The Robot Horror Picture Show

When the summer rolls around, and everyone gets excited about the newest big-budget smash, I save my cash. When I'm paying $7.50 for a movie, I want it to linger in my mind. I am not that sold on "mindless entertainment"... at least not if I pay for it. "Mindless" is what TV is for. Do I want to sit in a theater for two hours, laugh along with popcorn spillers and Diet Coke guzzlers, and then get home and not remember any of the punchlines? Not usually. My preference is for movies that leave lasting impressions. I just read Revolutionary Road, the Richard Yates novel, this week and it was astonishing. Many of the feelings I had during the film came flooding back. Some people excoriated it, but I could still remember each scene vividly as I flipped the pages. I've only seen it once, like a riveting piece of theater, and it stays with me.

So, yes, call me anti-populist, but I'm just not into this idea that entertainment has to be primarily "entertaining." It never hurts to at least go for something slightly deeper. Last year, The Dark Knight was a big deal... well, yeah, because it tried to merge comic book icons with myths of American culture. Not to mention the Oscar-winning performance, and the accompanying curiosity (the "too soon?" factor). Oh, right, and Batman's cool. Yes, but see, I assumed that it did so well because people want more than surface "cool." There was, maybe, a purpose for spending trillions of dollars on a few reels of celluloid.

So I respected America and then came Judgment Day. I paid $7.50 to see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, and could I tell you anything about the Fallen? It was part of a man-night before a wedding, and a fantastic weekend, so I was happy to join in and not upset or bitter that I saw it. But the thing is, nobody seemed to think it was that great. And yet, even though people walked out un-transformed, they're making millions (and I bet a three-quel).

In lieu of "reviewing" or being negative, because the whole idea of Transformers II holding a box-office record is just ridiculous and needs no editorializing, I came up with a wholly positive critique. No use of "cretinous" or "noxious" here; no words like "a horrific experience of unbearable length." Here goes:

Thank you, Julie White. Now that there are 20 spots in the 2010 Oscars for Supporting Actress in a Summer Blockbuster, you are guaranteed a nomination for being hysterical as a mother who endures a ruined kitchen island, her first reefer brownie, and a sudden re-emergence in the narrative to console her son after he dies, enters Alien Robot Heaven to be told, "it is your destiny," and rejoins the living with nary a wound. You may now return to an acclaimed Twelfth Night in Central Park knowing that your rent is covered. And that they can't take your Tony away.

Sing Once Again for Me: Phantom... an Appreciation?

I was talking with Connie this weekend about The Phantom of the Opera, and how it turned me on to the world of theater, just like John Grisham turned many people on to reading adult novels or Titanic got people excited about going to the movies. It's not that any of these are "bad art," but let's be honest: they are kitsch, and they know it.

So I sat down and thought about how Phantom, which I loved enough to see three times in my youth, has changed for me. It's a love letter to the theater and a fervent embrace of Romanticism. You can't deny that many find the show irresistible, and a living, breathing paradox. Yes, it's a pop-opera, but somehow elevated by its operatic pretensions. It stirs emotions despite the mega-musical trimmings and trappings: the hundred-some trap doors, the dry fog that spills onto the poor orchestra. It's the epitome of everything wrong with long-running spectacles, yet wouldn't you rather see it than Mamma Mia!?

It worked well enough to survive this long, garner a Las Vegas run without casting Celine Dion, and outlast a film adaptation with beautiful sets and vocal mis-casting. The thinness of each role, which also plagues the show on stage, originates in Gaston Leroux's late-nineteenth-century novel: a true "pulp fiction," sewing together detective-story journalism with eerie Gothic archetypes. The sweet ingenue with a dark past, the sinister but cultured villain: both would be resurrected in the realm of film noir, but without the innocents like dashing-but-dumb Raoul. What keeps it Romantic is artist and audience's longing for the tortured Heathcliff figure, though earthbound convention would not permit such a spiritual, sensual union for the heroine.

I'd be the first to criticize those who foolishly call Phantom an opera. But really, its virtues/flaws are how many stereotype opera: vocal acrobatics come first, wrapped in elaborate stagecraft, while substance is checked at the door with your coats. The beauty of Phantom is that it doesn't need substance. Just like many Andrew Lloyd Webber vehicles, the whole adds up to more than the sum of its parts. If we try hard, we could search for deeper meaning: something about beauty internally, and the cruelty of a society bent on persecution. But Phantom echoes the 1980s era of excess and Reaganomics more than anything. Think of how Bret Easton Ellis characterized Les Miz, another '80s British Invasion bombast, in American Psycho as the ticket for the rich and soulless. We as an audience think that because the sopranos sing higher than before (don't mind that Christine's high E is prerecorded) and the pyrotechnics outweigh the Fourth of July's, size matters on all levels.

And yet, cynics abate! In 2009, Phantom is far more relevant than the still-touring Rent; maybe it's the music. Typical through-sung Lloyd Webber, but with more stolen Puccini than ever before. (If you think that he doesn't recycle fragments of classical music in his melodies, listen to "I Don't Know How to Love Him" and the violin entrance of the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto's second movement.) Thievery or tribute? Well, both; it's part of the paradox. His score is a mixture of influences. In diegetic opera scenes, he spoofs Mozart coloratura up through twelve-tonal dissonance.

The title song: great on its own, jarring in context. Lots of sound and fury symbolizing niente. It's like Queen just took over the theater. Christine rocks out to silent-movie "horror" chords and a disco beat. Primo example of schlock-aretta.

But let's take "All I Ask of You," more harmonious with the rest. It's brazenly a break-out hit, and yet the music writing is mature. Listen to the descending ninth on "Say you'll love me," and then the descending seventh in "every waking moment." Harmonies shift on that same phrase under the repeated notes ("waking moment"). Unexpected dissonance when the chorus enters the second verse: "that's all I ask of you" ends with a D-flat, while "Let me be your shelter" overlaps on an E-flat.

Upon this melody sit the words of Charles Hart. And he gives the actors nothing:

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,
Say the word and I will follow you.
Share each day with me, each night, each morning.
Say you love me. (You know I do.)
Love me: That's all I ask of you.

Seems she asks an awful lot. If Sondheim had written this, the irony would be obvious: she doesn't really want the safety white-bread Raoul offers, she just makes herself believe that. But instead, we get platitudes. Each syllable scans well, and there's lovely alliteration ("to hold me and to hide me"). But this is empty poetry. Unlike in penny-dreadful-inspired Sweeney Todd, there's nothing behind these stock characters, nothing true beneath the artifice.

Granted, the title role is showy. Another part of the illusion: every time you hear the Phantom's voice from off-stage, it's actually recorded in advance, because it doesn't make sense otherwise. In act one, he basically sings two big numbers and then leaves until the last five minutes, when he pops up to hurl a chandelier at us. Not much work for all that makeup. Carlotta, who actually sings her high tessitura eight shows a week, is also a flashy part; the two romantic leads are thankless. This show has probably placed tons of Christines into career limbo. What do you do after you've mastered the art of sweet, vacuous pseudo-legit pop soprano? If you're lucky, you'll get hired for the 2010 sequel, Love Never Dies. (Rebecca Luker was a lucky Christine: she triumphed during 1990s revival-mania. Recently Sierra Boggess got to expand her range with The Little Mermaid, as a sweet, vacuous belting pop soprano.)

Here's something that bugs me: We meet Christine singing a pop ballad masquerading as an aria, "Think of Me." Then Raoul jumps in, in a box in the opera house. Is he, by dramatic logic, really singing? I hope not; major audience faux pas. Is his "singing" an expression of internal monologue? Then the melody returns in "Masquerade," but neither is actually singing within the world of the show. We could concoct an argument for this, but it's more honest to say it's sloppy recycling of music.

But there are also nice things in the score. Look at the internal rhyme in all lyrics set to "Angel of Music":

Angel of Music, guide and guardian,
Grant to me your glory.
Angel of Music, hide no longer,
Secret and strange angel.

Angel or father? Friend or Phantom?
Who is it there staring?
Angel, oh speak, what endless longings
Echo in this whisper?

The comedic lyrics in "Notes" a la Gilbert and Sullivan use some cool wordplay:

It's really not amusing.
He's abusing our position.
In addition, he wants money.
He's a funny sort of specter
To expect a large retainer,
Nothing plainer,
He is clearly quite insane.

And it's easy not to realize that the final lines ("You alone can make my song take flight / It's over now, the music of the night") are actually set on the "All I Ask of You" melody. The orchestra comes crashing in, though, with a swell of "The Music of the Night" to suggest the tunes are forever inseparable. And unstoppable; they repeat all night long! But see, it's that Phantom paradox again: just try to get them out of your head.

Spam-a-whole-lot

Short and sweet tonight. You should open your spam folder, if you're lucky enough to have any unread messages, and delight in the complete and entire absurdity. Note: I didn't actually open any of the messages or any attachments and allow their viral infections to spread.

My current four beloved spammers:

1. "Places to visit." Looks innocuous. Maybe they are reading my blog. The sender's name, though, is Cynthia Hiajyfq. Is that an American Indian tribe I haven't come across? Or, when doling out last names to the blacksmith (Smith) or the local philanthropist (Green), the official sur-naming committee ran into an alcoholic drunk-texting his friends and knew exactly what to call him/her.

2. "Hi! It's Jane, from school." Hi Jane. Oh, from school! 'Cause that's specific since I've only been in school 18 of my nearing-23 years. I guess I went to Shakespeare rehearsals with a Jane, and we talked once. And who's the sender? Is it Jane? Nope: Mariano. (Post-it note: submit to Fail Blog.)

3. "The Erotic Films History of Turkey -- The First All-Turkish..." Enticing. My buddy Peterschick (as he must be known in the hood) is aware I'm a film guy. I wonder, is it an erotic film that follows the lusty growth of Turkish civilization, or is it an overview of Turkish erotic cinema? I opened up the memo to see (don't try this at home!). Behold, a description that answers all my questions: "Utrine Ruins W. VVa. Courthouse Shrubbery." Oh.

4. "How to Get Any Gril Too Sleep With You." My Internet pen pal Hieb has lined up some tips he says I can "masqter" right now. Hey, I know it gets cold at night, but I don't want to be cuddling with my George Foreman any time soon.

Okay, let's read it as intended. Men/lesbians/anyone who's curious, do we really want any girl to sleep with us? I mean, any girl? Are our standards so low that they just have to be a girl? 'Cause if any is really the goal, there are better websites to peruse. So I've heard.

This one comes with breaking news: "Crackdown launched on rogue treaslure hutnters." So Aesop says, get any girl to sleep with you, good; hunting for buried treasure, bad. Mixed message?


Updated 6/21: Oh, it gets better. Today's spam e-mail: "33 Ways too Turn your Woman into a Sexual Aggressor." I wonder if those Turkish erotic films gave me a head start in this direction.

"When is it going to be Bloomsday?"

There was once a city called Dub'in
Where James Joyce would do all his clubbin'
While his wife stayed at home, sheerly 'roused by a poem,
And not by her dear husband's lubbin'

If you recognize my title right away, ten points to you. See, Mel Brooks, when writing his Oscar-winning screenplay for The Producers, set the opening on June 16. So when Gene Wilder, playing Leo Bloom, jumps on the Lincoln Center fountain and asks when it's going to be his turn, when it's going to be Bloom's Day, he receives his answer: it already is!

The 1,040 pages of James Joyce's Ulysses all coexist on this one day, the sixteenth of June, the day ordinary Leo Bloom became a somebody. Just as you can walk through London in Mrs. Dalloway, you should be able to reconstruct the city of Dublin itself from Ulysses, as Joyce once said. Having just been there, I undertook no Leo Bloom walks, didn't visit the National Museum or National Library like he did, and didn't get into a row in the red-light district. I'm just not destined for greatness the way Bloom was.

In tribute to Mr. Joyce and Ireland, well, go look at my photo spread from yesterday. There's even an (unauthorized) photograph of the first page of the first edition of today's monumental novel.

Last year, inspired perhaps by Bloomsday, I threw open Joyce's book and started off strongly with stately, plump Buck Mulligan. I made my way into the thicket: Bloom's morning sausages, his wife Molly, the funeral carriage. Somewhere around chapter eight of eighteen, my mental facilities quavered, and my plight was now a race of endurance.

Race is exaggerating; took me a whole month, the book did. See, in eight, you have to understand what a parallax* is in order to "get it." Coming to terms with how vastly not "gotten" "it" was, I just kept swimming. Chapter fourteen offers parodic recapitulations of the English language's development over centuries; fifteen finds the character lost in script dialogue and stage directions. But that last chapter, Molly's monologue: eight sentences, sixty pages, pure unadulterated unfiltered semi-consciousness interwoven with eroticism. Perfect. Go read it right now, and tell everyone you finished Ulysses. They don't have to know your dirty little secret... but you should know Ulysses's.

*Parallax=how an object being studied is displaced because its observer changes his spot. Think imperfect focusing on a lens. Think how each eye sees the same world from a slightly different angle, enabling 3-D vision. Think of your view of Ulysses when you began from when you ended... times 1,040.

How are things in Glocca Morra?

You asked for vacation pictures, and here they are...

Ten Easy Steps to Creating Your Own Irish Town
1. The first rule of Ireland is Guinness.
2. The second rule of Ireland is [insert inferior, but still drinkable, alcohol here].
3. Erect a twelfth-century church. Seriously, you have no game if you don't have an old church.
4. Three liters of dark, foreboding clouds. Sprinkle with heavy rain for two minutes, followed by 30 seconds of sunshine. Repeat. Shroud with mist indefinitely.
5. Buy a real old castle with a stone tourists can kiss. Be sure to include the requisite ten-Euro photography, and the gingivitis.
6. Saturate with Celtic crosses, graveyards, monasteries without roofs. Did I mention the mist?
7. Raise sheep, cast them beyond the perimeter of your farmlands, and dye them blue. Don't worry, they won't eat all those yellow plants on the countryside.
8. Take pride in your Irish language. The lilting cadences... the great writers (first editions of Dracula and Ulysses below!)... and other things...
9. Take Pulp Fiction to heart. Toss that American measurement out the window (except for the pint!). It's better than a foot massage.
10. Make sure there's an off-duty leprechaun at the end of the rainbow (and in Dublin's Temple Bar).

Or, if that fails, Charlie Chaplin. I hear he's always after yer Lucky Charms.

Does This Play Make Me Look Fat?

Review: Reasons to Be Pretty
Lyceum Theatre, New York
May 31, 2009


Whatever you do, don't call this a "regular" play. The advertising concept above covered subway tunnels and bus stops with what "regular" people didn't like about themselves. With hot pink and a lowercase title, reasons to be pretty (as they prefer it) set out to be an uncompromising look at beauty in this country. Four actors but no stars amid plays starring Geoffrey Rush, Jane Fonda, James Gandolfini. I thought I'd write about the play as it closes this afternoon: not a world-changing piece of theater, but an engaging one with solid, unaffected acting and dialogue that captures a certain type of blue-collar worker just trying to roll along with life day by day, duking it out against the big dogs. Neil LaBute's play has done the same, struggling to get itself heard.

And that's what reasons to be pretty centers on: the beautiful and shiny versus the underdog. Three of the four characters are the little men trying to make ends meet, living on week-by-week paychecks. Greg and Kent work in a cereal factory; Greg's girlfriend Steph in a hair salon. Only Carly, Kent's hot police-officer wife, holds the upper hand in terms of life ambition; oh yeah, and she's a looker. (In a fitting twist of fate, Piper Perabo as Carly was less naturalistic than the others.) See, Carly overhears Greg say his girlfriend has a "regular" face and from her position of power and self-righteousness blabs the word to Steph. That one word shutters a four-year relationship: the ball destined to drop shakes up all the players like a pinball machine seeking revenge.

Steph gets some when, after a tense break-up with Greg over her "regular" face, she reads off a list of his inadequacies in a public food court. Behind the agony of men shifting in their seats is humor: after deriding his nose, his eyes, his kissing, his body, she stops shy of certain anatomy, because "that would be hurtful." At moments LaBute slashes for the jugular, and there were incidents (even on YouTube) of theatergoers audibly incensed. But this is a smart play that aims right for our insecurities. Why, we have to wonder, do we have these hangups? What's wrong with a "regular" face? (The answer: zilch, but it's not that simple.)

Maybe Neil LaBute's getting soft; Steph claims she made up the list. And compared to other LaButes, it's a play of redemption. Greg, given a wonderfully empathetic performance by Thomas Sadowski, decides to make something of his life, while making amends--but not making up with--Steph. (Marin Ireland is quite striking, even physically, as Steph while vacillating wildly on a spectrum of emotions.) It's a man-to-man battle, ultimately, and Steven Pasquale scores as alpha-male, permanent screw-up Kent even if his character doesn't make it past the bullpen. Maybe it's too easy for a break-up from one word, but with one expression comes an abundance of feelings, over-thinking, frustration, fury, self-pity. Greg in the end lets her go, claiming he was just "drifting" for four years. Though true about his factory work, it's a move of self-sacrifice.

The play's existence on Broadway was a sacrifice, too, for investors. Small plays rarely warrant year-long runs in large theaters. But man, isn't it time someone yelled at us, yes, this play does make us look fat? Long live the regular play, with its regular actors and regular dreams of success.

"I'll see you there around eight tonight..."

Live Blogging the 2009 Tony Awards

12:45 "Don't Twitter all my jokes when we're done!" Here's proof that the spontaneous NPH closing number was written beforehand, with the obvious winners (Angela! Liza! three Billys!), and only a few name changes in the middle. Still awesome.

11:03 Neil Patrick Harris sings us farewell. They supposedly wrote this number during the show, but since there were only two surprises, I bet it was done beforehand. (Notice how "Karen won a Tony tonight" could have been anybody.) Hah... "This show could not be gayer / If Liza were named Mayor / And Elton John took flight." And standing on your knees? "That only works to win Golden Globes."

10:59 Who but Liza to bring us home? I think she's eyeing Billy Elliot as her comeback role. She did Fosse dancing once, right? That explains her Banshee screams when Billy won Best Musical. Those three Billys are definitely going to take the day off school tomorrow. It's a pretty good excuse. "Sorry, prof, but I won a Tony last night and then had to go to two after-parties and drink non-alcoholic pina coladas."

Elton just reminded us how much we spent on scalper tickets to his show: "Thank you for opening your wallets."


10:46 David Hyde Pierce knew that Alice Ripley had her name all over Best Actress in a Musical for Next to Normal. Niles-O-Meter: back on the positive side. Whoa, she's passionate. Huge "contribution to the human spirit."

And Audra McDonald, who is amazing, is here to give the three Billys their Best Actor in a Musical. The kid who performed was so excited, he was ready to run up there when their names were read. Hah... first kid has one sister, second has two... and the third ups it to three sisters. If I won a Tony at age 15, I wouldn't be able to form coherent thoughts either.


10:34 Hair performs. Love that they're doing the title song, though the opening lyrics are pretty bad ("Hair that's a fright"). Poor bald guy just got attacked by Will Swenson and his real hair... Anne Hathaway had to settle for Gavin Creel's wig (which, in a show called Hair, doesn't look as flaxen-waxed as you'd think they want). Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Soprano are getting assaulted... you'd think they never left HBO. So much color, so much audience head-rubbing. This is a great Tony performance.

And here comes Kristin Chenoweth, wearing a wig. (She was just jealous.) But it's all good, cause Hair just got Best Revival of a Musical, baby! The producer's hair is as whacked-out as the cast's.

10:29 Oh, good, Angela's back. ("You blow the blues right out of the horn... Angela..." Close enough.) Jerry Herman's receiving his Lifetime Achievement Award for writing catchy, diva-centric showstoppers (and that includes George Hearn on "I Am What I Am"). Hah... "Put on Your Sunday Clothes" is from Hello, Dolly! and also from WALL-E. Wow, and there's old footage of Angela Lansbury in Mame. A nice tribute, and "I Won't Send Roses," amid all the razzmatazz of Jerry Herman, always gets to me with its simplicity.

10:18 Best Revival of a Play: Go Norman Conquests! You bring that British thing you do so well. If only I had 7 hours to kill, that's where I would be.

Best Play: We all knew God of Carnage, with the whole cast nommed, was a lock. Interesting that it's a new show when it's a French play translated into British English, then Americanized. An exhausting evolution. James Gandolfini has a mighty good track record. Ooh, and some producer watched the French Open this afternoon so he could compare the Carnage cast to champion Roger Federer.

10:16 Legally Blonde on tour made Billy Elliot's number now look "so much better."

10:05 How great that Elton John introduced the Billy Elliot number rather than Greg Jbara who just won the Tony for it. (At least they brought the whole Reasons to be Pretty cast to Radio City when only half was nommed.)

Billy Elliot number: Wow, Trent Kowalik is rocking out, if very angry. But hey, it is the "Angry Dance." He also looks much taller than I would have expected. Two shows have now represented themselves with dance rather than song. Not sure it's a good move on Billy Elliot's part. So much yelling and anguish, and more about impressive staging than great work from the kid. With no context, the audience looked perplexed. The voters just asked if they could rescind, and switch to Next to Normal.

Corey says: "I'm whipping out the 'Beaten by Riot Police' dance at my wedding."


9:58 Glad that design awards spread of the wealth (Lighting Design-Play for Equus, Costume Design-Musical for Shrek... and I think Brian d'Arcy James should win the left foot of that Tony for being that giant hunk of green ogre).

Frank Langella is great, but he's talked so long that I forgot the category he's presenting. Oh yeah, Best Actress in a Play. It's either Jane Fonda or Marcia Gay Harden. I'm thinking Harden will squeak it out. Survey says: I win! More importantly, so does Marcia. "I tell my kids every day that bad behavior and tantrums and tears will get them nowhere. I don't know how to explain this." "The play is about marital strife, so I should start by thanking my husband." "I share this with James G., who brings out the worst in me every night." She's a marvel at acceptance speeches. Encore!

9:49 Very classy to quote the late Natasha Richardson, and then to sing "What I Did for Love." Farewell, Bea Arthur, George Furth, Eartha Kitt, Paul Newman, et al... they just dimmed theater lights for you all.

9:44 NPH+Jessica Lange? Kudos on the Jeremy Piven-mercury poisoning bit. And here's Best Actor in a Play: What a category! I only saw Thomas Sadowski and Raul Esparza, who looks genuinely pleased that Geoffrey Rush just won. (Unlike when David Hyde Pierce stole his Tony for Company. Boo Niles.) Rush's speech is amazing, making everything French. If only there were room for Bill Irwin and maybe even Nathan Lane from Waiting for Godot (and what about Dan Radcliffe?), this would have been an even sexier match. Rush had it in the bag the whole time. Character actor in films, but a star on Broadway. Who else would think to salute his new Tony with a Glo-stick?

9:35 Why can't they better mike Alice Ripley, future Tony winner? She got a little behind the orchestra, but she recovered. I think they're accidentally performing on the West Side set... chain-link fences, ladders around the stage, all that red... Good thing they're showcasing Ripley and J. Robert Spencer, but what about nommed Jennifer Damiano? That can't be her in that muscle T. What an odd choice for national TV; I have no idea what that show's about. And they admit it, a lot: "You don't know!"

9:32 Best Featured Actress in a Musical. Vote's on Haydn Gwynne (the Billy train). Whoa... Karen Olivo just sashayed her way to that Tony, for Anita. Oddly, again, Chita Rivera wasn't even nommed for the original production of West Side Story. Second surprise of the night, after N2N got Best Score.

Hah, Carrie Fisher's presenting about a show about manic depression. The Tonys rock.

9:30 Best Featured Actor in a Musical. Tough category; my vote's on Greg Jbara. And he gets it. Adorable/a little strange that he's brought his wife up on stage with him, but good for him. He was hilarious in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (and oddly the only lead who wasn't nommed that year). But sing Elton John, and start engraving that statue today.

9:27 Sneak peek of Brian Stokes Mitchell and Laura Benanti from the pre-show. Can Stokes come back to Broadway in a revival of Ragtime? Can we throw in the entire original cast?

9:23 Connie says: "So no believing and no rocking the boat for Josh." I am striking out on gerunds tonight. Good thing nobody's singing "Being Alive."

9:17 Wait, why is Oliver Platt (aka Nathan Detroit) not in the mission for "Sit Down"? Oh, Tituss Burgess, so uncomfortable. Did you just forget the words (understandably, with mike defects)? Here's what I'm seeing: a tenor in a fat suit, for no good reason; really bizarre projections of Heaven (so different than this revival, sadly); too much pushing for humor, like the "whiskey" joke.

Whoa, sit down, but raise the key, Tituss! And here comes the part Frank Loesser, musical genius, didn't write. (This is just what they "revised" "Brotherhood of Man" to be in H2$.) Holy mother, Mary Testa just scared me. And the ending kind of pittered out, because nobody knew what in the Hell (or what in the new revival of G&D... take your pick) just happened.

9:13 All the odds are in Liza's favor. Maybe this time, she'll win... and look, there's her Special Theatrical Event Tony. Just don't cut her off Elaine Stritch-style! She's absolutely crazy: "We were horrible. We were the pits." Another shout-out to Judy, from her daughter this time.

9:09 Guys and Dolls next. Great, they're going to ruin "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat." Go watch the 1992 revival with Nathan Lane to see how it's done, people.

9:03 Rock of Ages sings: "I'm no Andrew Lloyd Sondheim." Wow, is Liza a great sport (a "freak machine")! No. No. The coolness of the Glo-sticks has been eclipsed. Is Journey so ubiquitous that it's sung now on the Tonys? I just stopped believin'. Maybe James Gandolfini will cut it short--and will he live to tell about it? (Does anyone remember Constantine, btw?)

9:01 Stephen Daldry has been nommed for three Oscars (Billy Elliot, The Hours, The Reader), two of which were deserving. So it's only right that he gets another Tony for Best Direction of a Musical--Billy. Did he just forget the names of his cast? To be fair, they got seven noms for five roles, including three Billys, all in one musical. Talk about prime* material. (*My only math joke of the night!)

8:59 Best Direction of a Play. I predict Matthew Warchus for God of Carnage... and I am right! (What a season for him, also with the 7-hour Norman Conquests.) "I was hoping for another tie, actually." He's hilarious. "Marital mayhem in New York." Can we keep him on this side of the Atlantic?


8:50 Is it so difficult to film a group number adequately? Okay, now it's better halfway through, when Tony and Maria eye each other. New touch: the near-kiss when they meet. We can see now why Josefina Scaglione, so sweet and sincere, was nommed (oops, not for that last note), and why Matt Cavenaugh is awkward as a "gang leader" with a Kennedy-esque accent.

8:47 So why did Lin-Manuel Miranda not present Best Score? Oh, cause he's doing his bilingual Sondheim revision for West Side Story. Except nobody's going to sing in English or Spanish in their chosen number, "Dance at the Gym." And, like every other ensemble song tonight, nobody will be miked!

8:42 Excerpts from the nominated plays? You don't say? It's like the Tonys are recognizing how strong a year 2009 was for non-musicals in New York. Well, okay, 33 Variations got less than 33 seconds, so maybe the recognition isn't so high. At least Will Ferrell is here to bring in another 15 households (doesn't he look old?). And why oh why was Best Book presented off-camera? It's like we don't care about writers of words!

Best Score will determine if Next to Normal has a chance against the Billy juggernaut. The answer... Next to Normal! (The "better" show, as in past years, usually takes Score away from the "Best Musical". The Light in the Piazza won Score when Spamalot took the top prize; Urinetown got score over Thoroughly Modern Millie; Ragtime over The Lion King.) The night just got interesting.

8:30 Shrek's sitting right behind Angela. And she just won Best Featured Actress in a Play. Five Tony Awards for Angela Lansbury! And she's crying, and everyone stood. Please let her talk for an hour! "Who knew?" We all knew that you were an inspiring actress, Ms. Lansbury. "Well, you know how I feel..." She's such a class act. It can only go downhill from here tonight. ("Dancing Queen" played her off... could they be referring to her?)

8:25 The Shrek five minutes: Love Brian d'Arcy James. Shame the three Billys will steal his Tony. First Liza, now a Judy Garland reference (with Lord Farquaad's red shoes). His short costume is mighty impressive; I take it bathroom breaks are ruled out. So basically, we've learned that Shrek is yet one more self-referential musical in the vein of Spamalot/Dirty Rotten Scoundrels/Urinetown/Young Frankenstein. Good news: most of the people watching probably got the Wicked reference.

Yes, Neil, Obama Mia! would probably be a better show. Can Meryl play Michelle? Think of the money money money.

8:17 Roger Robinson wins the first award of the night for Joe Turner's Come and Gone. You know, that play the Obamas saw that closed down 44th Street last Sunday. He's supposed to be fantastic, as Best Featured Actor in a Play. Oh, and Bartlett Sher directed, which I didn't realize. He is responsible for The Light in the Piazza and South Pacific, so he's good in my book.

8:13 Glad they're acknowledging Plays and Musicals together with two giant marquees. Ooh, and 13 minutes in, we got a risque joke from host Neil Patrick Harris. [Update: Turns out the "headbanging" joke was actually about Bret Michaels smacking his head into the set. My bad. His bad, too.] Score two with self-deprecation ("And that's why I'm your host tonight," referring to the uber-expensive opening).

Question, though, NPH: is James Gandolfini really in the movies?

8:08 "Sometimes you're happy, sometimes you're sad." Sounds like Liza's life... and boy, does she sell it. More with spirits than with diction. Aww, someone invited Anne Hathaway. And now the gonna-win revival of Hair. "Let the Sunshine In" actually makes you cry in the show. Crazy thought: why couldn't Liza stick around to belt it out with her fellow '60s hippies? She'd fit right in. Oh, wait, there she is!

8:05 Stockard Channing walks on stage, and sort of finds the key, and everyone applauds because she's... whoa, she's seducing Aaron Tveit from Next to Normal, who is now very bewitched, bothered, and bewildered (mostly at the shoehorning of Rodgers-Hart into pop-rock). Hey, look, a Les Miz parody from the cast of Shrek. With this opening medley, the audience probably thinks Les Miz is a revival on Broadway right now, too.

Look at Allison Janney's I'm-the-best-part-of-9 to 5 face.

8:00 Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night... but the night that loses CBS a lot of ratings, like every year. Oooh, we start with Billy Elliot... and a poor miking job on Superstar Elton John (that's his official registered name now). I bet Dolly will appear soon, to lure in Middle America. Because Middle America loves boys who do ballet while gay men serenade them.

And Elton can no longer sing. But look, the Sharks are singing in Spanish! (What's up with the terrible miking? Somebody just got fired at Radio City.) Good song choices so far, though. If the "regular" audience will know anything, it's West Side Story and Guys and Dolls. Why didn't West Side choose the Quintet for their primary number? And why did Craig Bierko join the Jets there, when he's in a different show?

7:45 The pre-show opened on a tie between Billy Elliot and Next to Normal for Best Orchestrations. I haven't seen either, but variety is the spice of life, and a sweep by a trio of little dancer boys isn't desirable.

My first attempt at a live blog. Yes, the New York Times is following the Tonys, too, but with the Off-Broadway critic at the keyboard. Sensible?

It's Pronounced "GOD-oh"

Review: Waiting for Godot
Studio 54, New York
May 30, 2009

"Nothing to be done," Estragon (Nathan Lane) says when the curtain rises--well, after the obligatory look-it's-Nathan-Lane applause. He tugs, discouraged, to remove the shoe from his foot, and the resolution seems like it will never come. While it finally does, we hold our breath from the outset, waiting for something, and knowing--the time for spoilers has long passed--that it will not arrive.

The "it" is Godot, maybe an important man, but no more than a McGuffin in Samuel Beckett's "tragicomedy" (his word). Beckett deliberately evades meaning in his most recognized play, hiding any clue from the audience as to why these men need Godot, or who they even are. Old friends they are indeed, clowns from the vaudeville circuit who trade barbs on existential turf. The stage at Studio 54 was adorned with desolation: not just a country road, but a mountain pass with overbearing rocks into which the playing area has been carved out. As the script--and destiny--requires, there is one solitary tree, blossoming over the evening from a corpse to a nurturing Earth Mother, revived with leaves and shade for the actors.


All the world is a stage, and the quartet of men (plus one little boy) recognize they are presenting to an audience without disrupting the fourth wall. While Nathan Lane hams it up like a Borscht Belt wisecracker, Bill Irwin (Vladimir) matches him with befuddled insights, high-minded but impenetrable epiphanies, turns of phrase that tickle rather than cudgel. That they are not the perfect yin for each other's yang isn't really a drawback. Amid the one-liners, the emptiness resounds. These men are lost, toppling over boulders and the malapropisms on their tongue. The comedy isn't healing but isolating: Vladimir winces at his groin pain every time the laughs fly too freely.

So, on an existential note, why do we allow ourselves to be entertained by Godot only to realize it's half a sham? Even at the end, these characters have learned but have neither accepted nor acted: "Let's go" induces hand-holding rather than walking away. It's as if we have entered either limbo or purgatory, where the innocent float along with the monsters (such as Pozzo, played to the hilt by an excellent, sadly not Tony-nominated John Goodman). Lucky, Pozzo's slave (John Glover), must take his words where he can, and so he regurgitates a learned progression of phrases, snarling at every syllable, salivating down his dusty tunic as a Joycean stream of un-consciousness flows from his mouth. Pozzo, on the other hand, contents himself with the comforts of sitting and lording over all around him. The funniest image I've seen recently is of Goodman, overcome with exhaustion, flopping on the ground like a beached whale. In that moment, even Pozzo is as vulnerable as the other men.

No man wins against nature, and no man can fully control his own circumstances. There may be hope in the end, but Vladimir and Estragon look as if they still await it. You may wonder, if you ever see Godot, whether you've really seen it or if it's still out of reach.

What a Piece of Work Is Man

Review: Hair
Al Hirschfeld Theatre, New York
May 30, 2009

Last Saturday, I sat down in the "be-in" box at the Al Hirschfeld (maybe my favorite Broadway theater, filled as it is with caricatures of that stage's ghosts). On the aisle, I was exposed to potential interaction with cast members. I didn't know yet a hippie would pat me on the head, thanking me for already being stoned. I didn't realize we'd be ushered onto the stage at curtain call, to wave our arms as the band rocked out to "Let the Sunshine In."

But at this matinee, the sun indeed shone in, and not just because of the latecomers. What lasts about Hair, a loose amalgam of neuroses and rebellion and 1960s revolution that no longer shocks, is the spirit of community. Our audience, before jumping up on the stage floor and jiving with Gavin Creel and Will Swenson, grew bonded to the Tribe and their raucous innocence. I was surprised that, with time taming the beast that is Hair, it remains an incredibly earnest vehicle, especially in the females' songs, "Frank Mills" and "Easy to Be Hard" (remember the Three Dog Night cover?).

Gavin Creel portrays Claude, the only individual in a show where the Tribe lives and breathes as one shapeshifting character, with all the sweetness and uncertainty of any of us, searching around (and without being too angsty!), seeking that distant Something More that doesn't seem to come from either Free Love or War. In such a presentational musical, the ending still stings for its lack of showiness: the whole company bonds together, watching one of them sent off to battle and knowing they won't return. The power of musicals like Hair, much like its World War II predecessors South Pacific and On the Town, is that all the robust jubilance of life remains at the forefront without selling short the imminent danger or the undying question of where we go.

Forget Your Troubles

Post #60, and I'm back after a month on hiatus. My plan: 15 posts for June (every other day, i.e.). So keep tuning in!

I stopped by New York this weekend, took in some theater, won the Hair lottery, and regained my appetite after a week of stomach pain. They've started something new in Times Square. Behold the pedestrian plaza, a.k.a. greater swarms of tourists. A very European concept, but done on the cheap so far. The green chairs above, I will say, were the most comfortable that I tried... and there are enough options that you could probably color-coordinate your clothes.

Note how the chairs in each block-long section of seating space have been segregated by color and style. At least the boy and girl chairs above are allowed to mingle.

This traffic cop's keeping those rowdy street-sitting slackers in check.

And just think: a mere row of orange cones separates the sitting-pretty from a torrent of Red Bull-fueled, cologne-reeking, New York-talking, harangue-spewing cab drivers pissed about the rerouting of Broadway.

Naturally, the cones also make nice chairs.

Feeling young and spry? Try a wheelbarrow for your own personal comfort on 46th Street. But only the red ones here... the other colors are confined to the other side of the street, under the CNN news scroll and the Come See Phantom Before It Never Closes poster.

Happy days are here again. The skies are clear again.

Speaking of which (train of thought: Barbra Streisand, Democrat, the Obamas), the president and first lady were in town to see Joe Turner's Come and Gone, and I left just before they arrived with their entourage. Which is fine, because apparently 44th Street was entirely closed off unless you had a theater ticket.

I end this photo essay on 44th, though, with a different celebrity sighting. I was strolling thirty minutes before the Sunday matinee and found myself on my phone right next to Christine Ebersole at her stage door.