Great Moments in New York Theater: The Kid

I know who Dan Savage is. I don’t read his column. I don’t even know where it is published. I don’t read it because I know that I am not smart enough for the political part of it and I know that I don’t need any advice on sex or relationships. I know who he is, I have read some of his writings, I think he is smart and I respect him. That would not, though, have been enough for me to, blindly, choose to see a piece of theater based on a book he wrote. Off-Broadway theaters do (sadly) not get a lot of press. Oftentimes shows open and close without my having heard of them and weeks, months, years later I hear of their existence and ask “now why didn’t I see that?” It makes me so mad, sometimes. I do not, though, have the time to read all the theatrical listings that can guide me into an off-Broadway theater, even though these are the theaters where I have had some of my best experiences as an audience member. Happily, I make a habit of taking regular strolls down to Theater Row on 42nd Street to see what is showing there. A few weeks ago I saw a poster with Christopher Sieber’s face on it. THE KID. I don’t know what this is. I read the poster and said “I will see this.” Christopher Sieber is enough to get me into a theater but this cast also featured Ann Harada, Tyler Maynard and a lady whom I happen to adore: Miss Jill Eikenberry. THAT is reason enough for me to buy a ticket and see a show about which I know absolutely nothing. So I didn’t research the show. I simply looked at my calendar to see when my husband and I had a mutually schedule-able time to go see this new work. That was the tough part, between his job, my travel, our travel and every other thing that demands our attention. It was with great good fortune that we scored two seats during the final week of the run of the show. That was two nights ago.

The day of the show, it was a harrowing day that featured one bad thing after another, the first of which was having a really bad cold that made me cranky and unbearable. Never. The. Less. We dressed and hit the bricks to Theater Row for the seven o’clock curtain, in spite of Pat’s insistence that we stay home because I was sick. Boy, howdy, were we happy we followed my best instincts and got our bumms in those seats.

I love new musicals. Correction: I LOVE new musicals. Don’t get me wrong – revivals are an essential part of theatrical culture; revues are fun and entertaining, dance shows are full of excitement and beauty, jukebox musicals can be good… can be bad. The sad and honest truth is that I have been extremely disappointed in the (general) level of quality of new musical theater in this town, this day, this age. I won’t name names. I am, though, fed to the teeth with people deciding that it is a good idea to take a movie, a tv show, a cartoon strip, a body of work and turn it into a stage musical. I miss the old days when people were making new works for our beautiful musical theater actors to perform. I think back when people were creating either completely new musical stories or taking their inspirations from literary works. Green Grow the Lilacs became Oklahoma. Pygmalion became My Fair Lady. Show Boat stayed Show Boat. It gives new musicals a strong foundation, a stronger one than, say, a second string summer movie would (and NO, I am not talking about 9 to 5 – I happened to really enjoy that musical). When you create a musical out of a work of literature, your roots are already starting out with an artistic road map, one that has been tested on the (sometimes finicky) members of the literati. It’s a good place to start.

That is why THE KID succeeds as a new musical. Well. It’s one of the reasons it succeeds. The other reasons are just plain good writing on the parts of the playwright, the lyricist and the composer. These three people all did their jobs well, leaving the director with a product he could trust, allowing him the luxury of focusing on the work of his wonderful cast. And when I say wonderful, I mean, superwonderful. Each and every person in this show was a joy to watch, many of them for completely different reasons, be it impeccable comic timing, a strong sense of sincerity, vocal abilities like a crystal bell on a Christmas morning, a performance so honest and real that it seemed like the actor was really just someone who wandered in through the stage door. These performers, showcasing the words and music of such gifted artists, brought Dan Savage’s book (and real life!) to audiences who, deeply and genuinely, appreciated it (at least the night I saw it, they did). How about that. A new musical off-Broadway. And a really good one. Yee Haw.

THE KID will remain one of the great moments of theater on the New York stage for me because of more than just the overall enjoyment of the show and the cast. Christopher Sieber is a particular favourite of mine and he has been since the moment I first saw him in TRIUMPH OF LOVE (one of my favourite shows ever and the topic of one of my upcoming stories). He is a beautiful actor with inimitable comic timing that he has been showing off in REALLY BIG roles lately. Tony nominations for SPAMALOT and SHREK are google-able indications of how great his comic timing is. Those are really broad shows, though, and THE KID is not. With THE KID, Christopher was able to remind everyone of how versatile his talent is. He is completely contained, deliciously funny, overflowing with pathos, heartwarmingly honest in his performance. He had me in the palm of his hand, the entire time. And then, of course, there is that singing voice, the one that makes him one of my favourite Broadway boy singers (the others, for the record are Brian d’arcy James and Cheyenne Jackson). His work in THE KID is, simply, unforgettable.

As is the luminous Miss Eikenberry; and one moment in particular….

I was so excited to, finally, see Miss Eikenberry onstage. I wish, so much, that she worked more often. I don’t know if she only works when she wants to, by choice, or if it is true what they say and that nobody is creating roles for women of a certain age; but let me tell you – she looks exactly the same as she did when we were all watching her on LA LAW. Correction: she looks better. She looked more beautiful, more radiant, more sexy on that stage two nights ago than I had remembered. And she had a masterful control of the stage and of her character. SHE had EVERYONE in the palm of HER hand. I think everyone in the audience was as thrilled to be seeing her as I was. How lucky for all of us.

In the second act, Jill Eikenberry’s character (Dan’s mother) has a musical number in which she sings about knowing her son was gay when he, at a pre-pubescent age, saw the film Bedknobs and Broomsticks three days in a row, then put on her shawl and shoes and pretended to be Angela Lansbury. I think it would be a safe bet to say that Dan’s mother is not the only mother in the world to have been clued in in this exact same way. I say this because I, like Dan, did the exact same thing. So did my husband. I am sure many other pre-teen gay boys did it, too. This night, though, was especially moving for me because, during this song, Pat began to cry. He continued to cry until the end of the play. You see, it was as though he were watching his late mother up on that stage. Jill Eikenberry, singing that song, became the image of Sue Dwyer, recounting the exact same story of when Pat saw Bedknobs and Broomsticks and wanted to be Angela Lansbury (hell, certain days of the week I STILL want to be Angela Lansbury). It’s been a few years since my mother in law was recalled after a six year battle with breast cancer and I miss her every day; imagine how Pat feels and what it was like watching Jill Eikenberry become the image of her, singing about that time she caught Pat trying to fly on her kitchen broom. I understood why he was crying and sat in the darkened theater, our faces illuminated by the stage lights and our eyes illuminated by tears, being moved from our daily lives into a more special, more theatrical, more magical life, for the time that we sat in those seats.

This is why I love live theater and why I love living in New York. Where else could I observe my husband being moved by so special a night of theater and so delectable a cast of gorgeous and gifted artists? Oh, I am sure that, if we lived in London, it would be exciting to see a Redgrave or a Smith or a Dench; if we lived in San Francisco or Chicago there would, surely, be many chances to see actors (local or in from out of town) that would transport us to another place and mood. For Two plus hours on Tuesday night, though, it was a Sieber and an Eikenberry and a Blackwell (Susan, who Pat ADORES) who made magic for us.

And we never forget the magic.

The Yin and the Yang

A few years ago I was doing a Facebook game. It was one of those ‘get to know your friends’ surveys that we all used to send out. I had a group of friends with whom I did these surveys; sometimes there were 10 questions, sometimes there were 50. A lot of people hate them; my friends and I, we happened to love them. So we did them. There was a question about what my dream job would be. My answer was that I have already done most of my dream jobs and that, now, what I really wish was that I could be Dudley in the film The Bishop’s Wife. Dudley was an angel who went around earth helping people. That seemed to me to be a really great job, one that was right up my alley. Maybe that’s why I was such a fan of the tv show Touched By An Angel. I don’t think one has to be a religious person to believe in angels; I think angels can take any form, be it ethereal or plain old real. There are angels among us and I wanted to be one.

I have spent my life trying to help people. I like it. I require nothing in return; I only want to be able to do it – to help people. So that is what I do. I help out, when I can, when I am asked or, even, when I am not; sometimes I get it right and others, I don’t. I’m human. I do the best I can.

Last week I was in the Westerly to pick up some Aloe Vera juice. I stopped, as is my custom, at their wonderful bulk bar to see if there was anything I either needed or wanted. A tall, elegant, well dressed lady with shoulder length strawberry blonde hair said something to me. I had my headphones in but I was only listening to some quiet music by John Barry, so I was aware that she had spoken. I took out the headphones and asked her to repeat herself. She wanted to know if I worked in the store. No but I was happy to help her find what she sought. A woman in her late 60’s she was having, clearly, trouble seeing the labels on the bins. She told me there was this green seed she buys and cannot remember what it is… You’re looking for Pumpkin Seeds; they’re right over here; and we walked round and I helped her fill a bag and label it for the check out clerk. You should work here, said she and I said no, I don’t want to work here. Why? Because I like shopping here – once you do something you like for money, you run the risk that you will stop liking it. Well then, what do you do, she wanted to know. I paused. I didn’t really know what to say. I used to say “I don’t really work” because I am currently without career; but someone in my family asked me to stop saying that because he felt it had a negative feeling about it. Out of respect for his wishes, I complied. The fact of the matter, though, is that I am currently without career. I have failed at every career I have attempted. Tired of failure and tired of trying, I simply stopped trying and focused on what I do best: being a husband and helping people. So, after a moment of thought, I answer her question “What Do you do?” by saying..

“I help people.”

This baffled the elegant lady and she asked for a greater explanation.

“I spend my day helping anyone who asks for help or who appears to need help.”

“How do you support yourself doing that?”

“I don’t.”

She looked at me for a moment and then she said “Oh. I see. You’re an angel.”

“What a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”

I smiled and wished her a good day and went on my way.

I had never thought of it this way but I suppose she had a point. I got my wish. I am my own version of The Bishop’s Wife’s Dudley.

I went home with a smile on my face.

An interesting thing happened to me. A member of my family treated me badly. I know that anyone who knows me or reads what I write knows that when I refer to my family, I am talking about more than my kinfolk. When I talk about my family I am talking about the family I have created. I am devoted to them and they all know that I am there for them, always (with this one exception – I draw the line at welcoming crystal meth addicts into my home; I will take them to a hospital, to a meeting, to their parents but I will not nursemaid crystal meth addicts). This particular member of my family is someone I have loved, deeply, and done for, repeatedly, with joy and without expectancy of return. Recently I did something nice for my family member and he responded in a mean-spirited way that hurt my feelings and confused me. Now… I have learned a lot about myself over the years and one of my greatest lessons is that, when I feel hurt or attacked, it is best for me to roll over and play dead. I have lost a number of important relationships with people I love for fighting back; you see, I don’t like to fight, especially with my loved ones. If, however, I am hurt or feel attacked, I will fight back with everything I’ve got, including unfair weaponry, and I will fight to win; and winning almost always comes at the cost of the relationship. I love this person and I wasn’t willing to fight. So I responded to some snarky text messages with a simple “I apologize” which went unacknowledged for ten days. So I went on with my life. I went to Disneyland and a fairy tale wedding and I took on the next set of challenges from the people who need my help. Then came this email, drudging up this horrible mess involving an idiotic misunderstanding – and it was a pretty lengthy email that hit my in box late at night on a night that I was fighting a cold (and sickness makes me uber cranky and hyper sensitive). I chose to reply with as few words as possible because email fighting is dangerous, so, so dangerous. It lead to a series of lengthy and ugly emails ( in which I pointed out, without success, that email fighting is dangerous and we should get on the phone ) and culminated in an appointment to return all of each others’ belongings and call it a day. It was an upsetting and unnecessary situation. Happily, we both stepped out of the panic room and the final epic email from my friend started with “I’m coming over to say I’m sorry”. I read no further. I picked up the phone and called and the fifteen minutes we spent talking were filled with tears and apologies and explanations and admonishments and a pact to never email fight again. We agreed that if anything like this ever comes up again, we will get on the phone or get in each others’ faces and fight the way loved ones do: in person, the better and faster to kiss and make up. I told him – I don’t fight with my loved ones. He told me – I do. We understand each other better now and we are closer and there is the happy ending and the soul growth.

It got me thinking, though. And maybe that is the cosmic reason that it happened. So that I would think. And what I am thinking about is this:

“We only hurt the ones we love.”

Who, among us, has not heard or used that saying? It has become a part of our lexicon, so oft used that it is with rare occasion that any of us stop to think about it. We only hurt the ones we love. Stop and think about it. Now answer this simple question? Why? Why would we hurt someone that we love? And why would we hurt that or those person or people, exclusively? What a sad commentary it is on humanity that, not only do we hurt the ones we love, we ONLY hurt the ones we love. Why do you suppose that is? Is it because we tend to believe that, because we love each other, that that person will hang around after being hurt? Do we believe that they will forgive us, just as we forgive our loved ones after they have hurt us? Is it because love is meant to override any feelings of anger or betrayal, that we believe that we have the ability, indeed, the right to commit these crimes against the people we love and who love us? I think it is because we individuals give our loved ones, give each other, the power and the ammunition with which to hurt us. We put our faith and our stock in these people, believing (or perhaps hoping) that this time, that this person, will be the one where we don’t get hurt. We fall in love romantically, spiritually, intellectually, platonically and we are certain that, just because we would never hurt our loved ones, they will never hurt us. We let down our guards, we let people in, we show them our weaknesses, our vulnerabilities, our Achilles Heel because we know that we and our fallibilities are safe with them. Human nature, though, leads us to seek power; and once someone knows (be it subconsciously or with clarity of mind and purpose) where to strike, humans will strike. Once someone knows how to hurt us, they will do it; and they will do it as often as they can. Anything for power. I am not saying that people act with malice, always – it is often an instinct, a reflex; I am not saying that people intend to hurt us, always – only that people get hurt. We give our loved ones the weaponry and they use it. We expect them to not use it and they expect us to forgive. And then we work that street from the opposite angle and we become the attackers and they, the victims. They hurt us and we forgive; and we hurt them and they forgive – and the circle remains unbroken.

With our loved ones.

It is a different story with strangers. Isn’t it? We are all so conscious of the strangers, of the people we don’t know, intimately or at all, when it comes to not being cruel. Consider the song Easy To Be Hard from the musical HAIR:

How can people be so heartless, How can people be so cruel, Easy to be hard, Easy to be cold. How can people have no feelings, How can they ignore their friends, Easy to be proud, Easy to say no. And especially people, Who care about strangers. Who care about evil, And social injustice, Do you only, Care about the bleeding crowd? How about a needing friend? I need a friend

We donate our time and energy, our money and resources to charities to help the poor, the sick, the hungry, the planet, the animals… and yet we often don’t take the time out to sit with a friend in crisis and tell them “you are not alone; I will not leave you: There is no chance of leaving that person because, so often, we aren’t even there to begin with. Why are the strangers more deserving of our charity, our kindness, our dignity, our respect? Think about Blanche Dubois, the original champion of the benefits to be gained from associations with strangers. This fragile creature is treated to repeated unkindnesses and indignities at the hands of her brother in law, her suitor, even her sister; and yet she is treated with loving gentility by a newspaper boy and by a doctor. What about Buddy and Sook in Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory? They bake two dozen fruitcakes to mail to strangers or to people whose acquaintance with them has been, greatly, brief.

“Who are our cakes for? Friends. Not necessarily neighbour friends… Indeed, the larger share are intended for persons we’ve met maybe once, not at all….” “Is it because my friend is shy with everyone except strangers that these strangers and merest acquaintances seem to us our truest friends? I think yes.”

We’ve all heard about “the comfort of strangers”. It’s talked about in books and movies and general conversation. In the film Living Out Loud Holly Hunter mentions that it’s funny, the things you can tell a stranger that you can’t tell your friends. There is safety in anonymity. These strangers that we encounter cannot hurt us. We have no investment in a personal relationship with them…so how could they? Think about the play (and subsequent movie) Nuts, in which the main character says

“It hurts less to sell yourself to strangers.”

I suppose we could all attempt to be like that character in Nuts or like my fictional idols like Jason Bourne and James Bond – we could all try to be cold and impenetrable. But then we wouldn’t be humans. It is our instinct to love and to desire love. That is one of our many instincts, as humans. It is probably our strongest instinct. I know it is mine. I’ve tried to be implacable like Bourne and Bond but it isn’t truly me and, eventually, I seep out through the seams of a made up character, one made up to protect me from pain. I’ve been hurt a lot in this life; so much that I don’t really like people anymore and I certainly don’t trust them – especially my loved ones, once they have hurt me. I am saddened by this fact but I am also quite a realist and I recognize my baggage. I don’t trust people who can me – not anymore. I’ve learned that lesson, mentioned above: once people know how to hurt you, they do it all the time. So it’s hard for me to fight with my loved ones and I try not to. If a fight ensues, I try to forgive. Still. Forgetting is not so easy. Trusting again is not so easy. Sadly, and irritatingly, I go back, eventually, to lowering my guard and letting people in. It is my nature. It is my instinct.

I cannot allow my past to stop me from continuing my work as an angel. And without an inherent trust, that work as an angel becomes impossible. Without that work, without that role, I cease to be myself. That is the cycle of my life. Help. Trust. Hurt. Love. Forgive.

There is no happiness without peace; and no peace without forgiveness.

Great Moments in New York Theater: The Rose Tattoo

Sometimes you see something in a play that you never forget in your life. Maybe the entire play, itself, doesn’t stay with you – but that moment stays with you forever. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s a couple of moments, a mood, a memory that makes it stick around. For me, The Rose Tattoo was just such a night.

I never saw this play before; neither did I see the film (even though I am a fan of Tennessee Williams’ work). So when I walked into the Circle in the Square theater, I walked in blind. I had no preconceived notions based on a previous knowledge of the story. I only knew that I was going to see two of my favourite actors, two of the great actors of the time. I had loved Anthony LaPaglia since his first movie (which remains one of those movies I watch on dvd something like six times a year), BETSY’S WEDDING and I don’t remember what my first Mercedes Ruehl movie was (I think it was BIG) but I have been a die-hard fan since. All I knew was that I was seeing a classic play starring Ruehl and LaPaglia. That was enough.

I must admit that I have not spent a lot of time thinking about this play. I remember the basic premise and I remember that I enjoyed the play itself ( always drawn to the poetry of this playwright ) but that is it. What I remember, specifically, was that Mercedes and Anthony were simply marvelous in the show. Exemplary talents on their own, together they created a chemistry so dynamic that it became mesmerizing. Oftentimes it felt as though we, the audience were actually watching through a window as a real-life couple went about the conversational moments of their day. I loved watching them. I just loved them, especially in a moment that brought out their humanity and the folly of being a stage actor. That moment came in the final scene when an actual live goat was brought onstage to be chased around; and it was during that chase that the animal relieved itself on the stage. Little goat pellets were everywhere and Merceds Ruehl did this sort of don’t-step-in-the poop! dance that had she, Anthony and the audience enjoying peals of laughter. It added, immensely, to a wonderful and exhilarating night at the theater.

The moment, though, that haunts me (almost every day, too) was the start of the play. We were sitting in our seats reading our playbills. The lights began to dim and everyone settled in, straightening up their backs, so as to get the best view possible. We sat for a few moments in the dark. Music began. The music was this other-worldly phantom of a melody, so rich as to be nothing more than a dream. A few notes into the tune, a shaft of amber light began to illuminate the silhouette of Serafina (Mercedes Ruehl), standing at full mast in a red dress, her back arched and her chin lifted, as she gazed into the heavens and fanned her face with an elegant yet ordinary fan. The music continued to grow and swell around her and the movement of the fan as the lights came up on the rest of the stage. Music, fan, Serafina, louder, swollen, ethereal. It was an opening worthy of live theater. It captured my attention and kept me in my seat until the end of the play. The music and the vision haunted me the rest of the day, the rest of the week and the rest of my life.

I had an opportunity to ask my friend Elizabeth Rouse, who was in the play, if she would find out what that music was. I was ashamed when she told me. An avid collector of motion picture instrumental scores on vinyl (and then, cd) since my teens, I had no idea of the brilliance of the score to The Mission. The song was The Falls. This production introduced me to the song, the score and the work of Ennio Morricone, who would become one of my favourite composers. I listen to his music a lot of the time and, particularly, to The Falls. To that end, The Rose Tattoo changed my life and made it better.

I will never forget those opening moments of the play. They are, forever, burned in my memory.



Click here to hear THE FALLS:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIMwEFAEld0

Great Moments in New York Theater: My First Time

The first in my series about my most memorable, my most favourite moments sitting in the seats of the theaters of New York was about my most recent experience. It seems only right that, today, I go back almost 30 years to my very first Broadway show. Ironically, as I type, I am listening to a song called My First Time that my friend Josh emailed me yesterday; the song was performed at one of the Broadway Cares Equity Fights AIDS benefits and is (as one might guess) about peoples’ first Broadway shows.

I remember, still, that first time. It is, in fact, something that is actually somewhere in my mind every day. I may not, actively, be thinking about it; but it’s there.

I was a teenager (was I fifteen? Sixteen?), living in Switzerland with my family. Each summer the family came home to America for the summer months. We spent one week in New York so that my father could do business, then we traveled to Texas to see relatives and then to California to see relatives. This was my first time in New York and, a show queen since the age of 5, I just had to see a Broadway show. I didn’t dare dream of seeing more than one – I would be happy with just one; but I had to, Had to, HAD to see at least one. I made this clear to my father. The interesting thing is that I was a total mama’s boy and one would expect that this was a conversation I would be having with her. But I was having it with my father. He said yes, I could see a show. Which one, though? He took the time to pick up a New York magazine and read the theater listings and, given his knowledge he knew of me (within the limited capacities of our relationship, as we did not spend a lot of time getting to know each other), he chose the play I would see and told me had chosen it, then he got tickets for my sister and I, as I was too young to go to the theater alone and needed an escort. While she and I would see the play, they would go out to dinner with friends. Everything was arranged.

The Imperial Theater is a very big place. It is a big place to me, now; imagine what it was like for a young teenage boy. It felt like my version of Madison Square Garden, Yankee Stadium, Reunion Arena… Stephanie and I were shown to our seats up in the mezzanine and we sat there, with very little talk, awaiting this musical, the story of which I knew nothing. When the lights dimmed, I stopped breathing and I waited…

They’re Playing Our Song began.

I hear people criticize this musical, often, saying that it is dated and it has no indigenous profundities. Whatevs. Right? That’s what my immediate reaction is to comments like that – and I hear it from a lot of people, a lot of the time, about a lot of different shows. Remember when Barefoot in the Park was revived a few years ago with Jill Clayburgh and Amanda Peet? People said (in their best know-it-all expressions) “it’s so dated!” Well, DUH. It’s a play set in the Sixties. If you take it out of the Sixties it doesn’t make sense. Peoples’ thought processes were different then. I want to see Barefoot in the Park and see how people lived and thought in the Sixties. Why, only today, on Talkin’ Broadway, I read somebody’s comment that Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris has dated really badly. Again: Well, DUH. Honestly, people have no sense of history, no respect for the time machine the American theater gives us, no respect for the artists’ and that their work takes in the lexicon. Happily for me, I do.

They’re Playing Our Song is a Seventies musical. It is light and bright and festive and fun. It is a love story; and who doesn’t love a good love story? The script by Neil Simon is funny and pathos-laden. The songs by Marvin Hamlisch and Carole Bayer Sager are tuneful and sweet. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this play. It is a good, old-fashioned musical comedy and I listen to my cd of this show several times a year and it always makes me happy. I remember, with happiness and delight, how wonderful Robert Klein and Lucie Arnaz were. Naturally, I was especially drawn to Ms Arnaz because I was a gay boy and we always pay more attention to the women in our musicals. Even gay boys who are actors pay more attention to the women, even though they SHOULD be focusing on the men who are playing the parts they will be auditioning for, someday. Watch the women now, get the script and focus on the part later. It’s a well known fact that the boyz have to have their divas. It’s hard not to watch a diva when the diva is Lucie Arnaz. And while one might think that we are watching the diva because she is the daughter of a beloved and legendary actress but the fact of the matter is that Lucie Arnaz’s talent sets her up on a pedestal that is, solely, her own. Begin with the fact that she is beautiful, add to it comic timing that cannot be taught, a sincerity in the quieter scenes that touches the heart, song and dance skills that make you smile and a set of legs that look smashing in a fringe dress and you have a 16 year old boy’s idea of heaven on earth. Miss Arnaz and Mr Klein were perfectly matched in the play and the audience couldn’t help but cheer for them to get together. It was a delightful and wonderful way to spend an evening.

They’re Playing Our Song introduced me to so many wonderful feelings that one can only experience in a theater. It was the first time I sat, watching a live performance, and feeling the energy of shared emotions with total strangers. We all laughed at the same times, we all smiled and bobbed our heads to the same music, we all applauded the same dances. It was my first entr’acet (no overture in this show.. only an entr’acte, which I found nifty (it remains one of my favourite overture/entr’actes, too). I remember how thrilling it was when Vernon and Sonia’s three boys/girls showed up to sing the harmonies they hear when they write the songs they do ( in case anyone reading doesn’t know the show, it is about a male-female songwriting team )… the moment the back-ups appeared thrilled the audience into peals of laughter. What I remember, most of all, though is two things: the instantaneous ovation after Lucie Arnaz finished singing They’re Playing My Song (it was tumultuous!) and the end of Act One. It is so wonderfully written to incorporate the song Just For Tonight, the emotions of the character and the conflict set up just by the ringing of a telephone, Lucie’s look at that phone and then at the audience, a pause for thought and then a run offstage as the orchestra swelled and the curtain fell. It has come to represent one of the most important parts of a night at the theater (and one that is, often, sadly missing): making the audience NEED to come back for Act Two. These two moments are things that I have spent time thinking about, these last 30 years.

They’re Playing Our Song was the perfect introduction to the Broadway stage for me. I wouldn’t have it any other way and I allow nobody’s criticism of the show, in front of me.

And I owe it all to my dad.

The photos in this story are scanned from my souvenir program, which I (clearly) still have, all these years later!

Great Moments in New York Theater: Catherine Zeta-Jones

It’s been some 17 or 18 years that I’ve been living in New York, seeing New York theater, both on and off Broadway; and, before I moved here I had paid a few visits to this magical city, all of which featured many a trip into the show palaces that draw the crowds. Oftentimes, Pat or I are asked by friends to remember some of the greatest moments we’ve spent in these temples of art. It’s fun to reminisce about these trips to the theater, as we are devoted audience members. We go to the theater looking for something to love – and there are a lot of people these days who go to the theater looking to hate. Tch. That’s all I have to say about that. Tch.

I sat in the Walter Kerr Theater yesterday, beside Brady, tears on my face and sniffling (I don’t think Brady would mind my sharing that he was affected in pretty much the same way) as Catherine Zeta-Jones finished singing Send in the Clowns in the current revival of A Little Night Music, the famous musical by Stephen Sondheim. This was the second time Brady and I sat side by side, crying and sniffling as the great star finished the song and the scene. It is a moment in American theater that is so famous that the audience waits for it all night. People who go to the theater when A Little Night Music is playing may enjoy the entire play but when this moment comes up, there is a hush as everyone holds their breath and waits to see how it’s going to go down. This is not a unique phenomenon. Consider Man of LaMancha and The Impossible Dream. Think about A Chorus Line and The Music and The Mirror. How about The King and I and Shall We Dance? Dare I even say it: Cats and Memory. American musical theater is laden with moments like this that audiences await and embrace, breathlessly. However, the three times I have seen the current production of A Little Night Music I have noticed the extreme level of reverence shown by the audience. No secret that theater goers these days do have a bit of difficulty observing theater etiquette; but not at the Walter Kerr. It is not only silent during the scene and the song; it is peaceful. I believe it is partially because people are, genuinely, interested (almost curious) to see and hear how this (one of the most) famous song is going to go down… but I know it is, mostly, because of the performance being given by Catherine Zeta-Jones.

I have seen A Little Night Music before. I have seen regional productions and dvd bootlegs (that I did not make) of productions. I have not, though, been privy to a moment like this; have not been privy to a performance like this.

This is one of the performances I will always remember; one of the performances that I will speak of whenever people say “which performances have left their mark on you?”

Reba McEntire in Annie Get Your Gun…

Antonio Banderas in Nine…

Judith Ivey in The Glass Menagerie…

Cherry Jones in The Heiress…

Donna Murphy in Wonderful Town…

Joanna Gleason in Into the Woods…

Pat and I have our lists. They are, a lot, the same. They can veer off in different directions.

My list has a new addition.

Catherine Zeta-Jones in A Little Night Music.

I did not see Glynis Johns in the original cast of A Little Night Music. I have seen photos, I’ve seen Youtube videos, I’ve heard stories, I’ve read stories. It is a legendary performance – one I did not get to see. I had to walk into the theater to see this production with my mind open. I was going to find MY Desiree Armfeldt. I found my Desiree Armfeldt. I found the woman within the character. To me, Desiree Armfeldt needs to be warm, likable, accessible, all the while being riveting, so beautiful that you can’t look away, yet petulant (as both women and actresses can be) and sexual, not to mention possessing of a perfect balance of strength and vulnerability. She must be a real woman; but she must also be a real star.

I studied theater in college; but not theories, criticisms, philosophies, histories… I studied acting. I’m no theater brain; I am an aesthete. I watch the beauty of the actor, of the performance, and I allow it to move me. I walk into a theater and sit down and say (inside) “go ahead, artists, take me on a ride”. That is what Catherine Zeta-Jones did for me. The first time I saw the show was only a week or so after previews and the entire cast was still finding their way. I blogged about it and said that Miss Zeta-Jones was still finding the “who” of the woman. The second time I saw the show, she had it. Oh, yeah. And it was only a week or so, later – just before Christmas – that Brady and I sat in the fifth row and watched CZJ (as she is called by the chatteratti) give a fully realized performance. That night he and I sighed and wept. Yesterday, he and I sighed and wept. It was more than a fully realized performance; it was an onion. It was layer over layer; it was real, natural, funny, silly, pouty, angry, jealous, tender, affectionate, jaded, hopeful, wise and it was sexy. In the months since this play opened on Broadway, Miss Zeta-Jones has blossomed into the Desiree Armfeldt of which I have always dreamed.

It must be the one the rest of the audience dreamed of, too, because they were all right there with her, the entire time (and this was a matinee audience, remember). Every time she moved, they sighed. Whether she said something funny or simply reacted, facially, to something, they laughed. If she was sad, they were sad. And at that climactic moment when the strings swell and all the instruments are at their highest notes and Desiree and Frederick embrace, the entire audience burst into applause. This was no “And I am telling you I’m not going” or “Shriner’s Ballet” – it was just two people embracing and a theater full of people sighing, grinning ear to ear and applauding them. It is because, for two plus hours, everyone had been thinking how MUCH they wanted these two people to get together. So we were happy when they did. We were invested. And we got our pay-off.

As Brady and I left the theater, we agreed, we said it out loud to each other: “THIS is magical.”

The entire production is wonderful and, natch, the performance turned in by the legendary and luminous Miss Angela Lansbury adds to the magic… but it cannot be denied that the heart of A Little Night Music rests on the audience’s affection for Desiree Armfeldt. Three times I have seen this show and three times the audience loved her.

And so did I.






Please join me as I use future blogs to name some of my other favourite moments on the New York stage.

I did not take the photo of Catherine Zeta-Jones used in this blog. It was scanned from the souvenir program, where photo credit is given to Joan Marcus.