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Tag Archives: Theatre

A Swinging Birdland Christmas

25 Dec

Christmas is the most romantic holiday of all. American cinema and songbook are overflowing with splendid homage to the holiday. To my mind, the British have the food, drinks and decor holiday market cornered. But one need skip across the pond to bask in the Christmas show business splendor.

As soon as December rolls around, I find myself yearning for Bing to encourage me to have a drink more, because baby it’s cold outside. I catch a glimpse in the mirror and imagine what I would look like in a sequined snood, winding up a mechanical monkey and believing that next year all our troubles will be far away. During the first snowfall, I try running in the street and (quietly) wishing the building and loan a Merry Christmas. The mind reels with the richness of imagery. However, often the heart aches at the lack of real live people embracing and celebrating these traditions.

Imagine the complete and utter joy of discovering that such a thing truly exists and it involves champagne! A Swinging Birdland Christmas is a technicolor dream come true. Christmas standards, jazzy interpretations and re-imagined medleys are performed by Klea Blackhurst, Jim Caruso and Billy Stritch (and the Birdland jazz quartet.) Ms. Blackhurst, a new edition to the show, is utterly charming and of splendid voice. She has a surprise stupendous musical talent up her sleeve, which I will not divulge here. Mr. Caruso is a born showman, and in a decent world would be hosting his own televised variety show. His smooth voice is a natural for the repertoire. Billy Stritch sings like he plays the piano, with rich interpretation. His phrasing is reminiscent of Mel Torme and Frank Sinatra. Together these three make a delightful trio.

The show is a nice mix of solos, duets and trios. A standout solo is that of Mr. Stritch’s “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” (Frank Loesser.) I dare anyone not to swoon. Any one of the evening’s songs would put even the most Grinchy into a better mood. But for the hardest heart and coldest soul, there was the tribute to the Osmond’s Christmas Show. Jim Caruso’s Jimmy Osmond will linger in my mind. ( A note to television producers: There is a serious demand for Christmas variety shows!) If all this wasn’t enough to make one feel jolly, a special guest was in the audience last night. For the encore, Christine Ebersole took the stage and performed White Christmas. And when she asked everyone to join in, the barn door swung open (in my mind) and it was in fact snowing. I stood in my red satin, white fur trimmed gown, clutching Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen’s hands and thinking; “Oh what a lucky gal am I.”

 
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Posted by on December 25, 2011 in Holiday

 

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Divine* Style

20 Dec

Writings about etiquette can be entertaining.  Whether you use them for actual guidance or not, it is interesting to get a glimpse into other people’s perspective. There is a lovely mystique, as we don’t often witness the writer practicing what they preach.  My fantasy of Letitia Baldrige is that of a woman who has never faltered and never once regretted what she has or has not said.  Writings about personal style do not support that kind of fantasy however.  The market is such that one would be hard pressed to name a “style expert” who isn’t a brand onto themselves.  Therein lies the rub, eh?  The platform of expertise is a bit unstable when we can see you.  I find it difficult to take style advice from someone who considers white a color or wears denim work shirts as if they were Chanel jackets.  And for the record, monochromatic table settings or home decor is not a style it is an absence of creativity.

Is it any wonder then, that when I come across someone who dedicates himself to living artfully, I am besotted?  A writer who extols the virtue of written holiday greetings and shuns the gift card?  I’m yours.  A man who lives life out loud and strictly by his convictions?  Color me a fan.  So of course, I spent last night at the John Waters’ Christmas show.

Good taste or bad, Mr. Waters does it with intent.  Always immaculate and exuding a quiet sophisticated style, Mr. Waters takes center stage and talks in the manner he writes (or is it the other way around?)  He waxes poetic about his favorite holiday and fantasizes about the perfect Christmas presents (books and more books) and films.  I can’t possibly keep up with the cinematic references made by someone who got his start in 1960s underground.  But I can certainly admire the encyclopedia knowledge of outsider art.  What is far more captivating to me is the goodness and generosity of spirit which exude from a man steeped in style.  With little fanfare, for years he has been volunteering in prisons and recently a first-grade classroom. (And the parents gasp.)  He is legend for his friendship and support.

While it isn’t that much of a wonderment that an artist lives artfully, Mr. Waters is willing and able to share his skill with others.  Fan of his films or not, it is difficult to not embrace his authenticity.  In Mr. Waters’ world, style should be synonymous with self expression and etiquette is synonymous with decency.  I want to live in that world.

*Divine (1945-1988) star of Hairspray, Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble…

 
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Posted by on December 20, 2011 in Style

 

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Not A Creature Was Stirring

12 Dec

If you are lucky enough to live somewhere that has experienced the first snowfall of the season, you have heard the hush.  In towns and cities small and large, a snowfall of any measure muffles sound through physics and through awe.  Stepping outside to the sight of a freshly painted world, we are reverent, quiet, stirred.  During the next few weeks, a season filled with candlelight, greenery, and religion, I am in pursuit of such silence.

I like sound.  I make sound.  But there are moments when the most beautiful sound is silence.  My day has a soundtrack, similar to yours no doubt.  Where NPR leaves off, my iPod picks up.  I’ve been told I sing rather audibly in the park, but I deny it.  I talk enough to be considered an ambient noise machine, and even have been known to take a call in public.  I can’t bring myself to carry-on a phone conversation on the street however as it seems to conjure my pushcart peddling ancestors (and I think it would break their hearts.)  But I do my best to contribute to the cacophony of the city street.

However, there are times when silence is its own stirring background noise.

There was a time when just stepping into a religious sanctuary rendered one silent.  I suppose there are still places of worship that generate such reverie.  A recent holiday service I attended inspired the women seated behind me to discuss the merits of DSW, the best subway route to DSW, the return policy of DSW, and each shoe in DSW.  Their crass incessant shopping chatter took a brief hiatus during the silent prayer.  During that portion they discussed an “obnoxious” mutual friend.  I shudder to consider what these women deem “obnoxious.”

Clearly “place” is not sufficient enough a prompt for silence.

Theaters are filled with shopping bag crinkly, slurping, chomping, talking, ringing audiences.  Ticket purchasers talk through the overture.  The overture!  (No wonder no one writes those anymore.)  At a recent Joan Crawford estate auction, people spoke loudly, as the lovely auctioneer toiled.  She kept track of live bids, internet bids and phone bids, all over a deafening din.  Once the Golden Globe went on the block though, well that was a horse of a different color.  As the bids climbed well north of $20,000, you could have heard a pin drop.  I suppose we are all entitled to worship any deity we choose.

I would suggest that we consider each other and the world we live in to be ample reason to hush.  Not permanently, not even for long stretches of time.  But for the next few weeks, let us be mindful of the noise we make.  Pausing the soundtrack of our lives for a moment, will allow us to make discoveries.  A sight, a sound or a thought will prompt a moment of awe.  This time of year, as we prepare to look forward and make grandiose plans for our new and improved selves, let us take a moment to quietly consider the world around us and our place in it.

Happy Holidays!

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2011 in Cultural Critique, Holiday

 

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Who Wants To Be A Producer?

25 Nov

When they offered tickets to Hugh Jackman’s staged concert at $250, I was concerned.  When they raised the price to $350 I felt a spell coming on.  I cast no dispersions on Mr. Jackman.  I have seen him perform live (at the Tony awards) and he is a gem.  I am also a believer in a free economy and can often be spotted muttering; “people will buy whatever you sell them.”  Yet, there is something about the pricing of these tickets that is disturbing me beyond all reason.

I am not an economist (to such an extent, I hear only white noise when people discuss long-term investments,) but I feel in my bones, that there is something “off” about a $350 ticket to a performance of anything.  I will defend Mr. Jackman’s producers’ right to charge whatever people will pay, but I have trepidation.  I’m worried about what this will (continue to) lead to.

For decades, people have paid extraordinary sums to attend concerts.  Even un-scalped tickets have been in the triple digits for quite some time.  I’ve long suspected it is due to the rarity of seeing what you’ve been hearing.  In that vein, Mr. Jackman’s ticket pricing is almost normative, however I’m willing to wager that his audience is thinking; “Broadway show” not “Concert.”  Therein lies the concern.  If in fact we are creating/supporting a theatre audience who will pay $350 for a concert, is this helping or hurting Broadway?

How do we support a rich creative process for producing new theatrical works of art in a world in which a producer can charge $350 for a concert on Broadway?  In 1961 a ticket to see Judy Garland concert (a comparison, no doubt The Boy From Oz would appreciate) was $7.00.  In 1961 the average Broadway theatre ticket was between $5.00 and $9.00.  I don’t pretend that this 1:1 ratio does or should still exist.  I would however, urge us to detect a trend in the amount of offerings (and pricing) of 1961 Broadway and that of 2011.

When jukebox, comic book and made-from-t.v.-or-film musicals, are bringing in millions, is there still room for new book musicals?  Do they even belong on the main-stage any longer?  Every couple of years we are graced with an inspiring wonderful new musical.  The Light In The Piazza (2005,) Spring Awakening (2006) and Passing Strange (2008) come to mind as shocking in their originality and magic.  These shows bubbled up like a tree growing in Brooklyn; defying all odds.  If you are a producer how much are you willing to risk?  A million dollars invested in a Hugh Jackman show or a jukebox musical cast with contest winners will guarantee a healthy return and perhaps a step onto the stage at the Tony awards.  Isn’t that prospect a little more enticing than ponying up a million dollars for something which artistically makes one’s heart sing, but comes with no prospect of a $350 ticket?  Where does this leave/lead us?

 
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Posted by on November 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Private Lives – Review

20 Nov

I’ve never been a fan of Noel Coward’s Private Lives.  I suppose I have found the play to simply belabor the issue.  A little voice in my head starts declaring; “very well then, get on with it will you.”  Don’t get me wrong, I am not immune to the charms of a well delivered; “Don’t quibble Sybil,” I just find the premise does not warrant a full length play.  However, nothing was going to stand in the way of seeing Paul Gross on stage.  Mr. Gross (Slings and Arrows) is a delicate actor who is a master of comedy and quite simply is dreamy.  There, I’ve said it.

So it was Mr Paul Gross who got me to the Music Box to see the newest (via London’s West End and Toronto) production of Private Lives.  Directed by Richard Eyre, and originating in London, the cast speaks in British accent.  I found this far less distracting than did others in the audience.  Mr. Gross (Elyot) and Kim Cattrall (Amanda) are clearly not British but the supporting cast; Simon Paisley Day (Victor) and Anna Madeley (Sybil) are.  There is a lightness, or perhaps a gaiety to this production which I have never before seen.  Ms. Cattrall plays Amanda as a lovely ephemeral good time gal.  While Mr. Gross relishes his role as Elyot, giving the character subtle and overt humor.  It is very easy to see why they would be besotted with each other.  Yet, the actors seem to be anything but.  Independently, they are quite wonderful.  However, there really is no chemistry between them.  Their kisses are awkward and somewhat embarrassing.  Yet, even seen as interlacing monologues, their scenes are enjoyable.  The production is at its best when all four actors are on stage together.

There are some technical issues with this production that left me scratching my head.  This Private Lives has joined the ranks of age-blind casting.  Always such a baffling endeavor in a play which announces everyone’s age.  I suppose it should not be surprising today when people dress and inject themselves to remain forever young.  But people in their fifties playing people who are 30 will always seem strange to me.  I am not a fan of changing a playwright’s words to suit a director’s agenda.  So I will have to declare this play simply miscast.  There were some technical issues with the set as well.  This is at least the third staging of this production, yet some of the set (Rob Howell) struck me as a bit community theatre.  During intermission, two stage hands came out to the apron with a hand-held drill to dismantle the balcony.  In Act II, several props pooped out and the fish tank terrified the actors (I’m guessing something very very bad had happened recently.) The canned music coming out of the piano being “played” by Mr. Gross was just bizarre.  Adding to that the curtain delays and missed light cues, I was left wondering what the story was.

Ms. Cattrall does a lovely job with Amanda’s dialogue, delivering her lines on the top of her voice and also looking divine.  However she is terribly uncomfortable with the physicality of the role.  There is a mental metronome in her head that is very distracting to the audience: “Step two three four. Light cigarette two three four. Place glass on ledge two three four.”  The “fight” scene in Act II was painful to witness.

Yet for all of these bumps in the road, of a play I don’t really care for, I am terribly pleased I had the opportunity to see Mr. Gross stake his claim to the Broadway stage.

 
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Posted by on November 20, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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