Lost and Found

At the beginning of Gone Missing, the masterful music/comedy/sketch piece by the wired and wacky troupe The Civilians, a voice announces that the material was culled from “interviews with people in New York City and in the United States of America.” That subtle use of “and” is so telling—snidely inferring that NYC is, indeed, not quite the same as (or even part of) the rest of the USA.

The pithy intro was the perfect tongue-in-cheek opening to this fascinating, sardonic show, in which the six actors take on a batch of personas of people who have lost various things in NYC and elsewhere (I had to laugh at a woman recounting the loss of a doll in Iowa’s Amana Colonies, where I also vacationed as a child).

The piece begins with its sizzling title number—the suit-clad, androgynous performers move through slick and punchy choreography with such presence and precision that it gave me goosebumps.

Emily Ackerman quickly followed this up with the lush and torchy “The Only Thing Missing Is You”—a striking and impassioned lament for a lost romance that effortlessly calls up old Hollywood films of the 1940s. Purring with her sexy-scratchy voice, Ackerman struts with an irresistible combination of fire and reserve.

But although the show opens with such promise, the rest of the material never moves out of its teaser-phase. To be sure, the character studies are each strong and convincing, but I wished that the writing could become more meaty and juicy. And if those adjectives seem to indicate that I was hungry, that’s because I was. The saucy, irreverent opening scenes whet my appetite for substance, but the writing, while often sharp and witty, remains on the safer surface of many topics touched on by these evocative characters.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that—many a show gets by on consistently excellent fluffy material. But these actors (and their confident director Steve Cosson, who also wrote much of the show) are so superb that you can’t help longing for them to plunge into material that would show them off to their fullest potential. And “Gone Missing,” while entertaining and mildly provocative, eventually feels like an expanse of wasted resources.

Michael Friedman’s music and lyrics are especially fine and provide the show’s many high points. In “The Only Thing Missing Is You,” Ackerman despairs, “If Barbie has Ken/why do I have rien?” In these simple tunes and potent lyrics, Friedman conveys both humor and pathos. In “Hide & Seek,” a young girl’s memory of hiding amid her mother’s pretty blouses in a closet, Colleen Werthman wonders, “Why is no one seeking me?”

So what have people lost? Everything from rings to pets to gold teeth. One recurring character, an amiable cop played by the excellent Stephen Plunkett, describes what is lost or missing from the dead bodies he recovers. He describes the gruesome details with a “Can you believe it?” grin and a half-hearted shrug, which belie the seriousness of these disturbing scenes (which have clearly disturbed him a bit as well). But “You gotta laugh, right?” he reflexively asks after each description. “Or else …” (He mimes drinking alcohol.) One imagines it could get much worse than that.

The Civilians avoid making any overt political or mock-serious statements, and the poignancy of these lost things eventually comes into focus over the course of the show. Things are merely “shadows” or “echoes”—and, late in the show, the cast lightly references the ways in which we try to possess each other in relationships. But whether a relationship, an earring, or a rag doll, our possessions can both rule and possess us. Gone Missing hints at what these things can come to mean. “It was a small thing,” an elderly woman sighs, “But it was big because I loved it.”

Photo Credit: Sara Krulwich, The New York Times

The Word Made Flesh

Over breakfast this morning, I read John Lanchester’s intriguing review of The Diana Chronicles, Tina Brown’s new book about Princess Diana. The New Yorker’s reviews are singular, I feel, for their expansion on their subject—rather than simply parsing the pros and cons of a new cultural artifact, the reviewers typically push beyond the project at hand to haul in a trove of evocative supporting details.

In Lanchester’s opinion, Brown’s book is the best of the lot, as far as coverage of Diana goes. He referred to several other substandard missives, including one written by the late princess’s butler, Paul Burrell, entitled The Way We Were—“emetic book, emetic title,” pronounces Lanchester.

Although I work at the Oxford University Press, I’m not a human dictionary, so when I arrived at work I promptly looked up “emetic,” which means, in short, to induce nausea and vomiting. This made me smile when I remembered, in a perfect dose of New York synchronicity (and serendipity), the well-dressed businessman I saw on the subway platform this morning. At first he just seemed to be leaning against the wall, but upon closer examination, something had clearly had its emetic way with him.

The expunging of bodily fluid in its various forms is certainly not an uncommon sight in New York, but I now have a new way to describe it. And sometimes the right word makes all the difference.

But to my point: Lanchester’s review made me curious to take a look at Brown’s work; I’ve never been particularly fascinated by British royalty (although I did have the requisite Princess Diana paper doll set as a child, a gift from my more tiara-enamored Grandma Kay), but Lanchester uses Brown’s book to suggest that, in her legacy, Princess Diana might eventually make British royalty redundant and somewhat beside-the-point. It was certainly clear in last year’s excellent film “The Queen” that certain subjects are fairly exhausted by the attention paid to royalty, but Lanchester posits that the heirs themselves may one day tire of a position that has become something of a career of enforced, inescapable celebrity.

L.A. Times columnist Meghan Daum also recently explored Brown’s tome, and she linked it quite directly to our modern notions of celebrity. Daum compares Diana to the contemporary blonde celebrity of troubled vixens Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton; where, she asks, did we go wrong in our peroxide-washed heroine worship?

Thus, if Diana’s troubled life may one day close the door on modern-day monarchy, might Paris Hilton’s legacy eventually extinguish the torrents of misdirected attention and media-love lavished on flimsy wealthy girls? We won’t know for sure for quite some time, but if the prognostications of Brown (and Lanchester) are any indication, certain incarnations of celebrity live on well beyond the grave. In Lanchester’s study, appropriately entitled “The Naked and the Dead,” the legacy of celebrity will be eternally exhumed and put to use as necessary. Sometimes the right word makes all the difference.

A Dazzling Death

Last night I visited Second Stage Theater to review eurydice, playwright Sarah Ruhl's rhapsodic modern retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

I'm still puzzling out the intricacies of this arresting story, one of the finest and most sophisticated meditations on death I've seen on a stage or anywhere else.

Until I find the appropriate words to describe it (my review will come out next week), take a look at Charles Isherwood's lovely description in the New York Times.

And if you're in the vicinity, do yourself a favor and see this show; if the storytelling doesn't agree with you, it will be enough to experience the absolutely stunning design. Fittingly, the Tony Awards committee just announced that in 2008 it will begin to give out Tony Awards for sound design (for both a play and a musical). I'm hoping that this play will move to Broadway so that the amazing Bray Poor could be recognized next year. As Orpheus and Eurydice travel to the underworld and back again, they move through a robust, dynamic cascade of noise--a cloud of sound so nuanced and particular that I didn't fully appreciate it until I exited the theater into Times Square and was met with its signature squawk. It's amazing how a seamless team of designers can take you to another world entirely.

Pictured is Maria Dizzia as Eurydice, arriving in the underworld via fantastical elevator (Photo Credit: Sara Krulwich).

Putting the Fun in Dysfunctional

Last Sunday I reviewed an excellent production of William Finn's musical Falsettoland produced by the National Asian American Theater Company (NAATCO). NAATCO specializes in revisioning classic plays and musicals with all-Asian casts, and they do it with both superior production values and immensely talented performers. The first NAATCO production I saw was Cowboy vs. Samurai--a very poignant and incisive look at dating across (and within) racial lines.

So I definitely had high expectations for Falsettoland; of course, I have a soft spot for William Finn to begin with (I recently reviewed an excellent production of A New Brain in Astoria). His music can sometimes wander a bit, but there's an innocence and vulnerability to his writing that never gets stale. And I've been consistently impressed with the many fine Asian actors in this city (see my recent review of The Romance of Magno Rubio). I also noticed in the program that Finn himself invested in this production--always a good sign when the composer gives his seal of approval.

Falsettoland (which NAATCO originally produced in 1998) returns as part of the very first National Asian American Theater Festival (which runs through June 24), and I encourage you to get out and see some of this innovative work in action!

Pictured are Jason Ma, Christine Toy Johnson, Francis Jue, Mary Ann Hu, and Ann Sanders (Photo Credit: Bruce Johnson).

Taking It With Me

Last night I moderated a post-show talkback at a performance of You Can’t Take It With You at T. Schreiber Studio. Peter Jensen has directed a charming and poignant rendition of this chestnut, which opened on Broadway in 1936 (winning a Nobel Prize in 1937) and was made into an Academy Award-winning major motion picture in 1938. It's also the offoffonline Pick of the Week.

Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman’s play is one of the most beloved in the American canon: Alice, the eldest daughter of a rather kooky family, falls in love with her straight-laced boss’s son, Tony. When the families meet, chaos ensues, and we watch the intriguing clash between people who do what they are supposed to do and people who do what they want to do (guess who’s happier?). The idea that “you can’t take it with you” resurfaces again and again in our culture—one of the simplest maxims to ingest, but one of the most difficult to effect.

The cast is remarkable for its size (19) and intergenerational demographic—the actors can range in age from teenaged to 80+, so it’s one of those plays where you might find yourself in many roles over the course of your (acting) lifetime.

It’s amazing to connect the dots across the show’s history: Kaufman and Hart, of course, were legendary men of the theater. Between them, they wrote The Man Who Came to Dinner, directed My Fair Lady and Camelot (both with Julie Andrews), and produced a dazzling array of ventures. (Just look them up on the Internet Broadway Database.) Henry Travers played Grandpa in the original stage version, and although Lionel Barrymore played the role in the film (directed by Frank Capra), Travers went on to work on another iconic Capra project: he played the gentle angel Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life. The play opened at the Booth Theatre on 45th Street; when I passed by on Friday, I noted that it is now home to The Year of Magical Thinking, which stars another legendary actress, Vanessa Redgrave (of the film version of Camelot. And the New York Times theater critic who covered the show in 1936, Brooks Atkinson, now has a Broadway theater in his name.

Enough factoids to convince you of the play’s venerable qualities?

The talk back was warm and lively—the performers were all eager to talk about their experiences working on the show, and the audience members who stayed were very effusive in their appreciation and enjoyment of the material. One gentleman told us that he was in town from Australia, where he was part of a reading of this play by a senior citizen’s group. “Timeless,” was how one contented woman described the play.

It’s obvious that there is something special about this particular ensemble of actors: a shared sense of purpose and an easy, generous camaraderie. They told me that playwright George S. Kaufman’s daughter Anne came to the show last week; rumor has it that she will only meet a cast if she is pleased with the particular production (she also holds final approval on where and when his plays can be revived). Although she skipped out on the actors in a recent notable London production, she insisted on making the acquaintance of the T. Schreiber cast, much to their elation.

It was so refreshing for me to sit down with theater people to talk about theater—as a critic, I so often see a show and go home to write in solitude, and it was wonderful to participate in a conversation about the art form, its potential, and its power. When a show can feel this fresh and pertinent after so many years, it certainly must possess some truths about human nature. It makes me wonder what will be revived in 2077 …

Pictured are Jacqueline van Biene (Alice), Peter Judd (Grandpa), and Andrew Gregor (Ed).

On the Nineteenth Century

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Bob Rook, the director I worked with on the Midwest premiere of the musical Jekyll & Hyde, in which I played Emma. He wanted me to know that they have added new photos to the company's website, so here's a quick pictorial flashback: an anguished pose with my lovely friend Steven Rich in the tragic, duplicitous title role. You may have seen Steven performing around the country in the national tours of Cats or Miss Saigon. You certainly wouldn't forget his voice!

And speaking of the 19th century, here's a link to my review of Madame Bovary: A Musical, an adaptation of Flaubert's novel about the exploits of the quintessential desperate housewife.

It's Tony Time!

Nope, not that one. Or that one.

The 61st Tony Awards were given out Sunday evening at Radio City Music Hall. It's one of my favorite occasions of the year. (Okay, full disclosure: I've been known to refer to it as "The Happiest Day of the Year.") I thought I'd single out a few of the more awe-inspiring (and surprising) moments:

1. Electric Esparza. Raul Esparza’s engrossing performance of “Being Alive” from Company. If ever a more convincing case was made for the award for Best Actor in a Musical, I have yet to see it. Esparza’s performance was taut, sensitive, and completely fearless. I’ve always loved the song (and I loved him in the show when I reviewed it), but the intensity of this particular performance transcended into its own emotional sphere. It left me in tears, and I was astonished when the Tony Award later went to Curtains’ David Hyde Pierce (as was the winner himself, judging by his expression). Don't get me wrong, Pierce's turn as a musical-loving detective was a marvel of wit and comic timing, but it simply wasn't as splashy or simmering as Esparza's masterwork. As that rare stage beast, the straight-acting leading man, Esparaza will certainly enjoy a long, rich career, but it was heartbreaking to see him overlooked in this role. Side note: The opportunity to watch an actor become so exposed and vulnerable (on national television) made a case for the theatrical potential of the TV set.

2. Spring Has Sprung. Little more than a year ago, I saw Spring Awakening Off-Broadway at the Atlantic Theater Company. During the first few songs, I realized that I was holding my breath. When something is THAT sensational right off the bat, you begin to worry about whether it can possibly last. The little-rock-musical-that-could certainly has its (miniscule) flaws, but I haven’t been this moved by a show in years. (That lighting! That choreography! Those chairs!) And now, with 8 Tony Awards, including Best Musical, this important show will undoubtedly have the chance to move many other theatergoers for years to come—and, reportedly, across international stages …

3. Repertory Revolution? The Coast of Utopia, Tom Stoppard’s intense(ly) intellectual chronicle of Russian thinkers in the 19th century, won a record number of Tonys for a play, and I’ve been reading everywhere about how the cast created its own sort of utopia over the year they were together: an actors’ paradise. The cast of 44 joined forces in three daunting plays (performed both separately and together in a handful of marathon performances) and truly defined the term ensemble. The cast members who didn't attend the ceremony were, allegedly, watching the Tony Awards from the “cast” bar, where they all planned to meet up afterwards. Making theater is by nature an ephemeral process—typically, you meet and grow close to other performers only to bid them farewell a few months, or even weeks, later—but in her acceptance speech for Best Featured Actress in a Play, Jennifer Ehle (of Utopia) proclaimed a wish to form a repertory company at Lincoln Center (where the trilogy was produced). What an exciting thing that would be, to see what would come of a company of actors united in craft and trust, incubated over time …

4. White Noise. In one of the more ecstatic (and surprising) moments of the evening, Julie White won the award for Best Actress in a Play for her acute, relentless performance as a take-no-prisoners Hollywood agent in Douglas Carter Beane’s modern sex comedy of manners, The Little Dog Laughed. A downtown veteran, White was ebullient—and completely flabbergasted—about her win.

5. Acrobatic Audra. In her bold and brassy performance of “Raunchy” (from 110 in the Shade), Tony nominee Audra McDonald kicked up her heels, for real—she turned her signature cartwheel into a semi aerial, momentarily pausing upside down with all limbs off the ground. This was McDonald’s sixth nomination (she’s already won four), and it seems like there is nothing she can’t do. For more Audra, here's my review of her exceptional work in 110 in the Shade.

Meet Me at the Chocolate Fountain

Tonight was Volunteer Recognition Night at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center--the hospital where I volunteer on Tuesday nights.

The evening began with an inspiring program, in which three volunteers talked about their unique experiences at the hospital. The first woman started volunteering in 1978; she planned to stay "just for the summer" but couldn't bear to leave when the summer was over. The second speaker was a man who moved to New York to be an actor (familiar ...), but after gigs as, variously, a "singing hippopotamus" and a "dancing rhinosaurus," he decided to go back to med school. He completed his pre-med volunteer requirement, but he decided to stay on because he loves the patient interaction. He was followed by a young girl who talked about growing up (and attending school) a few blocks away from the hospital--she decided to be a nurse, and she hopes to work at MSKCC someday.

Then we headed out to a delicious dinner buffet, and the dessert was especially tantalizing: piles of cheesecake and pastries, which surrounded a Willy Wonka-esque chocolate fountain! We dipped fresh strawberries into the delicious brown stream. Had I known about that, I would have skipped dinner and headed straight to the dessert room.

Pictured is my wonderful friend Mariola (center), who trained me when I started volunteering almost a year ago. She was recognized for completing 150 hours of service, and she also recently trained Christina (right). Everyone I've met who is affiliated with the hospital radiates goodness and good cheer--it's an extraordinary place.

Men, Big and Small

Check out my review of Ma-Yi Theater Company's arresting production of The Romance of Magno Rubio. It's actually a revival of an earlier award-winning production, and it contains some of the most innovative stagecraft and a few of the most haunting moments of any show I've seen this season. And it's all firmly anchored by Jojo Gonzalez (above left), who brings zest, grace, and gravitas to the title role.

Speaking of phenomenal leading performances, I was absolutely blown away by the emotional dexterity and dramatic strengths of Frank Langella and Michael Sheen, currently ruling the stage in the Broadway play Frost/Nixon. Langella plays Richard Nixon who, a few years after Watergate, underwent an intense series of interviews with British talk show host David Frost (the dynamic Sheen). The results make for completely mind-shattering theater, especially as rendered through Peter Morgan's taut storytelling. Rather than create a mere docudrama, Morgan (who also wrote the screenplay for "The Queen," another creative dip into recent history) takes us deeply, and rather uncomfortably, inside Nixon's insecurities, character, humor, and pathos. Langella's performance is so acute, so unflinching, so devastating ... I've never seen anything like it.

Ben Brantley wrote a captivating feature in the New York Times this week about the five Tony Award nominees for Best Leading Actor in a Play--a category which, in his estimation, hasn't been this competitive and teeming with talent for decades. Brantley makes this astute pronouncement on the skills of a truly accomplished actor: "Getting the bright externals of a character is easy for a good craftsman. It's the shadowy contradictions between outer and inner that distinguish craft from art."


I would add that it's within these "shadowy contradictions" that we find humanity in all its fallible glory--shimmering and often painful to behold. For me personally, it's the type of performance that makes me cry without quite knowing why. As much as Christine Ebersole's phenomenal Grey Gardens performance weirded me out (how, after all, are we to relate to this bizarre woman living in squalor with herds of cats?), the force of her performance's magical realism reeled me in and left me gasping for breath. A few years ago, Tonya Pinkins' triumphant turn in Caroline, or Change (in the stifling intimacy of the Public Theater, before it moved to Broadway) firmly gripped something inside me, and I had to sit for a few minutes in the lobby before I could walk to the subway (or talk coherently).

Which brings me back to Langella. Brought up to despise (and at least mistrust) this man who lied to his citizens, I was suddenly face to face with this desperate, pained, and sorrowful man. Feeling sorry for him. Who cries from watching Richard Nixon? It's a mystical, precious thing when theater can elicit these small miracles--paving the way to such revolutionary human understanding. If only we could all be brought that close to the dubious figures in our own lives ...

Simi in the City

Andie hoping for her big break!

Khun, Rick, Simi, and Amy (Andie underneath table)

My fabulous friends Simi and Rick were in town today from Austin with their daughter Andie and their foreign exchange student Khun. He's here from Thailand, and they're in the midst of a Northeastern tour, traveling through Philadelphia, Virginia, DC, New Jersey, and NYC, of course. We had brunch at VYNL in Hell's Kitchen before they headed off to see The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. Don and I caught a matinee of the outstanding, electrifying play Frost/Nixon--more to come on that.

Because It's June ...

June is busting out all over, and so were the clouds on my flight from Nebraska back to New York a few days ago. I took these shots from the window of the plane, and I later had a stunning view of nighttime Manhattan as we flew up the Hudson. Dramatic sights, indeed!