Sam Gold and with an ensemble cast only dreamed of in parlor games, Picnic is a feast.

The set (Andrew Lieberman) is brilliant, designed with the (harmless) voyeur in mind. The Owens house is front and center with many rooms visible. Scenes play in and out of the house and across yards and we watch from across the way. We watch Flo Owens (Mare Winningham) long for what’s best for her daughters Madge (Maggie Grace) and Millie (Madeline Martin.) We watch the Owens boarder Rosemary (Elizabeth Marvel) grasp at a chance for happiness. And Mrs.Potts (Ellen Burstyn) watches them because it makes her feel alive and gives her respite from a demanding invalid mother. There are men who propel the motion of their lives as well. Howard (Reed Birney) has been a steady presence in Rosemary’s life and Alan (Ben Rappaport) may just be Madge’s future. It is Hal (Sebastian Stan) who comes to upend their lives.

Picnic really is the story of women and how they live within the social confines of the 1950s and manage their desires. Flo, a single parent for many years, knows her daughters can have more than she ever did. She sees the artistic and intellectual gifts of her youngest Millie. Her elder Madge is stunning and Flo recognizes her beauty for the commodity it is. She is blunt with Madge about the shelf life of such an asset. Madge doesn’t see the point in being pretty, although she certainly does manage to have a great deal of fun with her looks. She’s savvy enough to realize that her sister has far more than she ever will. Flo sees Al as Madge’s ticket to the good life and encourages her daughter to fake passion to gain his commitment. Rosemary, the ‘spinster school teacher’ of a certain age is coming up right to the edge. She is a ball of fire and energy and is filled with more life than the women half her age. She senses (as Flo does about Madge) that it’s now or never.

It is this urgency of both Flo and Rosemary that provide the most powerful moments of the play. The power and anguish unleashed is unsettling. There is an impulse to turn away. But watching Ms. Winningham and Ms. Burstyn together is not to be missed. And to watch Ms. Marvel in what can only be called a Tony worthy performance is amazing. Ms. Marvel is unrecognizable physically. Normally a lovely and graceful, erect woman, she is curved and springy as Rosemary. In her wig and costume she is reminiscent of an energetic Eileen Heckart. It is her performance and her scenes with Howard that will linger. Their relationship and Rosemary’s longing are played out in a stirring dance sequence (Chase Brock choreographer.)

If there is any weakness in this magnificent production it is that of the ingenue casting. Watching Madge struggle with the superficiality of her ‘gift’ would be more compelling with a more layered actress. Casting Ms. Grace was an interesting stroke of realism, but might have missed to mark just a bit. Mr. Stan conveys a splendid mix of ingratiating grifter and wounded soul, but physically he may not be ideal. There isn’t enough difference in presence between Hal and Al to fully grasp Madge’s attraction. But as this play belongs to the grown women, it’s a minor point.

For all of its very raw and heartbreaking moments, Picnic is an uplifting play. Witnessing people finding their way and grasping joy is always inspiring. And there may never be a stronger ensemble and director than that of this production.

 
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Posted by on December 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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It’s All About We

20 Dec

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Individual freedom is at an all-time high in our country. It’s actually been on the rise for quite sometime. You may be old enough to recall the ‘Me’ generation. Elders were alarmed to see the younger folk intone that ‘greed was good.’ There was hand wringing and prophesying that our nation was going to hell in a hand basket. Many of the beleaguered moaners had been genuine placard carrying protesters and sitter inners. “What means this ‘in it for me’?” the asked. How can those so young be so cynical they wondered? But in many ways this new generation was just a product of social evolution. Their values seemed alien on the surface, but at their core they were really quite familiar.

The individual and the declaration of his/her pursuit of happiness is as old as, well, as our nation. It’s what constitutes happiness that has changed over time. Our individual rights, many of them the result of hard won fights by protesters and sitter inners, have brought a new reality. One need only take a quick look around to see how we have changed our orientation to the larger world. It is not one single thing, but the mosaic of; S.U.V.s, double-wide strollers, texting while walking, driving or in religious service, grooming or performing personal hygiene in restaurants, standing in the doorway of the subway car, letting doors slam on faces and behinds, that lead us to consider that the individual now reigns supreme.

There is much to say for individualism of course. It is a sign of creativity and a self-actualized life to stay true to oneself. But there is tricky terrain to tread when we consistently choose our individual rights over the collective good. Legally we have the right to arm our entire family and ourselves as if the British are coming. We also have the legal right to shelter our children from public services and mental health care. Do either of these individual rights benefit society in any way?

Legal rights are designed for the betterment of society. They reflect our collective ideals and values. Is enacting law a panacea? No, but it’s a start. It’s true that seat belt laws don’t make good drivers, but they might just protect you from the bad ones. What car laws do (and we have many of them) is say; “No, your individual rights cannot infringe upon the rights of others.” All reasonable people can agree that in fact that is where we draw the line.

No, you may not own any and every kind of gun you desire because doing so infringes upon the rights of others. No, you may not deny your child care and support because doing so infringes upon (his/her and the) rights of others. We must collectively provide such care and support with a fervor. We must remove the stigmas and euphemisms surrounding mental illness. We must agree that the only shame in any illness is that of a culture that doesn’t care. If we care, we must find a way to move on from the ‘Me’ and towards the ‘We.”

 
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Posted by on December 20, 2012 in Childhood, Cultural Critique, Well-Being

 

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Stopping The Madness

17 Dec

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When real news occurs technology and 24-hour access is a blessing. By patching together information from responsible radio sources, social chatter, and television visuals, we are able to piece together a reliable narrative. Our data gathering is confirmed and/or tweaked by the next morning’s newspaper. But when there is no more news, when we know what there is to know, the coverage still continues. The cameras and the microphone-wielding reporters scramble to create news after the fact.

Mobs of coffee swilling, logo wearing news personnel pass the time texting and chatting, waiting for a passerby to descend upon. They are rewarded for their perseverance by the person who desires to be photographed/interviewed. We could spend hours working out why anyone would want to place flowers on the ground while a swarm of dozens of camera people hover over one’s head. Perhaps it’s a similar motivation to wanting to go on record with “I didn’t really know him, he seemed different.” It’s odd but it is human nature to want to be part of something bigger.

But do we gain anything from the vulgar intrusion into people’s lives and the manufacturing of ‘news?’ The real events are usually horrific enough. No one need look for more horror. Every ‘expert’ frantically grabbed for a soundbite can pontificate from the news desk. If there is still news to come out of local offices, a reporter can be there and file the report the information. On-site cameras are not needed to report medical examiner reports or investigative results. Beside the stomach-turning element to covering mourning and grief is the danger of anesthetizing the public. While we don’t want to live in a state of perpetual sorrow, we most certainly don’t want to find ourselves numb and/or nonchalant about such horrific events. What is almost unthinkable is how the non-stop coverage can actually lead to more tragedy.

We can’t begin to ever really know what goes on in someone else’s mind. But we can look for clues and make educated guesses and predictions. A person ill at ease in the world, unable to connect with other people can retreat into a very dark world. If someone feels that they will never be able to be an active participant in life can look for ways to make their mark in death. No, it is not a simple equation and it by no means suggests that all socially awkward people retreat into darkness. But people who feel part of the world and valued by others wouldn’t look for ways to enact revenge on their path to death.

While there is no way to overstate that the time is now to rid our nation of guns and take mental illness seriously, it is also time to stop the media circus. Right now there is some compromised person watching this coverage and thinking of a way to become even more famous. The fact that I’m saying it doesn’t make it true, the fact that you feel it too, does.

 
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Posted by on December 17, 2012 in Cultural Critique, Media/Marketing

 

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Ready, Aim, Fight

16 Dec

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I am mildly inured to fictional violence, as is anyone raised on television and film. But even fictionalized, I’m not terribly comfortable with harm. As a child I much preferred the ‘Pow’ ‘and Zowee’ of Batman than the guns used in Superman. As I grew older I preferred Quincy’s methodical crime solving than the gun-wielding villains of Baretta or The Rockford Files. Growing up in and around a major city guns were (mercifully) fictional or only associated with illegal acts. There wasn’t any (visible) recreational use and not much second amendment chatter.

I didn’t see a real live gun until I lived in a (very) rural community. People carried them in and on their cars and trucks. They weren’t in the process of committing a crime, they just liked guns. Sometime during this exposure to real live guns I decided it would be prudent to know how to use one. Perhaps by feeling more comfortable around guns I would understand people’s affection/fervor.

Fast-forward a decade and there I am, in a gun club of the seediest kind in a New Jersey suburb known for many nefarious doings. The storefront facility on a dead end street smelled of dust and gun powder. In that fake wood paneled (no doubt part-time porn set) store the jarring smell added to the uneasy ambience. The faded posters and scratched glass cases filled with guns (including a pink model for the ladies) jolted me into the realization that ‘gun club’ is not a euphemism. People pay dues and come regularly to shoot. They bring their guns in fancy cases: intimidating versions of a bowling bag or cue stick case.

Down on the range, goggles and earphones on, I was told to pick up the gun. Bathed in sweat, my stomach lurching, I stepped back. The desire to learn a skill or conquer a fear is not a bad thing.  But staring at that semi-automatic gun it became crystal clear that there is only one reason to pick up that gun in real life. Knowing how to shoot a gun is not like knowing how to drive a stick shift or performing CPR. It is not a life skill it is a death skill. The only reason to pick up that gun is to shoot a bullet into a person. That is a lot to consider in mere seconds. Confused by the realization and conscious of the muddling nature of fear, I chose to just do it. I made it through two rounds (that’s a bunch of bullets) and hit the bull’s eye each and every time.

I went immediately home, poured a large glass of wine and got into the tub. There was no sense of accomplishment, no feeling of conquering a fear: a heaving stomach and a heavy heart was all I had. How could anyone want to ever shoot a gun let alone own one (or several?) People enjoy what just made me physically sick. I don’t pretend to understand anything or anyone anymore than anyone else. But after my certificate earning shooting experience I understand some people even less. I wanted to believe that (like bowling) shooting is an activity that is for some but not everyone. I wanted to believe that it was about honing a target skill, like archery. Maybe for some people it actually is. For me, it was violent and frightening and very upsetting.

I don’t understand wanting to shoot. I don’t understand owning guns. I cannot even fathom having guns in a house with children or compromised adults. However, I do understand people’s sense of entitlement and I will fight it any and every chance I get.

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2012 in Cultural Critique, Well-Being

 

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