Home for the Holidays

After a Turkey birthday and a blur of bronchitis, it's so nice to be back on the aisle this month. I reviewed five shows in early December--and put together a hefty 2008 theater and film preview--so I'll add links to those as soon as they become available.

I loved the Irish Repertory Theatre's charming retelling of Dylan Thomas's A Child's Christmas in Wales--complete with interpolated Christmas carols. My first mainstage appearance came in a musical adaptation of this piece when I was 12--I played Dylan's "tough and tiny" cousin Glenda; my own father played Uncle Glyn. The Irish Rep's version is a perfect 70-minute shot of holiday cheer.

offoffonline review: A Child's Christmas in Wales

It was also fantastic to see David Henry Hwang's provocative new backstage docudrama (dramedy?) Yellow Face on its feet at the Public Theater. I caught a reading of the play last year and laughed until my stomach hurt. Thankfully, Hwang has managed to retain the unflagging humor; he's also filtered the material with even more poignancy, wit, and controversy.

Show Business Weekly review: Yellow Face

And the award for most promising pre-show that fell flat on its face goes to Charles Mee's ill-conceived new "musical" Queens Boulevard (the musical) (note the parentheses). This was my first outing at the well-appointed Signature Theatre, and the audience was greeted by a raucous wedding reception scene, complimentary Asian candies, and a wise-cracking DJ. Not to mention the eye-candy set and costumes ... Too bad the meandering story and tripped-out scenes didn't match the irresistibly charming opening gimmicks.

Show Business Weekly review: Queens Boulevard (the musical)

But the best thing I've seen this year might very well be the last thing I saw this year: Tracy Letts' so-good-it's-unbelievable new play August: Osage County. In the tradition of Edward Albee's acidic Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and the ascerbic domestic dramas of Eugene O'Neill, Letts explores toxic topics within the shaky confines of an American family. Review to come in 2008 ... and keep your eyes on this one. I attended on a particularly star-studded evening: Julia Roberts, Paul Rudd, John Stamos, Bernadette Peters, Kevin Spacey, and Mike Nichols were gasping at the family horrors alongside everyone else. Could there be a film in the works?

Below: Family dinner party from hell in August: Osage County

Speechifying Students

A sharp and immensely perceptive look at the lives of three high school students, the Roundabout Underground's inaugural production Speech & Debate threads together the idiosyncratic worlds of these students to create a magnificent appraisal of the politics, possibilities, and limitations of life in an Oregon high school. The tidy plot is deceptively simple: when three students realize they share grievances against the same teacher (a smarmy-sounding male drama teacher), they form a shaky alliance to get revenge.

But look again--playwright Stephen Karam (whose controversial play columbinus--about the Columbine school shootings--was recently produced at the New York Theater Workshop) has created an intricate minefield of secrets for each of these characters, who are brought to life by an extraordinarily gifted young ensemble. Gideon Glick (of Spring Awakening) is gleefully gawky as Howie, the new student who discovers the teacher during an online chat; Jason Fuchs is delightfully motor-mouthed as the passionate journalist-with-a-secret, Solomon; and as the theater-struck, pod-casting Diwata, Sarah Steele is a wise-cracking, insecure revelation. Susan Blackwell ([title of show]) is underused in the dual roles of a teacher and a journalist, but she delivers a precise performance in her trademark deadpan style.

The students' revenge revolves around creating a speech & debate team and using the various forms (group interpretation, cross-examination) to "perform" their points. The play follows suit, and each scene is introduced by a projected title of a different form of speech (poetry reading et al.)--giving us a clue as to the communication patterns that will follow.

Karam is adept at channeling the rhythms of teenage conversation; under Jason Moore's precise direction, Speech & Debate is a riveting, witty, and thought-provoking exercise. Some scenes could be trimmed, but when the material is this good, you really don't mind the excess.

Moore also directed the artfully ribald Avenue Q, and his clever winks are perfect for this material. Before the play begins, writing magically streams across the blackboard at the center of the set, in the manner of a student writing out a punishment: "I will turn of my cell phone," "I will turn off my cell phone" ...

Proof Positive

The Astoria Performing Arts Center has scored again with its excellent production of David Auburn's riveting math-play, Proof. I love having an honest-to-goodness theater just down the block from my apartment. While this production wasn't quite as superb as the other shows I've seen there (A New Brain and Picasso at the Lapin Agile), it has excellent production values (check out the glorious set in the photos) and a lot of obvious (if somewhat misplaced) heart.

offoffonline review: "Doing the Math": Proof

The main problem for me was the melodramatic style implied by the direction and, most gratingly, the lead actress. Auburn's drama is a taut, tense, piece of realism, and our heroine was rolling her eyes and mugging to the audience like a character actress in a 1950s musical. Although I had never before seen the play produced, I read it (and loved it) several years ago and saw the good, not great, film adaptation starring Gwyneth Paltrow. But there was an urgency missing from the APAC production--most likely lost in the over-emoting--that made me wonder, Would I have liked the play itself if this had been my first exposure to it? One of the difficult things about reviewing brand, shiny-new productions is that it's often hard to determine which element--writing or directing--is most clearly contributing to the show's success or demise. The quality of the acting, of course, is always easier to evaluate, since it's more exposed. Writing and directing dance a precarious sort of tango, however; when they're not completely in sync, someone's bound to end up flat on the floor.

Vibrant and (Vain)glorious

I recently became a huge Francine Prose fan after reading her gripping novel Blue Angel and her latest nonfiction work How to Read Like a Writer, so I was excited, and a bit surprised, to learn that the new Ahrens and Flaherty musical is based on her novel The Glorious Ones, a semi-fictional account of a commedia dell'arte troupe in the late sixteenth century.

Show Business Weekly review: The Glorious Ones

It's a fascinating, if uneven, production, but--as I've come to expect from Lincoln Center Theater--it's an extremely well-produced, intelligent, and important work. I encourage you to meet The Glorious Ones for yourself. Get a behind-the-scenes look here.

It's Alive, Sort Of

Apart from my recent fascination with Heroes, I've never been the biggest sci-fi fan, so I truly dreaded reading Frankenstein when I was in graduate school. Dutifully, I bought a copy of Mary Shelley's classic piece of gothic horror, expecting reams of unadulterated green monsters and high-flying melodrama. Instead, I was truly riveted by her lovely writing, her incredible imagination, and the harrowing plot. Frankenstein blurs the line between humans and monsters, and it was a fascinating tool for class discussion and considering the dangers of contemporary scientific research. Cloning, anyone?

I approached the new Off-Broadway musical Frankenstein with hope, since its creators have repeatedly said that they aimed to bring the focus back to the story itself. So I couldn't have been more disappointed when I was greeted by lightning flashes, strobe lights, vapid characters, and a throroughly chilly, and rather brainless, staging of this classic novel.

Show Business Weekly Review: Frankenstein

As any theater person will tell you, Mel Brook's Young Frankenstein promises to be the theatrical event of the season, and so Frankenstein certainly has moxie to go head-to-head with its fellow monster. But if this is supposed to the more "serious" Frankenstein, we're in trouble, because director Bill Fennelly's staging draws involuntary laughter when it tries to take itself seriously (the many cheesy lines and semi-rhyming lyrics don't help much). To me, the first half of the show could have been an anthropological study representing the worst of what producers think that audiences want from theater right now: gratuitous spectacle, over-processed pop music, a bare-chested man, and a lightning-quickness that panders to the short attention spans of veteran TV watchers.

As the doctor's love interest, the extraordinary Christiane Noll brought heart and intelligence to the story, but she also brought an unfortunate reminder of the mega musical Jekyll & Hyde, in which she played a similar supporting role. (Full disclosure: J&H is a guily pleasure of mine, but not one that I want to see replicated and brought back from the dead ad infinitum). Frankenstein clearly wants to seduce those "Jekkies" (the rabid fans who saw the show tens and hundreds of times), and it just might succeed. I wanted to like Frankenstein, but I'm afraid that this monster of a musical might just find its audience--and lure producers away from more intelligent musicals and back into spawning more and more of the same old schlock. For once, can't we just let these decrepit shows rest in peace?

The Great(est) Pumpkin

Happy Halloween! This monstrosity is a 1,051-pound pumpkin we spotted at a farmer's market in western Pennsylvania two weeks ago. Just think of the pumpkin pie possibilities ...

Girl Gumshoe

The Ateh Theater Group has revived its production of The Girl Detective for the Crown Point Festival on the Lower East Side. An adaptation of a surreal short story by Kelly Link, the production follows the Girl Detective as she does a bit of sleuthing--but this time, instead of tracking down criminals, she's on the hunt for her own mother, who disappeared years before.

offoffonline review: "Glamour in a Gumshoe": The Girl Detective

I found the story confusing at times; Bridgette Dunlap (the talented adapter and director) doesn't always clearly denote time or setting, and the Girl Detective's journeys often feel like the elliptical, nonsensical pathways of a murky dream. Still, Dunlap has a gift for throwing splashy style onto the stage, from tap-dancing bank robbers to saucy flashlight sequences. She paints in wild, bright colors, but--as in her equally impressionistic adaptation of Aimee Bender's The Girl in the Flammable Skirt--the flimsy substance of the story is tinted in faint pastel shades.

Leaving a more potent impression was the short film that preceded the production: Brazilian director Kleber Mendonça Filho's aptly named Eletrodomestica, in which the everyday domestic tasks of a Brazilian housewife ultimately give way (and abet) a thrilling climax. Filho uses banal household appliances (microwave, TV, vacuum cleaner, washer & dryer) to anchor the story, then uses them in surprising--and scintillating--ways.

Jumping into Fall

The Korean-born martial arts/theater/acrobatic extravaganza Jump recently smashed onto the stage of the Union Square Theatre. With its distinctive, irresistible mix of farce, low-brow comedy, slapstick physical drama, and phenomenal athleticism, this production is a sheer delight. By the performance's conclusion, my mouth hurt from smiling and my stomach hurt from laughing.

Show Business Weekly review: Jump

If anything, Jump suffers from a lack of pacing--the actor/athletes leap through a veritable mountain range of climaxes, so by the show's curtain call, when I expected thunderous applause, the cheering was noticeably lackluster. In fact, the audience seemed almost exhausted by its own responsive performance throughout the show. I wonder if the same thing happened with the MTV performance of Legally Blonde (see blog below)? Maybe, in certain cases (and in certain shows), you can really have too much of a good thing.

TV or not TV

In a bold and enterprising move, the Broadway musical Legally Blonde was recently taped for broadcast on MTV. The producers are obviously aiming to capture the Wicked teenybopper crowd, and tickets to the taping were given out for free with the following stipulations: You must be young (in your teens or early 20s) and dressed in pink. I saw the show live this summer (I loved it for its zest and spirit, despite its unevenness elsewhere), and I caught the first half of the televised performance, which pulled in millions of viewers (yet to be seen: whether they actually pay to see the show live after TiVo-ing it, playing it, and replaying it to excess).

Watching Blonde prepackaged for TV made me ponder the virtues of live performance. Every so often, I despair over the state of theater--the lack of artistic integrity, risk, or profound statement--but I sometimes forget the interpretive freedom fairly heaped on a theater viewer that is unwittingly snatched from a TV watcher.

1. ADHD viewing. LB features some snazzy camera work, but it also takes away your ability to choose where to look at any given moment. Sure, in a theater a good director will guide your viewing experience, but you always have the choice to look elsewhere--as I often do--at a particularly striking member of the ensemble, at a flash of lighting, or at the detail on a prop or piece of scenery. Watching LB, I felt manipulated--visual angles and perspectives changed without my consent, and often at the expense of the performers (were the dramatic up-the-nose camera shots supposed to replicate the experience of sitting in the front row?).

2. Snooty commentary. Watching a new Broadway show, we often hear voices in our heads--critics' reviews, friends' opinions, our own preconceptions--but any of these are less intrusive than the uninterested, too-cool-for-you, apathetic, more-bored-than-thou commentary provided by the adolescent veejays that narrated LB. Before and after each commercial break (another distinctly un-theater-ish oddity) these stone-faced stick girls stared blandly into the camera to sum up the plot and, ostensibly, stir up interest in its evolution. Is this the new hip MTV female prototype? I certainly hope not--these girls exhibited about as much enthusiasm as a crumpled-up Playbill.

3. Studio audience effect. Each cast member's entrance (even minor characters) was greeted with unbridled squeals, screams, and applause. Notable performers (and especially legendary actors and celebrities) often receive entrance applause, but this was more like a boy band concert. I'm guessing that the audience was prompted to erupt into an avalanche of sound, and it was enormously distracting (and, ironically, now that I think of it, diametrically opposed to the VJs' parched commentary). Sitting in a theater, it's easy to get caught up in a cascade of laughter or applause, but sitting at home, the hawhaws of a studio audience sounds not only canned, but forced and fake.

So thank you, Legally Blonde and MTV, for reminding me, even during my most banal viewing moments, of the superior virtues of live performance. And yes, I will finish watching the taped performance--the curtain call response promises to be unlike (and mightier than) anything I've ever seen (or heard) on stage.

Musicalizing Jane

I've seen plenty of film adaptations of Jane Austen novels (Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, etc.)--and, yes, I've watched many of them more than once--but I had never seen Austen animated on stage. As part of the New York Musical Theater Festival, Joel Alden (book, music, lyrics) has cleverly adapted Emma for the stage. Unlike Austen, it gets a bit exhausting and long-winded, especially when untangling plot elements in the second act, but, happily, like Austen, it often deals in wit, spirit, smarts, and the pure pleasure of watching intelligent characters define and refine themselves anew.

"Poise and Prejudice": offoffonline review: Emma

The film incarnations of Austen's material often skew toward the gauzy and hyper-romanticized; on stage, I found something much more cutting in the social dimensions of Austen's ideas and, particularly, in the budding friendship between Emma (the excellent Leah Horowitz) and the lower-class, underprivileged, rough-around-the-edges Harriet (the fantastic scene-stealing Kara Boyer). There's something truly unsettling about watching Emma attempting to refine and transform Harriet into a "gentleman's lady"--it's truly proprietary, controlling behavior, and a dismal look at the possible roots of Emma's celebrated benevolence. In this setting, it appears that Emma's "helping" of others only helps her to feel more superior.

The hackneyed plot of the avuncular male transforming the ugly duckling into a swan has found its way from nineteenth century novels to contemporary reality TV. For a woman to chisel another woman in her own image feels fresh and a bit daring, but also dangerous--and not altogether removed from contemporary feminist debates on the ways in which women can often become each other's worst, and most limiting, enemies. Food for thought.

And on a side note, I love this fantastic promotional photo of Emma standing juxtaposed with the New York City skyline. This anachronism finds its way into the costumes as well--the women wear white dresses cut from white material that looks to be the same cotton as that used in T-shirts. The men, more unfortunately, wear jeans with their long, period jackets and boots. For some, their tight black jeans are hardly noticeable; for others, the obvious denim origins of their duds are distracting, making them look more like lumberjacks than lords of luxury.

Photo 1: Harriet (Kara Boyer), Mr. Knightley (John Patrick Moore), and Emma (Leah Horowitz) [Photo by Ken Howard]

Photo 2: Promotional photo by Steven Rosen

Performance: The Good, Bad, and Ugly

Performance: It's the seductive lure of the warm spotlight and the heady rush of thunderous applause, but it's also the thrilling experience of stepping outside of yourself to become something or someone you're not. At its best, performance is communication that imparts truth and humanity; but when people are swept up in its irresistible and threatening momentum, the results can be devastating.

Performance rears its ugly head in filmmaker Tony Kaye's riveting new documentary Lake of Fire, his epic quest to shine honest, balanced, and unapologetic light on the fraught issue of abortion.

Show Business Weekly review: Lake of Fire

As he proved in the raw American History X, Kaye isn't afraid to expose the ugly underbelly of the American experience, and this seminal work features interviews with the many of the main players in the abortion battle. Most frightening to me was witnessing the indomitable powers of mob mentality, particularly when animated through the proselytizing and chanting of members of the Far Right.

A documentary, of course, is a performance of its own, and Kaye splices together clips in subtle (and not-so-subtle) patterns, but the most horrifying performances come from the Pro-Life protestors who unblinkingly pronounce that those who don't believe what they do (in many cases, conservative Christian tenets) will land in the Biblical anti-promised land, the eponymous "lake of fire." Mugging for the camera and swaggering with pseudo-authoritative bravado, these (mostly) men seem keen to perform their roles to the very tips of their fingertips.

As terrific as the film is, Kaye gets a bit swept up in the act of performing himself, and I agreed with Entertainment Weekly critic Lisa Schwarzbaum that many of his overly dramatic and artsy cinematic flourishes threaten to take the film from dedicatedly intelligent to blatantly kitsch.

Performance also permeates the subject of Max Sparber's fantastic play Minstrel Show, or the Lynching of William Brown, currently playing at the New Jersey Repertory Company in Long Branch, NJ. In this brief, two-character study, he sets the story of two fictional black minstrel performers against the very nonfictional story of William Brown, a black man who was lynched for the alleged rape of a white woman. The murder took place on the steps of the Douglas County courthouse in Omaha, Nebraska in 1919. (Eerily, it just so happened that the night we attended the show, September 28, marked the 88th anniversary of the unspeakable tragedy.) Peter Filichia provides an insighful review in the NJ Star-Ledger.

Under the deft direction of Rob Urbinati (who also directed a recent production of the show at Omaha's Blue Barn Theatre), Spencer Scott Barros and Kelcey Watson give lively, focused performances that brim with intensity and grace. Called back to the courthouse one week after the lynching, the men tell the story about the fateful evening, when they were also being held at the jail. Of course, they (literally) dance around the story, frequently lurching into their vaudeville routines--these performances, set to jovial music with racist undertones, provide them with an escape from reality. Eventually, they stop singing, wipe off the coal-hued makeup that covers their faces (African American performers during the period performed exclusively in blackface), and quietly tell the harrowing story.

The power of performance is an obvious theme, from the song-and-dance routines behind which the men initially retreat, to the crazed lynching mob that they witness. Controversy had erupted earlier in Long Branch in protest of minstrel-themed posters that advertised the show. Despite the NAACP's threats to boycott the production, the sold-out crowd was completely attentive.

A talkback followed the performance, and one audience member commented that he was swept up in the actors' powerful telling of the story and now had a much better understanding of the terrifying momentum of mob violence. Another man commented that, in its use of blackface, the play "appropriates an image to show its ugly face."

I grew up in Nebraska but had never heard of William Brown. Clearly, given the recent spate of deplorable race-related crimes across the country, it's important to keep telling--and retelling--these stories so that these performances no longer repeat themselves.

Frost Bite

The Yellow Wood has a lot going for it: A story that centers loosely on Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken"; a mostly superb cast, including the very likable Jason Tam (Broadway's A Chorus Line) as Adam, a high school student obsessing about memorizing the Frost poem (not to mention the flights of fancy brought on by his decision not to take his Ritalin), the uproarious Randy Blair (as his best friend Casserole), the savvy comic stylings of Jill Abramovitz (as the snappish English teacher), and Yuka Takara (as Adam's smartypants younger sister Gwen); and the direction of journeyman actor B.D. Wong, who also produces.

So what went wrong?

Like many NYMF shows, writers Michelle Elliott (book and lyrics) and Danny Larsen (music and lyrics) have tried to cram too many themes into their story. The adolescent fairy tale begins with the hyperactive Adam sitting at the breakfast table with his parents and sister: we learn that his parents are not getting along, his sister is transferring to his school because of unexplained problems at her old school, and that he denies his Korean heritage to his classmates (i.e., nobody thinks that he is Asian--and he'd like to keep it that way).

Interesting problems and conflicts, all, but they are never untangled or explored to any satisfying ends. Instead, Adam goes to school, where his overactive, Ritalin-free senses conjure up scene after fantastical scene. There's even an overextended video game sequence, in which the actors--in thrall to the erratic jerks of Adam's brain--stiffen their limbs and lurch around the stage to illustrate a story problem.

Other critics have found much to love in this unique story, and there is plenty of creativity on display. With a bit more focus, The Yellow Wood could be not only a story worth telling, but an incisive, dimensional look at an exceptional life.

offoffonline review: The Yellow Wood

Pictured: Randy Blair, Jason Tam, and Caissie Levy (photo credit: Lia Chang)

Mighty IT

The third annual New York Innovative Theatre (IT) Awards were held Monday, September 24 in the Haft Auditorium at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Chelsea. Created by enterprising theater artists Jason Bowcutt, Shay Gines, and Nick Micozzi, the awards are designed to honor the best of Off-Off-Broadway theater--the people, as one presenter quoted the legendary OOB patriarch Joe Cino as saying, "who make magic out of nothing."

I attended and covered last year's ceremony, and I'm happy to report that this year's festivities were just as exuberant and celebratory. If anything, the awards seemed to be distributed more evenly between the competing companies, and first-time host Julie Halston was predictably nutty, sarcastic, and hilarious.

There was some high-brow talent on hand to present the awards, including Speaker Christine Quinn, Tony Award winner (and Dream Girls star) Anika Noni Rose, lighting designer Natasha Katz (who described lighting as "a whisper you see"), costume queen Susan Hilferty, legendary actress Kathleen Chalfant, director Leigh Silverman, and composer Robert Lopez (Avenue Q).

If New York has "community theater" (which is to mean "theater of a community," not "amateurish") it's on the Off-Off-Broadway stages, where artists work for peanuts (or less: maybe peanut shells?) to put their vision on stage. Looking around the auditorium, I could see little "communities"--tight-knit groups of actors/directors/technicians who muscle through this city and support each other to get their shows up and running.

It was especially moving to see how seriously people have come to take these awards--there were the usual jokes and shout-outs to friends and God from behind the podium, but there were also genuinely honest tears, thanks to relatives who had traveled long distances to attend the ceremony, and tributes to departed parents and mentors.

Once again, I looked through the program and was mystified by the number of theater companies that I have a) never witnessed in action, and/or b) never even heard of. I made a list of companies to watch, and I'm looking forward to discovering what new creations they'll bring forth over the next year. I'm particularly curious to track Rising Phoenix Repertory, recipient of this year's Caffe Cino Fellowship Award. They took home the award for Outstanding Production of a Play for Daniel Reitz's Rules of the Universe, and Elizabeth West performed a dazzling and disarming monologue from the show, which took place on a series of toilet seats in a venue in the East Village.

I was particularly thrilled to see the Gallery Players' production of Urinetown take home the award for Outstanding Production of a Musical. I've reviewed many shows put on by this fantastic Park Slope-based company, and this one is easily the best I've seen.

Playwright Doric Wilson, a pioneer in gay theater and the first resident playwright of the infamous Caffe Cino, won the 2007 Artistic Achievement Award. As he reminisced about his eventful career, he scanned the crowd and pronounced: "You are the people who make the theater I believe in happen."

The IT Awards put a stamp of importance and pride on the Off-Off-Broadway world; I only hope that next year's ceremony will celebrate even more innovative companies and distinctive artists.

Pictured above: Tauren (member of the Urinetown cast) and I strike a pose before the show. Below: Host Julie Halston in action

Going the Way of the Dodo?

A friend passed along this intriguing bit of metajournalism: a blog about blogging. And, more specifically, about theater blogging.

Lyn Gardner, a critic for the Guardian, writes that, as newspapers have continued to squish arts reviews, she felt like she was on the verge of extinction. But blogging, she says, is "opening up criticism and giving us newspaper critics a necessary kick up the bum."

I agree with many of her pro-blogging arguments: blogs give critics a place to elaborate further on subjects they might not be able to squeeze into a print review, and also faciliates and encourages conversation:

"Unlike the newspaper letters page, these dialogues can be returned to again and again and can gradually evolve. Bloggers also have none of the restraints of space that occur on a newspaper reviews page. This creation of more voices can only be a good thing, bringing a wider range of background, experience and interest to the rough and tumble of critical debate. Whether or not you trust these new voices will take time to discover--just as readers of any newspaper have to decide whether their own tastes and opinions concur with those of its professional critics."

The lasting effects of the critical blogosphere have yet to be seen, but I certainly hope that they will enliven and enrich the scope and depth of arts writing. Although I do find the limitless word count a bit intimidating at times ...

Rock(ae) & Roll!

From the perennially popular Rent to the surprise success of Spring Awakening, it seems that the rock musical is not only in vogue, but is also here to stay. Prospect Theater Company's The Rockae mixes a punchy, metallic rock score with one of theater's most provocative protagonists: the powerfully petulant god Dionysus in Euripides' timeless tragedy The Bacchae.

Show Business Weekly review: The Rockae

Rock music is just as much about cultivating an aesthetic as telling a story, and director Cara Reichel has turned the stage of the Hudson Guild Theater into an emotional labyrinth. Certain songs come together better than others, and the sound system sometimes distorts the lyrics (it'd be wise to check out a synopsis before you attend), but at its best, the searing vocalizations of the gifted cast make The Rockae a screaming rock tour-de-force. And don't you love the rockin' artwork? It reminds me of my parents' old rock LPs stored away in the basement--blazing colors heralding a powerhouse feast for the ears.

A Chamber(s) Musical

Who ever said politics isn't theatrical? This week, Nebraska Senator Ernie Chambers announced that he is suing God--yes, that's right, he's suing GOD.

When I was in high school in Nebraska, I thought Ernie Chambers was divine inspiration itself--always controversial, and dedicatedly provocative, he would endlessly filibuster bills he didn't agree with, and give lengthy orations to stir up heated discussions. When he arrived to speak at our Close-Up Club's town hall event, I was mesmerized by his articulate arguments--and the fact that irreverently wore a T-shirt with tuxedo shirt screenprinted across it.

In the fire of adolescence, I was all for risky debate, and I had recently published an article that sharply criticized Rush Limbaugh in our local newspaper. In response, I was thrilled to receive my first "hate mail"--letters scrawled in the shaky hands of elderly Limbaugh supporters who warned me that I had severly misstepped my bounds. Far from discouraging me, the disapproving correspondence only enlivened my determination to speak my mind.

But although Chambers inspired me then, I'm not sure how I feel about his tactics now. He is suing God, he claims, in order to make a point about frivolous lawsuits and archaic legalities. I'm unconvinced--doesn't this just waste even more time? And this is the same man who, not too long ago, recommended the racial segregation of Omaha school districts. Isn't there a better way to put Nebraska on the map? In any case, I'm keeping an eye on my home state. Whither the faux tuxedo?

In Memory of a Blizzard

Last week we received word that Dr. Bill Logan, a former Norfolk dentist and a good friend of my parents', had passed away in Florida. We lived just down the street from the Logans in my first chilhood home (we moved across town when I was 14), and I have such fond memories of Bill, who loved to tinker with vintage automobiles (1937 Packards) and make everyone laugh.

I also remember Bill rescuing me during one fateful Nebraska blizzard, with an artic wind chill and terrifying drifts, that left me stranded at the grade school when I was 7 years old. My mom was home with my three younger siblings, and Bill offered to pick me up at school after classes were dismissed early. He had a son who was several years older than me, so after dropping him off at their house, he literally carried me down the street--through waist-deep drifts--to deposit me at my mother's feet.

I don't remember many details from that time, but I have a vivid memory of clinging to Bill, my face buried in his cool winter coat as he trudged through the blinding snow. People come into contact with us at many different times and for many different reasons throughout our lives; there are so many microscopic instants that are fleeting but meaningful. I will always be thankful that--for that moment, at least--there was someone there to carry me safely home again.

Back to School and Back on Stage!

Looking for a place to hone your acting skills or amp up your theater/film career? My latest feature is out in this week's Show Business Weekly, and it's a primer on some of the best acting programs in New York and beyond. I had the opportunity to speak with administrators, teachers, and professionals from both conservatories (Stella Adler, Lee Strasberg, the Atlantic Acting School, the Ted Bardy Studio) and universities (Carnegie Mellon, DePaul, Five Towns College, the American Film Institute). And many more ...

I always enjoy chatting with people who teach the business of "the business," and I'm constantly astonished by the sheer number of options and opportunities available to performers of all ages. For example, ACTeen is the country's premier provider of on-camera training for teenagers; founder Rita Litton is one of the most positive and energetic people I've spoken to, and I'm sure the school's courses must be similarly encouraging for aspiring young performers.

I was also particularly intrigued by the course offerings at Weist-Barron, which provide training for performance opportunities that are not always so obvious: hosting home-shopping programs (QVC!), web-hosting, trade shows, and industrials. You can even take a course on how to skillfully read a teleprompter! (Academy Award presenters, take note ...) And while these are certainly not "glamorous" acting gigs, why not use your stage presence and charm to make some extra money?

And speaking of the long, hard slog to fame, my review of the film Great World of Sound is also out this week. In our "American Idol"-obsessed age, everyone is cashing in on "reality ______ (fill in the blank)," but writer/director Craig Zobel manages to find something fresh in this darkly comic picture. Rather than capitalize on the "rags-to-riches" stories of those seeking a quick trip to celebrity, he flips the camera around to tell the story of the talent scouts who hunt for untapped "talent."

Martin and Clarence are two troubled agents looking for amateur singers for a company called "Great World of Sound," but as they weed through the hungry throngs in small, dingy towns, they slowly uncover both the deceit of their employer and the searing desperation that rips everyone apart in its wake. Because, of course, they're not really trying to help people, they are (surprise!) fishing for cash.

As Martin and Clarence, Pat Healy and Kene Holliday deliver outstanding performances, texturing their unsteady friendship with deft comic flourishes. Healy is particularly excellent as the conflicted Martin; as Clarence barrels through each "sell," Martin gives us uncomfortable and powerful glimpses of his reservations.

The quest for fame seems endemic in our time, and I'm always curious to watch what it does to those who surround it. Zobel makes his film even more poignant by integrating authentic "auditions" into the agents' journey. Yep, they actually took out fake ads in local newspapers encouraging aspiring recording stars to show up for a chance at the big time. People came in droves, and--with their permission, of course--many of their auditions made it into the film. There's something both mesmerizing and terrifying in seeing just how far people will go to capture their dream. Fame, or celebrity, has become the great equalizer, and Zobel gives us a telling look at just how far people can fall before they even make it to the "the top."

Show Business Weekly review: Great World of Sound

And last but not least (well, maybe least) on the topic of corporate, air-brushed greed: my review of Walmartopia is also out this week. I blogged about it earlier, but now you can also read the review.


Pat Healy and Kene Holliday on the hunt for hot stuff in Great World of Sound.

Filling a Need

This scene may look like something out of your worst nightmare.


It doesn't faze me, but then again, I grew up with a dentist that I could trust: my father. He always teased me mercilessly, but I also knew he would take good care of me. I never hesitated to yelp, "Dad, that hurts!"; he never hesitated to spray me and my siblings in the face with water.

Over the weekend my dad participated in Nebraska's third annual Mission of Mercy, a gathering of hundreds of people to provide free dental care for anyone in need of it. The event took place over two days; on Friday, over 700 people received treatment, including everything from basic check-ups to fillings to denture work. During the first two hours alone, the dentists performed over $40,000 worth of work. People actually camped out overnight to be first in line.

This year's event was held in Norfolk, my hometown, and my hard-working, generous, and always witty dad got to help with much of the planning and set-up. Previous locations have included North Platte and Grand Island, and next year the Mission of Mercy heads out west to Scottsbluff. It's amazing what a group of dedicated individuals can accomplish; I'm sure a lot of Nebraskans are now feeling much more comfortable--if a bit numb--in the jaw.

More photos from the event:


Dr. K. with Jan, one of his excellent dental assistants, and Cheryl, his fearless office manager (and no, I don't think she injured her arm yanking any teeth):


Hard at work:

Sunday in the Park

I spent the long holiday weekend in Columbus, Ohio, where I attended the wedding of my friends Ilana (a long-time friend, co-theater-creator, and conspirator from Rice) and Mike (her lovely new husband and a brilliant lawyer). Ilana and I have always been crazy about Sondheim musicals, and appropriately, I made a pre-ceremony visit to see Columbus' extraordinary Topiary Garden with a small group of friends.

And what, you may wonder, could be so extraordinary about a topiary garden? (And where does Sondheim come in?)

Well, the shrubbery in this particular garden has been sculpted and coaxed to resemble Georges Seurat's famous painting, "A Sunday On The Island Of La Grande Jatte," and it is, to quote the website, "a landscape of a painting of a landscape." The results are both beautiful and a bit strange. It's not a place I'd want to wander around in alone at night, lest the figures start moving. But it's certainly a novelty, and something to see (for free) if you should ever find yourself wandering around Columbus. And for musical theater aficionados, it will instantly strike up the gorgeous chords of Sondheim's masterful musical, Sunday in the Park with George, which tells the persuasive fictional tale of the painting's creation.

Diatribes, at a Discount

Ah, the curse of finding success at the Fringe Festival. A reputed hit at last year's Fringe, the cheeky corporate-bashing musical Walmartopia has just commenced an open-ended run, and the results are not promising.

The critics have not been kind, and I can't say that I entirely disagree. Their main complaint is the cornucopia of styles and mixed messages that plague the stage. I was also irritated by the gratuitous shifts in emotional tempo and dramatic thrust, but I was more disappointed that the show didn't teach me anything new. With its "Wal-Mart is evil" message, the writers settle for preaching to the choir (assuming that choir is a liberal, educated bunch who are keen to sniff out social injustice). In catapulting its heroines thirty years into the future to simplistically and predictably solve the problems of the Wal-Mart-worshiping neo-universe, this production safely skirts around addressing the problems of the present.

I felt a bit of that chronological dissonance when I watched the classic film 9 to 5 for the first time recently. As Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton, and Lily Tomlin fantasized about killing their boss and then cleverly spun corporate life for the better, I felt like I had opened a time capsule, a bit of nostalgia in a DVD. But as any smart woman (or man) knows, sexism still runs rampant in the workplace, even if it doesn't stare blatantly at your chest and ask you to fetch it coffee.

The point is, entertainment can be a tonic and a panacea for bigger, and always more complex, issues. Walmartopia wants us to unseat the world-dominating corporation, but does it really? Where's the action plan, and where are the specifics? When the solution is the homogenized maxim "think outside the big box," it's hard to take the show very seriously. This production might have an agenda, but it's definitely more "let me entertain you" than "do you hear the people sing."

Ironically, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the show's best moments are its show-within-a-show production numbers, such as "These Bullets are Freedom" (pictured above), the resolutely earnest call-to-arms in the Wal-Mart dystopia of 2037. A piece of straightforward propaganda, the skit trades in both ideology and commerce, inciting political loyalty while trying to sell a new gun model. Here, it's easy--and chilling--to see how the media attempts to brainwash us. It's unfortunate that the rest of the show isn't this in-your-face; instead, the creators fall victim to the very advice they give us: don't settle for a cheap and phony product.

Show Business Weekly review: Walmartopia

Moon Swimmer

One of my favorite things about New York City in the summertime is lap swimming at the fabulous Astoria Pool. Every summer, from the 4th of July through Labor Day, the City opens its pools and beaches to the public for free (!), and it also sponsors a lap swimming program, which is broken down into two sections: the Early Bird (7:00-8:30am) and the Night Owl (7:00-8:30pm).

After swimming competitively for nearly ten years (and lifeguarding for almost as many), the chlorine is thick in my blood. Nothing beats beginning the day with a refreshing workout in the icy water--especially in the dog days of summer. And the Astoria Pool is especially magnificent--where else can you swim between the Triborough and Hellgate Bridges, with glimpses of boats drifting by on the East River? The pool actually hosted the Olympic trials in 1936 (which also marked its grand opening) and in 1964.

Sadly, there are only two more (outdoor) swimming days this year, and this morning I glimpsed this beautiful view out my window before I walked over to the park. One morning as I swam, I watched both the morning moon hanging above the Triborough Bridge and the sun rising directly opposite.

Tonight I got to see another of the City's pools: Hamilton Fish, on the Lower East Side. The occasion? The end-of-summer party and celebration for the swimmers. This year's party was particularly festive, because it marked the 25th anniversary of the adult lap swimming program. Some 6,000 New Yorkers participated this summer, and I'm proud to report that the "Early Bird" women of Astoria Pool accumulated the most distance among the women citywide: 697.34 miles!

The evening began with a relay race (Astoria placed second), and awards were presented to anyone who swam 25 miles or more this summer (including myself, just barely). This is actually equivalent to swimming around the island of Manhattan--minus weeding through the debris of old Coke cans, beer bottles, and assorted garbage in the river.

There was a free buffet dinner sponsored by Katz Deli (platters of sausage, coleslaw, potato salad, pasta, and watermelon), but the highlight for me was Jackie Rowe-Adams, who sang two a cappella songs: "Moon River" and "The Wind Beneath My Wings." In her husky, emotive voice, she cleverly squeezed "swim" verbs into the lyrics when at all possible. For example:

We're after the same rainbow's end
Swimming 'round the bend
I'm swimming with my friends
Moon river and me.

You get the picture. It was quite endearing, as was the entire evening--a pocket of small-town camaraderie in the churning metropolis. I can't wait to jump back in tomorrow morning.

Play It Again, Fringe

This just in: Beginning August 30, you can catch some of the can't-miss-it Fringe Festival shows that you, well, missed at the Second Annual FringeNYC Encore Series!

The two-week engagement (the action winds up September 16) will feature two heaping handfuls of Fringe favorites, including two of the gems I reviewed, A Beautiful Child and Piaf: Love Conquers All (pictured below). The shows have been divvied up between the Bleecker Street Theater and the Soho Playhouse.

Click here for the complete schedule and more information. Showtimes for my faves:

A Beautiful Child: Sept. 4 at 9:30 PM; Sept. 5 at 7 PM; Sept. 7 at 7 PM; Sept. 8 at 9:30 PM; Sept. 11 at 7 PM; Sept. 14 at 9:30 PM; Sept. 15 at 3 PM; and Sept. 16 at 9:30 PM.

Piaf: Love Conquers All: Aug. 30 at 9:30 PM; Aug. 31 at 7 PM; Sept. 1 at 8 PM; Sept. 2 at 4:30 PM; Sept. 3 at 9:30 PM; Sept. 5 at 7 PM; and Sept. 8 at 5 PM.

Bucking the System

I'm doing a bit of freelance copyediting work for a fantastic, hip legal publishing company I used to work for in Houston, and I never cease to be amused by some of the mischief people get up to these days. Even funnier is the stern legal jargon conjured up to describe it.

I just finished editing a chapter on "Animal Actions," and as you can imagine, there were the requisite cases on dog bites, bee stings, and rabid hogs (this is Texas, after all). But most hilarious to me was this summation of one particular case:

"Owner claimed he had no knowledge horse named 'Buck' had propensity to buck."

I don't know the specific circumstances surrounding the case, but apparently the owner made a good one: it was deemed that he wasn't liable for Buck's bucking his rider. Hmmm. Good thing I didn't name my cat "Hiss." Or "Scratch." Thankfully, the sophisticated Bardot would much rather sit and look at the Empire State Building.

Voulez Vous?

I’m a sucker for a dark and stormy French chanson, whether it’s sung by an interpreter of Edith Piaf (I caught Maria Bill’s tour-de-force solo show when I was a student in Salzburg, Austria) or interspersed in a full-length production (as in last year’s gorgeously sung Off Broadway revival of Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris). There's something so wonderfully unsettling about a tempestuous tale of love sung by a wine-soaked voice as a cheerful accordion works in counterpoint to lift a layer of the gloom. This paradoxical mixture (happy & sad) creates a truly visceral experience for its listeners. Pain morphs into something both beautiful and painful: performance.

Lured by the pathos, I jumped at the chance to review a Fringe Festival show that celebrated the life and music of Edith Piaf: Naomi Emmerson’s strong and wistful une-femme triumph, Piaf: Love Conquers All.

Show Business Weekly Review: Piaf: Love Conquers All

It’s no easy task to collapse the infamous French singer’s tragic life: it’s really as eccentric and riddled with romantic woes as they come. But Emmerson (who also directs) and Roger Peace (who wrote the book) have created an evocative and entertaining look at Piaf’s life and love(s), primarily by hinging her story firmly around what ultimately mattered to her most: the music. Emmerson sings 13 of Piaf’s most beloved melodies; interspersed with vignettes (which are charming but not always perfectly natural), the music moves into a new dimension, textured and shaped by Piaf’s real life experiences. Angst often seems to be a requisite tool for singers who brood about love, but here it is all the more riveting (and believable) because we can, for the most part, see directly to the root of her complaints.

From the opening seen, in which Piaf enters in a cascade of joy, extolling the virtues of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” (apparently, he’s a composer she’s just recently discovered), we are presented with a girlish woman (or a womanish girl?) who always feels as if she’s the last one to arrive at the party--and is determined to make up for it. Now.

If Emmerson is a bit more convincing in the first act (Piaf's youth and rise to fame) than the second (her painful decline), it's likely the fault of the script, which pinches the final events of Piaf's life together a bit haphazardly and hurriedly. Stephanie Layton is terrific in a series of supporting roles, and she is a deft and dazzling musician; she flits between the accordion and the piano without missing a beat. John Doyle would do well to scoop her up for his revival of Sweeney Todd.

Unfortunately, the show has already concluded its brief run, but keep your eyes peeled for Emmerson: she’s been playing Piaf for nearly 15 years now, and after a successful run at the Toronto Fringe Festival in 2005 (and, by all accounts, a successful one here as well), it’s likely this raucous pixie will pop up again in a neighborhood near you.

A Moving Moo-sical

Monday I reviewed the enormously charming and occasionally frustrating Farmer Song: The Musical.

offoffonline review: "Heartland Song": Farmer Song: The Musical

As a Nebraska native, I wanted to see the show immediately when I heard that it was set in Iowa, but at the time I didn't realize that the production had actually been brought in from Iowa. Yep--there were a truck and trailer with Iowa license plates parked in front of the New School for Drama--right in the middle of the West Village.

The show explores the "farm crisis" (low interest rates=poor farmers) through the love story of Carl and Becky, who decide--against her parents' advice and all good sense--to take up farming.

I brought my friend Amy along, who moved to the city with me from Nebraska nearly three years ago (and yes, we drove our Penske truck through Iowa on the way). We both felt like we were visiting home as we watched the show. The cast and production loudly telegraphs its "community theater" roots, and not necessarily in a bad way. With a cast made up of farmers, engineers, and other people with "day jobs," their earnestness and excitement to be on stage is immediately tangible (if often slightly ill-focused). And after living, working, and reviewing shows in New York for almost three years, this sort of down-home goodness was as refreshing as the cow manure I always smell in the little towns we pass on the two-hour drive to my hometown from the airport in Omaha. Don't laugh--any scent that heralds home is welcome to me (and it's an ephemeral stretch of road miles away from the house where I grew up).

According to its website, this little show has already made a big splash in Iowa (sold out shows and ample press) and will likely continue to entertain and move hometown audiences who will not only understand its message, but fully empathize with it.

At first I was frustrated with the show. I wanted more sophisticated direction and sharper tempos--in short, the slick production values I've come to expect in New York. But after a while I became fully absorbed by this tender, touching story, and it was delightful to watch people who are happy to do theater for theater's sake and not (as many critics of the Fringe have complained this year) in order to take their show to Broadway or become tomorrow's TV sensation.

If at various moments I've become worn out and bitter about theater and its place in the universe, Farmer Song did something to restore my faith in the community, collaboration, and charm of live performance. Just for the fun of it.

A few of the melodies are still in my head, days later. A bale-ful of thanks to this hardy group of Iowans for taking me back "home" for a few hours--not only geographically, but in wholesome spirit (the sweet woman passing out programs complimented me on my skirt with genuine kindness).

But how would the show be received by other (often exacting, crabby, and sassy) critics? Honestly, I felt a bit protective of my fellow Midwesterners. But I shouldn't have worried. One reviewer so far, at least, has gotten it just right.

All images courtesy of Farmer Song: The Musical.

Musicals! Are! Exciting!

I'm not sure when the craze for exclamatory musical titles began, but there are certainly a lot of them in this year's Fringe Festival. Whether it's Williamsburg!, Show Choir!, BASH'd!, or Bukowsical!, these musicals' creators have named their projects with all the subtlety of a sonic boom.

It would be interesting to poll audiences to see if there is a difference in excitement level and anticipation due to the use of punctuation. In my experience, it actually puts me off a bit, like those overeager people who stop you to take surveys on the streets who are, essentially, walking exclamation points themselves.

But I digress ... Day Two of the Fringe found me at two !!!! musicals.

The first, Williamsburg! The Musical, is a spoof of the hipster-infiltrated Brooklyn neighborhood. Good fun, with some exciting performances and interesting choreography, but waaaaay loud (I actually plugged my ears a few times). It's forgivable, given the Fringe's limited rehearsal time, but wow ... a lot of noise and grit for noon on a Sunday. The people sitting next to me and my friend Tauren had actually brought their two sons (under 10 years old) to the show, which was rather shocking, both because their attention started to fade towards the end and also because the musical featured a healthy heaping of profanity. The finale, for example, kept screaming "It's the F*$%ing Finale!", just to make sure we had gotten the message. It was interesting to note, though, that the boys started getting restless just as my own attention span was maxing out. Even when you're young, you have a sense of when they need to wrap it up. It's good that mature audiences have, for the most part, grown out of the outward signs of boredom, such as dropping toys, murmuring incoherently, and trying to stand up on one's chair to see better.

Anyway. One of my favorite performers I've discovered this year is the fabulous Allison Guinn (I reviewed her earlier this year in The Gallery Players' productions of Urinetown and Victor/Victoria), and she gets to sink her teeth into the leading role in this 'burg. And good heavens--she is a force to behold. Singing down to the gutters and back up to the sky, firmly planting each comic moment, stealing every scene, this girl is going places. I can't wait to see her next show. Even if it's another! exciting! musical!

A few hours later we visited the equally excitable Show Choir! The Musical and had a marvelous time. The audience was electric (and quite sweaty from the heat), and the show is a clever spoof of a genre (or "art form," they argue) that so many of us theater people love to hate--or, let's be honest, hate to love. Face it, there's really no better outlet for teenagers who want to get on stage and express themselves in myriad ways. The creators do a fantastic job capturing the essence of "music in motion," especially in the sparkly, gleaming production numbers ... hooray for jazz squares! The second act gets a bit drippy when the writers veer precariously towards Lifetime movies and their attendant syrup. I'd love to see the show cut down to 90 minutes and tucked into a nifty commercial run. I'd be first in line to see it again. Check out my review and the show's MySpace page.

Still to come: A review of the more sedately monikered Farm Song: The Musical.

Pictured: Shlomo (Evan Shyer) talks Piper (Allison Guinn) down off the (Williamsburg!) Bridge.

Tru-ly Marilyn

The Fringe is flying in New York, which for me means my yearly gorge on theater: I've reviewed five shows in three days, with another coming later this week.

My hands-down favorite thus far is A Beautiful Child, a sleek and delicate adaptation of an essay by Truman Capote. It chronicles an afternoon Capote spent trolling around the city with a certain insecure actress named Marilyn Monroe. Exceptional performances ground this simple, frothy, and ultimately moving theatrical treat. My review has been posted, and you can read more about the show at its official website.

I also caught The Jazz Messenger, a drama about an American jazz trumpeter imprisoned by a German officer in France during World War II. It's not the most stirring theatrical experience, but there is an excellent jazz quartet on hand to provide underscoring and accompaniment.

Look here soon for reviews of Williamsburg! The Musical, Show Choir! The Musical, Farmer Song: The Musical, and Piaf: Love Conquers All.

Pictured are Truman Capote and Marilyn Monroe and the actors who play them: Joel Van Liew and Maura Lisabeth Malloy.

Masterpiece Theater

Blame the heat, blame the humidity, blame Harry Potter (I'm almost finished with the final book), but no matter who you blame, I've been neglecting this blog. I haven't fallen off the radar completely, however, and I'll be posting reviews of several new shows in the next few days. And with The New York International Fringe Festival looming, you can bet I'll be a theatergoing freak for a couple of days, at least.

But the show that brought me back to the blog is a small jewel of a play called Opus that I reviewed at 59E59 Theaters Friday night. A production of Primary Stages, Michael Hollinger's tense and tantalizing riff on the histrionics of a string quartet is one of the best productions I've seen this year, if not since I moved to the city nearly three years ago. PLEASE go see this show!

Show Business Weekly review: Opus

I had never been to 59E59, and I was immensely impressed with the facility, to begin with. Designer James Kronzer has outfitted it to look like a sleek and spare concert hall (even more than it usually does), and Jorge Cousineau's sound design is absolutely impeccable. Although the actors mime (I hate to use that word, but it's true) their playing, they're so perfectly timed with the gorgeous music that you almost forget that it's not really a live performance.

The story, in brief: When the quartet's violist, a stormy soul named Dorian, goes missing, the other three musicians quickly recruit Grace, a brilliant viola player fresh out of grad school and thunderstruck with her good fortune. They decide to play Beethoven's difficult Opus 131 at their next gig (at The White House), and they begin to practice--and get to know each other.

One of my dear friends, Christine, happens to be a violist who recently played with a string quartet, and her tales of their squabbles echoed through my head as I watched the play. Being a member of a string quartet is like being married to three people at once, she told me, and that truth bore out on stage as well. Hollinger has concocted a spirited verbal shorthand between the characters, and their relationships are at once both extremely intimate and dangerously volatile.

The action flits between the newly formed group's preparations and flashbacks to the scenes that foreshadowed Dorian's departure. Terrence J. Nolen's precise direction brings everything together brilliantly in the end: When all of the threads converge, the results are nothing short of electrifying. Honestly, I can't remember the last time (if ever) I literally gasped in a theater; in this case, my mouth dropped open and stayed that way for at least a couple minutes, so surprised was I by the outcome.

The actors are all outstanding, and they deliver such natural, human performances that you'd expect to be able to walk up to them after the show and ask them more about their instruments. David Beach is particularly splendid as the stuffy, snarky first violinist Elliot--he was, we come to find out, romantically involved with the elusive Dorian, and Michael Laurence turns in an equally fine and complex portrayal of the MIA musician.

Working within a genre that is often drenched with heavy-handed metaphors and forced jokes, Hollinger has created a play that deftly and easily conveys the strife, solidarity, and sauce of musicians in search of the Holy Grail: the perfect performance.

A Film of One's Own

Who knew that submitting a film to a New York festival could be as tricky as auditioning for a Broadway musical? My latest feature, a guide to what (and what not) to do to make the cut at area film festivals, appears in this week's edition of Show Business Weekly, available on newsstands this week. (If you missed it, contact me and I'll send you a copy.)

I had a great time interviewing some of the people behind New York's most esteemed film events, from the eclectic and edgy Tribeca Film Festival to Lincoln Center's selective and streamlined New York Film Festival.

As a person steeped in theater, I love learning more about the fascinating world of film, and there are so many basic elements that translate across the genres. It's a given that you should focus on the truth of your story in any successful artistic endeavor, but I was surprised to note the many parallels between low-budget/big-budget movies and Off Off Broadway/Broadway productions. One administrator essentially told me that "image certainly isn't everything" when he reviews films, and he often wishes that filmmakers would spend less time trying to make their film look "professional" and polished and more time on the nuts and bolts of what makes a good story: a captivating script, gripping plot, and honest, compelling acting.

That would be good advice to many theatermakers as well. In tiny Off Off Broadway venues, the play very often becomes the (only) thing. Stripped of pyrotechnics and devoid of dollars, these shows can focus on the very heart of their stories. Too often, valiant efforts are made to mimic the luxurious gadgetry of commercial productions to an often depressing and disastrous effect. Show me what you know and what truth you can create with what you have, I want to exhort them. Otherwise, it's like stuffing a helicopter through a storefront window--explosive, violent, and just plain wrong. Your room may be tiny, but the impact can be huge.