The Picture Down the Hall -- The Jewels in the Crown 6

Some time ago I began a series of postings, showcasing my photography. After a few of these postings, I began a sub series of postings, showing a set of photos I did for a jewelry designer. Like a child who has spotted something shiny, I got distracted from that series and ceased posting the photos, of which I was and am very proud!

Today, I return to the self agrandizing task of showing off (not only) my work, (but also) my loved ones. You see, for this gig, I called upon my prettiest friends and family to pose for me.

The idea was to showcase the jewelry by putting it on models as unclothed as possible. Knowing my family to be a bunch of exhibitionists, I asked and they arrived, ready to disrobe.

In previous postings in this series, I have showed off AJ, Jonathan, Kaitlin, Grace, Laurelle, Peter, Rob, Michael, Jennifer and even myself.

Today I want to showcase the most beautiful face I have ever seen, ever photographed, ever gazed up into, ever loved.

My husband

Great Moments in New York Theater: Kate Burton et al in The Grand Manner

Only this week I was writing about how much I love Kate Burton and how much I love plays. How synchronistic for me to walk into Lincoln Center Theater’s Mitzi Newhouse space last night, sandwiched by Pat and Hunter, where I sighed at the sight of John Arnone’s set for THE GRAND MANNER, A.R. Gurney’s new play about theatrical legend Katharine Cornell. It was extremely fitting that we would be seeing this show together because my husband is a student of the lives and work of historical theatrical figures, pouring over biographies about Moss Hart, Laurette Taylor, Alec Guiness, Tyrone Guthrie (who is purported to be my great uncle, though I have no proof and all of my aged relatives who would know are, now, dead); and, I imagine, after this he will be reading about Kit Cornell (somewhere we have her autograph on a Playbill). And our Hunter has a passion for plays and theatrical history and roles that would suit him. I am determined to see this play produced somewhere with he and Penny Fuller (so is he, frankly). This play had been on our radar since we read about it, while it was in rehearsals. Thank God we kept our eye on it and got tickets before the rather mixed reviews came out and the usual LCT extension didn’t happen; because it was a truly magnificent night at the theater.

Oh, that Arnone set! It sits so beautifully in the Mitzi (one of our favourite spaces), welcoming lovers of the theater into the past for a glimpse at what it was like in the Golden Age of Broadway (I think – I’m never quite sure what the exact years are when people refer to the Golden Age of Broadway; but when the characters in the play talk about the Lunts, Mary Martin and Helen Hayes, it sounds pretty golden to me). From the moment we sat down, I knew we were in for a treat. I mean, let’s look at the cast: Brenda Wehle, Boyd Gaines, Bobby Steggert and Miss Kate Burton. That’s enough. Then you have a lovely A.R. Gurney play about Kit Cornell on a John Arnone set with costumes by Ann Hould-Ward and wigs by Paul Huntley. Well; I knew this may not be everyone’s cup of tea but I also knew that it CERTAINLY was going to be mine and Pat’s.

And I couldn’t have been more right.

I had heard about the reviews. I didn’t read them because, usually, I disagree with the writers of reviews; usually, I prefer to make my own decisions about whether or not I like a play. If I like it (or love it), I blog about it. If I do not like it, I generally tend not to blog about it. Why do I want to spend my valuable time writing negative things about something that isn’t worthy of my time and attention? Besides, there is always going to be someone who does like what I do not; why upset them with my opinions? I reserve that act (almost solely) for criticizing the judges on So You Think You Can Dance. So, bottom line: did not read reviews. I simply waited for my night to see one of my favourite actresses play one of America’s favourite actresses (we are told). The thing is, I understand why people may not have liked The Grand Manner; and I can tell you why, too. That’s right. I have the answers.

I blame Angels in America.

If you think I didn’t enjoy the Kushner epic, you are mistaken. There will be a blog about my experience at the Walter Kerr watching Angels In America with Mr Kushner standing beside me. No. The reason I say that I blame Angels in America is because it changed theater forever. Before that play, there were dramatic works that moved people. Audiences would go to the theater and sit in their chairs and watch a comedy or a drama; they would get involved with the stories, the lives of Willy Loman, Maggie the Cat, Mary Tyrone, Thomas Moore… and when it was over they would say ‘oh isn’t that nice’ and go home. In the sixties and seventies we had Neil Simon making us laugh while the dramatic plays became more socio political, more bent on giving us a message. Up the Down Staircase, Steambath, The Boys in the Band, Wings, were all making statements for the audiences, whether they cared to acknowledge the statements or not. In these days of theatrical growth, when writers were wanting to take more risks and write, frankly, about topics that, before, may have caused worry about making audiences uncomfortable we had the likes of Equus, The Elephant Man, The Shadow Box… plays that were sending audiences home to think. This trend, this ambition, has never stopped. Writers create comedies, dramas, melodramas, musicals – whatever they write, some authors sit down to create a diversion, to tell a story, some sit down to change your life. What changes each individual’s life is up to the individual.

Not with Angels in America. Once that great poet named Kushner introduced audiences to theater than is apocalyptic in the way it changes an individual’s points of view and thought processes…well, that’s all audiences wanted. It’s like the chandelier, the helicopter and the staircase with musicals. Once audiences saw how grand a trip to the musical theater could be, they no longer seemed interested in four people on stools singing Maltby and Shire. Theater has become so expensive that audiences only feel that their investment is worth it if they feel devastated by the two hours in the seats; whether it be emotional devastation or visual.

A.R. Gurney does not devastate.

A.R. Gurney belongs to a group of playwrights who tell stories, who create dialogue that we who talk wish we had thought of while in conversation at a party last Saturday night, who write sentences so poetic that, as you are hearing them, you have to focus on not repeating them inside your head, lest you miss the next line. Now.. I don’t want to speak absolutely because I must admit I have not read all of Mr. Gurney’s plays. I wouldn’t want to insult by intimating that his plays are benign because, for example, I find Sweet Sue to be incredibly complex and thought provoking; and while, on the surface, the play Sylvia may seem like a confection, it is really incredibly profound and terribly, terribly clever. I only wish to say that Mr Gurney writes smart, witty plays that touch the heart and inspire the mind, quietly, without the fanfare of the plays sought out by audiences who need their lives changed. Frankly, I have felt my life changed by Mr Gurney’s work. His words and ideas have, often, made me smile when I didn’t want to, made my heart happier when I was sure it wouldn’t be, again. Even last night, after years of training myself to feel less, to show fewer emotions, to squash the optimism that I find so dangerous in my life, I could not help but to throw back my head and issue forth belly laughs and sighs.

You see, I don’t need Angels in America to change my life.

A.R. Gurney will do just fine.

BUT!

GUESS WHAT!!

I had more than A.R. Gurney last night.

It should, after my recent story about Hedda Gabler, be clear that I am devoted to the great American actress Kate Burton. I have been sickened by the times I have not been able to afford a ticket to a Kate Burton play; but the fact that I got to see this one will feed my artistic soul for years to come. She is luminous (funny, because that is a word used to describe Kit Cornell in the play last night – and it is the word I choose for Kate today) in the part; believable, enjoyable, full of pathos and humour. Kate is like sunlight coming in the living room window; it doesn’t require attention or fanfare to fill the room – it just fills the room, making it brighter. I wanted, desperately, to wait backstage afterward to hug her; but I was afraid she would not remember me, after a ten minute photo shoot fifteen years ago, and that would have been embarrassing in front of Pat and Hunter, and saddening for me. It was best to leave the theater with a smile on my face. I may write her a fan letter, though. After all – that’s what I am: a fan.

Working alongside Kate are these three BEAUTIFUL actors named Brenda Wehle, Boyd Gaines and Bobby Steggert. Not being a reviewer, there is little to no point in my writing about how wonderful they all are. Though Miss Wehle has been preserved on film, most of her work has been on stage and the theater goers who have seen her will know what I am talking about when I say I will remember the name and seek it out in cast announcements, not wishing to miss her work again. Mr Gaines has earned a much deserved reputation (backed up by four Tony awards) for being one of this community’s, one of this country’s, best actors. Like Kate Burton, we flock to his shows whenever finances make it possible. In all these years, I think we have missed Boyd Gaines on the Broadway stage twice.

Then there is Bobby Steggert, playing A.R. Gurney’s alter ego in this fantasy play about an event that sort of happened and sort of happened in his mind. I missed Mr Steggert in Yank (but I hear it is coming to Broadway) but I did see his TREMENDOUS performance in Ragtime (won’t ever forget it) and after that and this lovely night of watching him simply BE, I won’t miss him onstage again. Yeah. He simply walked on the stage and WAS. He existed in every moment. He is that rare thing: magical.

I’m sad that The Grand Manner didn’t get better reviews because I think this type of play, this type of writing, is worth the creation. It is worth the price of a ticket. It is worth the sacrifice of your time, your effort, your money. It is worth it. This play, this author, these characters, these actors, are worthy of being seen. Had the critics who reviewed this show (and may I say that I think that theater reviewers take the word ‘critic’ too much to heart?) walked in the door of the Mitzi Newhouse with more open mindedness and more love in their hearts, they may have seen what I saw.

Maybe those critics need to get laid more often; maybe it would make them more amiable in their theater seats and behind their computer monitors. Or, to quote A.R. Gurney and The Grand Manner’s version of Guthrie McClintic, those critics should “get fucked in the ear”.

I, for one, clearly do not.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Awake and Sing!

Yesterday I named some playwrights whose work, particularly, moved me. One of the names I mentioned was that of great American playwright, Clifford Odets. Sometimes it bothers me that when people talk about the greats they forget to say his name. They mention Miller, O’Neill, Williams, Simon, Hellman… they almost always forget to mention the man who gave us The Country Girl, Golden Boy, Clash by Night and some really stellar other pieces of literature. I wish Clifford Odets were given more due by the people who pay attention to theater and the history of theater. All I can do is say that his work speaks to me and hope that organizations like Lincoln Center Theater will produce revivals of his work.

Happily, when LCT did revive this (probably my favourite of his plays), it won the Tony Award for best revival, hopefully giving the theatrical community an idea that Mr Odets’ work is still a valuable part of the artistic community and, hopefully, inspiring more people to investigate his work.

I don’t want to get into a dissertation about Odets’ work because, after all, I’m not a theatrical historian; I would probably bore with my comments (or exhibit ignorance.. I’m not sure which I fear more). What I want to say is this: I had, until this production, never seen an Odets play onstage; I had only read his words during my college days. Nobody in college or in small theaters in the Dallas Fort Worth area every produced Odets. Since our arrival in New York, the only Odets play to be revived had been The Flowering Peach, starring Eli Wallach (who I believe to be the greatest American actor currently living) and Anne Jackson. Those were particularly lean times for Pat and I and, while the National Actors Theater production was on our radar, we simply did not have the money to see it before it closed after 41 performances. So I waited… I waited twelve years for another Odets play to land on Broadway.

It was worth the wait.

I love play sets. I, especially, love when the set of a play is one set. When there isn’t a lot of scene change work to make demands on the technical crew, the actors have the luxury (and the audience, for that matter) of allowing the text and the action to unfold before you. Lights up on scene one, lights down on scene one; lights up on scene two, lights down on scene two. The action moves, steadily, forward on that wonderful one set. Also, when a play demands only one set, the designer has the opportunity to create a world that sits down and stays there. The only thing missing is, literally, that fourth wall. Think of the wonderful experiences you have had watching characters through that fourth wall! Brighton Beach Memoirs. The Philadelphia Story. The Little Foxes. Burn This. Time Stands Still. A Streetcar Named Desire. Lend Me a Tenor. The Royal Family. A Doll’s House. The Heiress. Separate Tables. All of these plays are plays that I have seen onstage performed on one set; one glorious set, some of which you could simply live on, were it not for the absence of one wall and the presence of an audience of peeping Toms and Janes. The set for the LCT production of Awake and Sing was just such a set. When I saw it for the first time it was exactly what I would have wished for, for a production of this play. The costumes, the lighting, the snow (yeah, there was snow) was all the same: just what I wanted for a production of Odets’ play.

Most of all, though, this was the cast I had waited to see.

I believe that the cosmic purpose I never saw this play produced was because I was waiting for this cast.

Mine has been a Lauren Ambrose house since Pat and I, first, saw her in one of those wonderful, nauseating, hilarious teenage sex comedies – the sort which we both love and aren’t supposed to admit to because we are lofty lovers of artistic accomplishment. The truth is, though, that we love them and we love her. Then there was Mark Ruffalo, one of the great new actors of his generation, whose work we have championed since first becoming aware of him on the Off Broadway stages of New York. We both simply adore him. One of the all time greats was in this show, giving one of those performances that makes you hold your breath whenever she is onstage – that would be Zoe Wanamaker. And Jonathan Hadary. There is very little to say about Jonathan Hadary except for this: Thank God. Thank God he is a member of the acting community and successful enough that we all get to witness his work.

These were the stars of this wonderful production built on a foundation of perfect work from the technical theatrical artisans who put stunning actors in a stellar setting. So you may ask if I was happy getting to see one of my favourite playwrights represented by these worker bees in the busy hive of Broadway. Oh, yes, I was happy. I was thrilled, to be exact. I was, especially, thrilled because my husband doesn’t (or did not) know the work of Clifford Odets before seeing this production. He knew that I loved Odets, so he was interested. Now, after leaning forward in his seat for two hours, marveling at what was on the stage before him, he knows Odets and why I love him. Pat was so taken with the production and the play that he is, now, a fan of Clifford Odets. I did that. I introduced him to Clifford Odets. That makes me proud. It makes me happy.

What made me happiest, though, was the chance to see to a man onstage that is every bit of a legend to me. I have loved the man’s work since I was a teenager. I love everything about him but, especially, I love his voice. I could listen to him talk, talk, talk, until it is time for me to go to bed. He is one of the industry’s, one of the country’s best actors. OMG, he is Brick. He was the original Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I have heard it said that when he stood on the stage of the Morosco Theater doing Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, he could whisper and you could hear it in the last row at the top of the theater. I have adored him on film for years but never seen him, live, onstage.

So when I read that Ben Gazzara was to be doing this play, I knew that nothing would keep me away. Had this been one of those poverty stricken years, I would have found a way to see this play. I was so excited by the prospect of the cast I have mentioned in an Odets play on Broadway that I could not contain myself; and when Ben Gazzara began moving about the stage, my heart began to pound and my breathing became shallow. He opened his mouth and this legendary Broadway actor began to speak. He is older and he has had some kind of ailment that has affected his speech… but it was still Ben Gazzara and it was still that voice, ringing through the Belasco Theater; from the stage to the orchestra seats, to the mezzanine, to the balcony…

Right up to the very last row at the top of the theater.

Ben Gazzara’s voice.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Tennessee Williams, Cherry Jones, William Petersen and Marsha Mason

My husband and I take note, now and then, of the way that certain people hear the music of particular artists. We love that phrase: “hear the music”. It goes to the power of the artist and their ability to speak directly to us. I don’t always hear the music of the artists that my friends appreciate, deeply; and they, certainly, don’t always hear the music of my favourites. That’s what is so fun about art – the way it touches us, as individuals. Pat, for example, really loves the playwrights Arthur Miller, Richard Greenburg and Shakespeare. Brady has an affinity for J.M. Barrie, David loves Noel Coward, Laura gets Christopher Durang, Jennifer has a thing for Beth Henley. Jane is a Shakespearean. I have read plays by these writers, sat in theaters and enjoyed their plays and respected them, one and all. I respect anyone who can put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard and come up with something – even if the something is something I don’t particularly get.

I get Philip Barry, Clifford Odets and Tennessee Williams.

Theirs is the music that I hear.

It isn’t the only music I hear – but I do, indeed, hear their music.

I never saw The Night of the Iguana before 1996 revival of the play. I had read it in college but never seen the film – I think I avoided it because, as early as college, I knew I was an alcoholic. The character of Reverend Shannon was bound to cut too close to home. In 1996, in fact, I was still drinking, and drinking a lot. Nevertheless, I could not let the chance to see Night of the Iguana pass me by, let alone with the cast the Roundabout was boasting.

First of all, the inimitable Cherry Jones was playing Hannah Jelkes, only a year after taking home the Tony award for playing Catherine Sloper. Having fallen in love with her in that show, we weren’t about to miss her in this one. Then, there was Miss Marsha Mason, an actress of whose talent I had been an ardent admirer for many years. Finally, playing Reverend Shannon was a male movie actor who had compelled me since his work in To Live and Die in L.A., William Petersen.

Then there was the little matter of my attachment to Tennesee Williams, one of those playwrights whose words made music for me.

Yeah, we weren’t going to miss this one.

Well, the production was certainly very solid. There were no glaring flaws, though the general response to it was rather lukewarm. Particular among the comments from locals and from critics was that Marsha Mason was miscast, a comment with which I disagreed. She was different from actresses who had played the part in the past but she was wonderful in the role, in my estimation. This lady is one of our most esteemed American actresses and she copies nobody in her creations: she invents every role she plays in the manner that she sees fit; and I found her Maxine to be quiet accessible and very touching. I was so happy to witness her work, live, in the first place – to witness her reinventing a role made famous by Bette Davis and Ava Gardner was especially significant for me.

Cherry Jones’ role as Hannah had some similarities to Catherine Sloper but, mostly, it had differences. A plain woman without bells and whistles, Hannah Jelkes had little more than outward appearance in common with the heiress; (though, how Cherry Jones can be believable as a plain woman is beyond me - she is, in real life, one of the great beauties I have seen up close). Hannah had strength in her convictions, self confidence and an outspoken demeanour. The role fit Cherry like a glove and Williams’ language sat on her tongue as a song sits in a singer’s pocket. It was a treat to hear her master the art of Tennessee Williams’ music; in fact, at times it seemed as though she were singing just for me.

In the extremely personal role of Reverend Shannon, though, William Petersen talked to me the strongest. Maybe it is because I understand the part ( I think ) and saw where Petersen and Shannon were going, together. There was so much fragile self loathing, so much sweaty disgust, so much resignation to all that is bad in life, so little hope… how could I not understand? This is a role that I would go back to work for. I understand so much about Reverend Shannon, though there is always more to learn. It has been years since I have acted but I would love to get my tongue around that poetry, get my brain around that man. I think William Petersen understood more about him because he communicated it to me in tacit ways that I dare not share, lest I give away a part of my heart. Suffice it to say that, like Michael Sheen in Amadeus and Daniel Evans in Sunday in the Park with George, it felt as though the character, the actor and I were members of a secret club, that we all understood each other and supported each other in our personal predicament. When an actor touches you that way, it kind of stays with you forever.

Even today, I can think back on the scene when they tie Reverend Shannon to the hammock and Hannah Jelkes sits to the other side of the stage trying to talk him down as he argues and wrestles with the rope. I can still see William Petersen fighting to get loose and I can still hear that incomparable voice and vocal style as Cherry Jones says “There is something positively sensual about the way you writhe…” Almost fifteen years have passed since I watched this moment onstage; and, still, it stays with me. Visceral. Indelible. It stays in my mind and comes out at least once a day.

I guess you could say I heard the music of Williams, Jones AND Petersen that night; and still do.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Leigh Ann Larkin

My husband’s devotion to Leigh Ann Larkin began with a little play called GYPSY. She was playing Dainty June and her Mama, Rose, was being played by a lady named LuPone. It was an important piece of theater because any chance to hear the LuPone Lady sing those songs is a good thing; but also because it gave three actors the chance to redefine characters, long, played the exact same way by every actor to tackle them. Boyd Gaines and Laura Benanti got Tony awards for their redefinition of their parts. Leigh Ann Larkin did not; but it didn’t stop Pat from marveling, repeatedly, about how wonderful she was in this new version of an old role. As he said “she didn’t say funny lines – she said lines funny”. He was right.

Leigh Ann Larkin can take lines that haven’t a smidgen of humour and say them in a way that makes the audience laugh. She looks at things (at least the characters we have seen her play) a different way and delivers them to her audience with a style and panache that demands that they look at her.

And love her.

I also saw the production of Gypsy and took note of Leigh Ann Larkin. It was, though, at a weekend in the country when I developed my own devotion to the lady.

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC was my first Sondheim show. A teenager wanting to be sophisticated, I bought myself the record album from the original production. Also wanting to be a singer, I bought the music book and found a voice teacher who appreciated that I wanted to sing the complex Liaisons or The Miller’s Son, rather than the less rangy (and more frequently sung) Send in the Clowns. I always loved the song The Miller’s Son and loved what I understood of the character of Petra The Maid. I saw productions of A Little Night Music over the years and even saw the film; but nobody ever brought Petra to life for me; and my favourite recordings of the song came from reviews and solo albums, not from any productions of the show.

Upon my first visit to the current revival of A Little Night Music, I was, naturally, ecstatic over Angela Lansbury’s presence onstage and very happy to see Catherine Zeta-Jones (who, at that first visit, was not finished defining her performance; that came by my next visit). Aside from my delight at the two leading ladies, though, I walked away saying “now THAT is the Petra I have been waiting for!”

I have, now, seen A Little Night Music eight times. Each time, Leigh Ann Larkin gives a most consistent performance. She is always present, she is always interesting, she is always funny, she is always THERE. Her pace never lags. Her volume never drops. Her character never drops. She comes to work each time and delivers and the audiences love her. She brings such a focus to the character, whether she is delivering lines, singing her solo or just watching over the others from the background. She is PRESENT. I love that. She seems to have done her homework, giving the character a backstory that we, the audience, do not know but that we can see exists. She has a worldliness and a tenderness; she has a cynicism and an optimism; she understands the importance of doing her work and the importance of living her life. This is the Petra of whom I dreamed all those years.

After one of the performances I saw (Angela Lansbury was out sick that performance), my friend asked me how was the show last night? I said to him: “everyone seemed to be behind the conductor; nobody was up to the pace of the show.” “EVERYbody?!” “NO” I corrected myself “Not the slutty maid.” He replied “I was going to say.. she was amazing the night I saw it, I didn’t think she would drop the ball.” Well, the truth is, she didn’t. The slutty maid is ALWAYS spot on perfect. I love Petra so much that I have begun referring to myself as the slutty maid in my life. I love the philosophy that Petra attempts to teach the audience in her song:

“There’s a lot I’ll have missed but I’ll not have been dead when I die.”

When Leigh Ann Larkin sings that, I believe it. I believe that, in her work and in her life, Leigh Ann Larkin is going to EAT life. She is going to take it all the way to the limit because that is the way she rolls (I will bet). That is why she is perfect casting for Petra, the slutty maid. We eat life, this slutty maid, that slutty maid and the lady who created her.

I will be watching Leigh Ann Larkin to see what she does next. It can be said: I am a fan. I will be at the next show she is in and the show after that.

This is the beginning of a beautiful fanship.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Cynthia Nixon in Distracted

I missed seeing Cynthia Nixon in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and in her Tony winning performance in Rabbit Hole. My fault. My loss. I was either traveling, working too much or broke. These are the only reasons I miss theater (unless something is so poorly publicized that it flies under my radar – which has happened – or if something I was intending to see closes, suddenly). So, I wasn’t going to miss the chance to see her in DISTRACTED. We were in town, we had the money, so we bought season tickets to Roundabout. The four plays we chose were PAL JOEY, A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS, HEDDA GABLER and DISTRACTED, each one because of the star of the show (also – Pat is loony for Man For All Seasons and I, the show queen, wasn’t going to miss the chance to see Pal Joey – especially with that Goddess, Stockard Channing). For the most part, we made the right choices.

Definitely with DISTRACTED.

I love new plays. I love plays, period; I am not one of those show queens who doesn’t also love what people refer to as straight plays. I love plays, old and new, revivals, experimental.. you name it, I love it. Unless, of course, it’s bad. AND

I love Cynthia Nixon. I have loved her since my first grown up favourite film, Amadeus. I loved her in every movie I ever saw her in and when I moved to New York and saw her in Angels in America I loved her again. I loved her in INDISCRETIONS (her entrance at the beginning of her first scene, I can still hear in my head) and in ever play I’ve seen her in, here in New York. I am disappointed for having missed her in any play; but that’s my lot in life – to not get to see everything.

I was loving her in DISTRACTED; but not loving the play.

There is so much that happens in the first act of this play.. so much that I hate; and I mean HATE. I hate being ignored. I hate the inhumanity of technology. I hate being ignored FOR technology. I hate people texting while they are spending time with me. I hate people ignoring me for their computer, for the tv, for their crackberry. I hate people answering their phones when they are with me, or even checking their phones when they are with me. I hate so much about Act One of Distracted. I hate it so much that it works my nerves and makes me anxious. I hate it so much that it gives me a headache. I hate it so much that I didn’t want to stay for Act Two, in spite of a strong appreciation for the wok of its’ leading lady.

My better, my greater, my stronger instincts, though, said to me “stay with it”. I told Pat I was being bothered by the play, by the story of a mother whose child appears to have ADD, ADHD, OCD and a whole host of other alphabetical problems that led her to a battery of doctors with opinions with which I also disagreed, and solutions that I found barbaric. Drugs. Medication. Judgments over the treatment of an adolescent with problems nobody wanted to work at, but only wanted to make disappear. The mother is caught in between her love of her child, the demands of her husband, the opinions of the doctors and her own dismay over being a good versus a bad mother. Too Much Drama. That’s what I felt. Too much. Drama. Pat said, though, “stay with it”; and so I did. Much to my great joy.

Cynthia Nixon’s acting (in everything) is so natural, so simple, so heartfelt, it is impossible for me not to get drawn in – honesty is most important in my life and in my acting; and she is honest at every turn. I watched her embodiment of the character as though I were watching one of my own friends. I championed her when she questioned the doctors’ solutions and I cheered for her when she defended her child. I struggled with her every dismay and rejoiced when she found a peace, a grace, a solution that matched her desires to be a good parent. Right there, at the end of the play, she said

“It occurred to me that what I should give my child for his attention deficit disorder…

was

my

attention.”

ROCK ON SISTER.

And she called her young son, heretofore unseen on the stage – only a disembodied voice from offstage – into her world, into her space, into her play. The child came in and the mother talked to him. She showed him the consideration and care that we should all show each other. She turned off the gadgets, the devices, the technology and talked to him. It was the perfect marriage of message, of literature and of casting. This was an honest moment on the New York stage; and as the lights dimmed on the family, finally on their way to a stronger understanding and appreciation of one another, I felt my insides calm from the anxiety of Act One.

And then, to frost the cake on my immense joy at watching the play and the message, during the curtain call Cynthia Nixon gave my favourite kind of bow. She walked forward, strong, confident, secure in her work and her body, stepped toward the audience and, looking as many people in eye as possible, took a deep, appreciative bow; the bow of an actor.

Which, of course, is exactly what Cynthia Nixon is: an actor.

And a mother; it was obvious by her performance that she knows what is inside a mother’s heart.

An actor and a mother.

Not a bad life.

Gettin' Out of Town: Our Trip to 42nd Street

Lately, I’ve been writing about my favourite times in New York theaters over the last three decades. It’s a fun series to be writing because I am, deeply, dedicated to the theatrical arts. As a child it was my wish to be a performer – a wish that I carried into my adulthood; also a wish I eschewed by my mid-twenties, when I realized I had neither the talent nor the patience for the job. Now, my greatest show business talent is the one that puts me bumm, firmly, in the seat and my voice, cheerfully, raised in praise.

This last week I had a rewarding experience doing what I do as a theater-goer; but not in New York City. This experience came in a seat in one of this great country’s regional theaters. My dear friends and fellow bloggers Steve On Broadway (http://steveonbroadway.blogspot.com/ ) and Marc Harshbarger ( http://networkedblogs.com/68SIK )are also theater aficionados who spend time seeing theater both in and out of New York and I am aware that they are big supporters of the regional theater community. I found myself wishing, this week, that I saw more regional theater. In fact, I wondered if I could take it upon myself to keep up with the goings on in the theaters across this nation, taking time out to visit them when schedule and finances permit it. Over the years I have traveled to Rhode Island to see Helen Reddy in SHIRLEY VALENTINE, to Hartford to see Kate Mulgrew in TEA AT FIVE as well as Marci Reid in KISS ME KATE with Rachel York and Rex Smith… I have traveled to St Louis to see beautiful productions of HELLO, DOLLY, BIG and SHE LOVES ME, all starring David Schmittou. I traveled to Ohio to see Elizabeth Meadows Rouse play the DIRTY BLONDE. I crossed the river to New Jersey to see Laurelle Rethke in DONG AND DANCE, Happy McPartlin in THE FULL MONTY and Stefanie Powers in APPLAUSE; and I’ve taken the train to Pennsylvania to see Jennifer Houston in SMOKEY JOE’S CAFÉ, and I don’t even remember the northern state I had to go to to see Natasha Harper in CARNIVAL. I have returned to Texas any number of times to see my loved ones in plays there, with great commitment and affection. And, of course, I have traveled to California expressly to see my dear friend, Brady Schwind’s, directorial work in stunning productions of CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF and THE LIGHT IN THE PIAZZA. Leave us not forget trips to Barrington to see Carole Shelley, Cherry Jones, Blythe Danner and many others at Williamstown. It should be clear that the theater and my friends and idols mean enough to me to put out a little effort.

Last week I traveled to the Surflight Theater in Beach Haven, New Jersey, to see 42ND STREET. This was my second visit to the charming beach town and super charming Surflight, this summer.

Only someone like Marci Reid could cause two road trips in one summer.

I often wonder if the writers of Will and Grace had a private window into my life when they created the characters. Marci and I ARE Will Truman and Grace Adler. College mates, we have known each other longer than almost any of my other friends; and there are times when our, mutual, behaviours reminds me of the (sometimes, rather repugnant) sitcom characters that I feel a strong sense of guilt and recrimination for us. Nevertheless, real life Will and Grace we are and I have, long, admired the acting talent of my alternate reality Grace Adler enough to cause occasional road trips – when the part demands it. These parts demanded it. Marci booked five shows and four months of work at this enchanting theater this summer: ON YOUR TOES (one of my favourite shows), THE DROWSEY CHAPERONE (as the titular character, a role for which she is tailor made), 42ND STREET (more than one of my favourite shows – it’s a big deal for me), HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL (I don’t know what that is) and CABARET (the show I have seen more times than any other except, possibly, for GYPSY). I knew when she booked these gigs that Pat and I would be seeing DROWSEY and 42ND. No question. I’m very lucky to have a husband who not only supports my devotion to the theater and to my acting loved ones, he joins me in it, making these trips with me whenever he can. With great excitement, we grabbed a close friend whose favourite musical is DROWSEY CHAPERONE and hotfooted it to South Jersey for a swell night at Surflight. We were completely enchanted by the space, the town and things like the Ice Cream Parlour’s walk up window outside the theater and the line of actors awaiting their audience after the show. It’s so Mickey and Judy! And the production of DROWSEY was sheer delight, absolutely.

It was 42ND STREET, though, that left a mark on my heart.

I was a teenager when the original production opened on Broadway. I bought the album and listened to in nonstop until my mother asked me to, please, just give her a break and play something else for one day. I fell in love with Tammy Grimes and, on a trip to New York with the family, I actually got to see the original production! I didn’t see Tammy Grimes but I saw Mr Orbach, Lee Roy Reams, Wanda Richert, the great Peggy Cass and a lady with whom I would also fall in love, Miss Millicent Martin. Over the years the play continued to be one of my favourites; and one of the shows that would be revived, making me feel old, as I had seen the original and the revivals, in one lifetime (not an especially comfortable feeling but part of the aging process). On a snowy day Pat and Brady and I took in a deliriously happy performance of 42ND STREET starring one of the few celebrities to make me starstruck, the incomparable Christine Ebersole. I was having a bad day when I walked into the theater, I was having a great day when I walked out. That is what 42ND STREET does to me.

When Marci told me she was playing Dorothy Brock I knew she would be amazing. It is a part for which she was born to play. Marci fits, perfectly, into those old musicals where women are glamourous, larger than life, elegantly dressed, standing center stage in a perfect bevel and belting out classic Broadway melodies we mouth the words to, along with them. Marci is one of those big shouldered belters, making her perfect for Mrs Sally Adams, Lili Vanessi and Dorothy Brock. I can’t wait to see her play those other women and all the other big shouldered belters; but, for now, I am just elated to have sat in that theater and watch her embody one of my favourite characters ever.

In a production that stunned me! I mean, this is a little theater in South Jersey; the kind of theater where the funding shouldn’t allow a show like 42ND STREET! It’s such a big show, such a glitzy show… taking it on should be a daunting task for any producer! It is a combination that, in the past, I have seen yield disastrous results, the kind one might see at a Juniour College. Not at Surflight, though. There are some really young people in this cast… who tapped their ASSES off! The director didn’t ease up on them because they were young – she demanded they rise to the occasion, and they did! I was astounded by the level of talent on the stage. The production numbers amazed me because there were times when I thought “oh my gosh.. this big production number is coming up; how are they going to pull it off?” And they DID! I’m telling you, for a small theater, they stepped it up – I couldn’t stop smiling.

Especially when Marci was on.

First of all, she looks amazing. The time period is perfect for her, her wig was wonderful and very natural looking and she sure can bevel in those shoes. Secondly, she had a great handle on the character and had a lot of chemistry with her fellow actors. And, lastly, she is amazing voice. I’ve known the girl for so many years that she will no longer allow me to say how many years it has been. Suffice it to say: I have had enough opportunities to see her work to say that this was a definitive role and performance for her.

In my favourite moment of the evening, Marci sat in a wheelchair and sang mine and Pat’s favourite song from the show; and she was so relaxed, so at home, so in the moment that it became as though we were simply watching the scene through a window of a real life moment which the ladies had no idea was being witnessed. I knew I was seeing something special when Pat leaned forward in his chair, put both hands to his chest and then, gasped and sighed – a gesture more regularly made by the more reactionary and dramatic me. He has spoken of the moment several times since we saw it. It makes me happy to think he has had a 42ND STREET experience like my own.

There’s something so wonderful about supporting your loved ones. I’d like to think that we all do it but I know, for a fact, that we don’t. I know people who cannot get the support of their kinfolk, let alone their friends; and I know people whose friends beat them down rather than lift them up. I have some friends who offer me their support; and I have friends that I would carry through their most complex and unhappy moments in their lives. Simply going to see one of those friends or loved ones in a play is easy, compared to some of the things we must do for them in their lives. On a sad day last week it looked like we wouldn’t make it to see Marci in this show and it upset me, greatly; not just because it would be letting Marci down (which it would) but for myself – because I really wanted to see her in this part. Believing that I control my destiny, I made the trip to Surflight happen by negotiating and planning it out with my husband. And even though it was happy to support Marci and even though it made her feel good, it was we, Pat and I, who were really rewarded for the effort.

So, HOW could we POSSIBLY miss seeing her as Fraulein Schneider in CABARET?!

Another road trip!!

Regarding the photos above: The black and white still from 42nd Street was taken from their website and I turned it into a black and white, to recreate the feel of the original Busby Berkley movie. The colour photo is Pat and Rachel (who always goes to see Aunt Marci's shows) with Marci in her finale costume, after the show

Great Moments in New York Theater: Carol Channing and Hello, Dolly!

The first record album I ever bought in my life was Hello, Dolly. Mind you, it was the movie soundtrack. I was a child of six or seven and the movie had been on tv and I insisted that my mother buy me that record. I played it until it had to be replaced.

A few years later, I was old enough to check out books from the grown up section of the local library. Records, too. It was (still is) my habit to get “thing” about something and then research them. When I discovered the drama section of the library, I began checking out Random House playscripts published in hardcover format. One of the first ones I checked out was Hello, Dolly. The dustjacket was paper and brown and had an illustration of a huge feathered hat. There were sepia toned photos printed inside the book on the tan pages with brown typeface. I looked at the sepia photo of the lady who played Dolly Levi on Broadway. It wasn’t Barbra Streisand. I wanted to know more….

I went to the record albums and found the record of Hello, Dolly. It was not the lady in the photo that I saw in the pictures there: it was a black lady and the name on the record was Pearl Bailey. The original cast album was checked out. Weeks later, I found the original cast album of Hello, Dolly, starring the blonde lady on page one of the book. I checked out that record and took it home with me and my education about Hello, Dolly and about the American musical theater had begun…

I spent years listening to Carol Channing, Pearl Bailey and Barbra Streisand’s recordings of the famed Jerry Herman musical. All of them have merit. I saw clips on tv (and tapes given me be friends over the years) of Channing as Dolly Levi. I saw Channing in movies and on tv shows. I saw productions of Hello, Dolly in high schools, colleges, community theaters, regional theaters. I read, saw and performed in the original play The Matchmaker. I feel that I know about Hello, Dolly.

I felt.

I was wrong.

I read in the paper that Carol Channing was coming back to Broadway in Hello, Dolly! AGAIN. Oh my gosh, I thought. She has been doing this play forever. Isn’t she tired? Doesn’t she want to do something else? Then I thought WHAT are you THINKING??!!! You will, FINALLY, get the chance to see Carol Channing play Dolly Levi?!! Shut. Up. Get on board. GET. EXCITED. So I did.

I don’t remember how many times I saw Hello, Dolly! I think I saw it once with Pat, once with Tony and Jim and once with my mother. This is what I want to say about each of those visits:

When Pat and I went for our first visit to the Lunt Fontanne Theater, we were like a couple of giddy teenage girls. We were so excited to see Carol Channing live (for the very first time, I might add); and, frankly, I can always see the play Hello, Dolly!

Well.

It turns out I had never seen Hello, Dolly! All those productions of this musical that I HAD seen, all those years of watching that movie, all those years of reading that hardcover of the play in now way prepared me for seeing Hello, Dolly for the first time. Because I never got it before seeing it with Carol Channing. On this night, I got it.

There is a charm to The Matchmaker that you might get if you saw the play, you would probably get if you read the play, you would definitely get if you saw the film version in which Shirley Booth plays Dolly Levi (born Gallagher). This production of Hello, Dolly had all the charm that Thornton Wilder wanted his original play to have, all the charm that one gets out of playing with an old music box while eating a vanilla ice cream cone on a summer day with the sounds of children laughing in the background. It was just an old fashioned backdrop musical with sweet little underscorings as the characters left their lives to turn toward us, their audience, walk downstage and speak directly to us about the proceedings in their simple, complicated, delightful, lyrical lives. Set pieces whirled by as quickly as the swirls of fabric on the chorus kids as they filled the proscenium arch, musical notes and rhythmic phrases flowed around our heads and into our ears and an entire theater filled with people sat for two hours with smiles THIS BIG across their faces. It was a fun, romantic, silly and touching journey with a simple message: live and love – it is what is important – and the entire trip was driven by a woman whose talent was so uncontainable and indescribable that each venture in front of a film camera has been unable to, sufficiently, capture it.

Carol Channing ate that stage. She cradled it and caressed it and teased it and chased it and she filled up every single nook and cranny, rolled it all into one enormous ball of delight and rolled it out over the audience like a blanket, designed to make us happy. What extraordinary comic timing that woman has! At a rather advanced age, she was able to project her voice so that we heard every single note, every single word ( something I miss from people half a century her juniour). She possesses a wistfulness that makes her monologues to the audiences as though we were having late night chat with our mother (or grandmother) over tea. We all want our maternal figures to be happy and this big hatted, feather bedecked mama was no different. When she made her declaration that she wanted to rejoin the world again, came a collective cheer from the audience, the exact emotion of which was “you go, girl!” She had us in the palm of her hand and we were with her, every step of the way.

Pat and I left the theater, remarking on how we finally GOT it! We were so elatedly happy that we knew we had to take Tony and Jim to see this; we needed to be there to watch them experience it. We called them the moment we got home.

Tony and Jim are a more sophisticated, more affluent version of us. They have been a couple exactly 22 years longer than we have and they are still as in love as we are. Theater aficionados, they were living in the days when you could go to the theater and see Ethel Merman in GYPSY and, indeed, they did because Ethel Merman was their best friend. When it comes to the theater, they know what’s good and what goes and they applaud and support it. We were not going to let the opportunity to witness their glee at this happening.

And glee, we got.

The four of us sat in out seats with our hands covering our mouths as we roared with laughter and clapped til our palms were sore. When the lights came up for intermission, we didn’t leave our seats: we stayed put and discussed the artistry of the legendary star and the joy to be had in these seats. When the lights came up at the end of the play, the conversation was just part two of the same as we walked out into the summer night, sated and singing.

One day my mother said she wanted to come into the city from Jersey to see Hello, Dolly! Really? I asked, a little surprised. She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. “It’s Dolly. It’s the real Dolly. Of course I want to see it – she’s the real Dolly. We’re going. I’m not going to miss seeing the real Dolly.”
Something you should know about my mother: she gets excited over nothing. She is a happy person who is made especially happy by her children and her grandchildren; but nothing excites her.

The day I took her to see Hello, Dolly (from really good seats, I might add), she was so excited! Beforehand, she kept saying “I’m going to Dolly… I’m going to see Dolly…” In fact, she was sort of singing it like a child awaiting the start of their birthday party. And inside that theater, my mother, who gets excited by nothing, was the first person to applaud when Carol Channing appeared. My mother, who gets excited by nothing, was the first person to begin clapping AND the first person to rise at the end of the title number, the first person to rise for the curtain call. Seeing my mother this excited, this happy, is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

The following Saturday she and I were in the grocery store and, as she pushed her cart down the aisle, she kept singing to herself: “ it only takes a moment….. it only takes a moment… it only takes a moment.. it only takes a moment…” Those are the only words she could remember. So I bought her the cd. A few years later, when Jerry Herman’s book of lyrics came out, I got the great Mr Herman to sign a copy for my mommy.

As the years have passed, I have continued to listen to my cast album from that production and treasure those three nights in the theater and, as I do, I smile and remember those nights with my loved ones watching a true Broadway legend. And I remember, specifically, these moments:

When Carol Channing sang So Long Dearie, it was a performance of such force that I held my breath, waiting for it to be over, not wanting to miss a moment by taking my focus off of her.

After Florence Lacey sang Ribbons Down My Back, Pat turned to me and whispered “Is that song new?” “No.” On the walk home he said “I never heard that song until Florence Lacey sang it.” That, after all those years of living with me – it took the brilliance of one of Jerry Herman’s best interpreters for him to hear the music.

And, finally, comes the moment I will always remember and hold to my heart as pure artistry, as complete genius; and anyone who has seen it should begin nodding their head in agreement, now. The potato puff scene… Absolute Genius. As Carol Channing ate what must have been twenty little potato puffs in what seemed like four or five minutes, the twitters from the audience became giggles, became laughs, became guffaws, became howls, became gales of laughter. It was so masterfully orchestrated, executed and stage managed that a room full of strangers were clutching their sides and clutching each other, tears rolling down their faces.

THAT is theater.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Michael Sheen in Amadeus

I was twenty years old when I saw the movie Amadeus. Before that film I had never given Mozart a first, let alone a second, thought. After that film, I became obsessed by him and by the movie. It became my very first grown up favourite movie; up until that point, my favourite movie was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the first movie I ever saw in my life.

When I became obsessed with Amadeus, I picked up a copy of the play. I was acting then. It became my most fervent wish to play Mozart, a wish that never came true because I had stopped acting by the age of 25 or 26. 25, I think. It really just wasn’t for me. I did, though, really want to play the part; for I truly felt I understood him, truly felt I understood how.

I was wrong.

In 1999 the play Amadeus was revived on Broadway starring two English actors named David Suchet and Michael Sheen. The former was playing Antonio Salieri, the latter: Wolfgang Mozart. Pat and I had heard of both actors, in fact, even seen them in some movie roles. I never much cared for David Suchet (I cared for him even less after he earned the top spot for the nastiest celebrity I ever booked a photo shoot with – a story for another day) but I had always felt an affinity for Mr Sheen, since I first saw him playing Robbie Ross in the lovely film WILDE. My affinity for this beautiful actor has been growing through the years, most notably through performances as David Frost, Tony Blair and any other cast of characters. He is simply one of the great new actors to come out of the UK in last decade (give or take a year or two). However, my deep and abiding love of the man and his art is based, almost entirely, on the performance he gave in that revival of Amadeus. It was a performance that opened my eyes and reached inside of my heart and threw the “on” switch. He showed me what Mozart was all about; and why he had to go mad.

Maybe it is because, in 2000, when I saw the play, I had been beating my head against the pavement of New York, in the attempt to gain a little respect and some success. Oddly, when I went to Los Angeles to work, people treated me like I mattered; agents, managers and publicists took my calls, said yes to me and got me shoots with their star clients (so long as it wasn’t Nicole Kidman, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt or Cher I was asking for). When I visited London, artists invited me to do their photos in their dressing rooms, in their homes, on the streets of the city. Maggie Smith hugged me after our shoot – twice. In New York I couldn’t get people to take me seriously, couldn’t get people to pay me for my work, couldn’t get publicists to line me up with their stars for my book, couldn’t get publishers to publish my book. I felt every inch the failure.

In Act Two of Amadeus, I watched Wolgang Mozart fall apart because he believed in his work so much that, each time one of his operas closed after half a dozen performances, he died. Not every day a little death was it; every hour a lot of death. I saw it happening as he began to question himself, his artistry, the music that was his children. His devastation and confusion, his self loathing and despair – these are the things that drove him mad. As much I had loved Tom Hulce’s work in the film Amadeus, I never saw that. Maybe it is because, at the time, I was a child of 20; at the time, I didn’t know how it felt to be a failure. In 2000, I was 35 and I knew how it felt. I knew what Wolfgang Mozart was feeling when he questioned himself and his work. I don’t dare compare myself to that musical genius or even the thespian one that was playing him; I merely say that the journey each artist takes is similar in this manner. I saw the madness and the reason for it and, in those moments, I became the man on the stage… the MEN on the stage. The brilliant Michael Sheen had taken me out of my seat, out of my life, and dropped me onto the stage of the Music Box, into the role of Mozart, where I agonized over defeat.

What more could an actor ask for?

Great Moments in New York Theater: Kate Burton as Hedda Gabler

On the morning of October 13, 2001, I awoke with this thought: “Ech. I have to see Hedda tonight.” All day, every person who asked me what are you doing tonight was met with the same reply: “Ech. I’m seeing Hedda tonight.”

I never thought I would ever see another production of Hedda Gabler. I never thought I would want to see another production of Hedda Gabler. I had already seen Hedda Gabler. Nine or ten of them; and I had liked, maybe, one of them. I simply did not see the purpose of my seeing one more Hedda Gabler.

But that changed the moment I saw the marquee announcing that a new production of Hedda Gabler was opening and it was to star Kate Burton. GOD. DAMMIT. I mean REALLY. GOD. DAMMIT. I was going to have to sit through another Hedda Gabler. GOD. DAMMIT.

You see, Pat and I don’t miss Kate Burton plays. Oh, it has happened, much to our dismay. Travel. Poverty. Oblivion. You name it, we have had legitimate reasons to miss Kate Burton in a play; HOWEVER. If we are made aware that Kate Burton is on the New York stage, we are there; it is simply that simple. Kate Burton is a great American actress, one of the favourites of our household, and one of the dearest people I have ever worked with; indeed, the word kind is better than dear. I have had and always will have great personal affection for Kate Burton and deep and ardent admiration of her work. So. We never miss a Kate Burton play.

Even Hedda Gabler.

And so, with heavy heart and dragging feet, I made my way down the three blocks to the Ambassador theater and readied myself for that Scandinavian anti-heroine, Hedda Gabler.

The lights dimmed.

The curtain went up.

People were talking (on a really great set, I must say).

Kate Burton made her entrance and Hedda Gabler was talking at people and stamping her feet in unadulterated boredom.

I leaned forward in my seat. I was listening. I was paying attention. I was watching. I kept leaning, listening, paying attention, watching.

I laughed.

A few moments later, I laughed again.

I kept laughing. And during the darkness of the scene change, I leaned over to Pat and said “It’s FUNNY.” He replied to me “It’s a comedy.”

O. M. F. G.

I had no idea. I had seen nine or ten Hedda Gablers and not one of them had made me laugh. They had all been directed and played to the height of drama – so high that it was too lofty for me to laugh at. All these years and my relationship with Hedda Gabler was based on a lie. Some people lied to me and made me believe that Hedda was a melodramatic tragedy. Oh, there is tragedy in the play- but not in the dialogue. That night, that great American actress Kate Burton introduced me to the real Hedda Gabler.

And I have been in love, ever since.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Laura Linney in Time Stands Still

This year we went to see the new play Time Stands Still. We had been very busy since it opened and, though it was on our radar, we had not been to see it; and it was closing. It was a priority. Laura Linney is always a priority. Brian James is always a priority. And though she appears on the Broadway stage far too infrequently, Alicia Silverstone is a priority. Pat and I love these actors, all of them; and though we don’t usually love Eric Bogosian, we both had to admit, after seeing the play, that this was the most we had ever enjoyed him.

Pat and I came to these parties very early. The parties of which I speak are the Laura Linney party, the Brian d’arcy James party and the Alicia Silverstone party. Once we were at these parties, we determined that we would be their until the hosts kicked us out. We have always been proud to say that we are fans of Miss Silverstone, who (naturally) we came to love (like all) in Clueless (I have the movie in my Ipod) – but her work goes so far beyond that one movie. She can do, truly, anything. From comedy to drama, from film to tv and, now, to Broadway, she is a craftsman. I want her to do a musical next – just to prove she can. For me. Just for me. Of course, once I heard Brian James sing one single sentence in Titanic, I have been on board. He is one of my favourite (there are four) Broadway boy voices and one of my favourite people (if you ever get the chance to work with him, take it). He is a beautiful actor and it’s a treat to see him in a non musical. And then there is Laura Linney. I need not say much about Laura Linney except for these two sentences:

1) When my book came out, I asked someone who they thought was the biggest star in The Sweater Book. They replied: Laura Linney.

2) I believe Laura Linney is the Julie Harris of her generation.

So. Great cast. Great play. Great dialogue. All of it: great, great, great. If you saw it, you know. If you live outside of New York and didn’t see it, you must be aware of the award nominations. If you live in New York and didn’t see it, you can; because it is reopening in a different Broadway theater (with Alicia Silverstone’s role being played by the wonderful Christina Ricci). This experience was destined to be one of my favourites on the New York stage. There simply wasn’t any way around it. It was, though, a certain factor of the play that made it, personally, one that I will always remember.

Laura Linney plays a photographer in the play. The first sentence out of her mouth (I seem to remember) was “where are my cameras?” The character spends the play trying to find her way back to her passion, her love, her artwork, her raison d’etre. She suffers a crisis of faith (or faithS, rather, since she questions many things in her life – especially her vocation). By the end of the play (spoiler alert!) she has found her way back to her cameras, to her artistry, to her true calling, even at the expense of her marriage; and, in the final moment of the play, we see her pick up her camera for the first time, focus it into the audience and snap a photo.

I was completely undone.

In 2003 my book was released. Nobody bought it. That is, of course, a sweeping generalization. My friends bought copies. My parents bought copies to give away. The majority of the printing, though, ended up on the auction block at a remainder sale, a year later. My first outing had tanked and nobody would hire me, nobody would publish me, nobody could look me in eye. I lost my dream and my passion. I lost my will to shoot. I no longer enjoyed the work and I was, particularly, tired of being the photographer nobody would hire. I figured it was better to be the photographer who retired, rather than the photographer nobody would hire. So I retired. Two years later, feeling empty and needing my art once more, I picked up my cameras, only to find that everyone had forgotten about me – and that I had been replaced by digital photographers. It has been a long road to a new place, a new frame of mind, a new way of life; but I got to where I am, today. I work when I want to. I pick up my camera when it interests me. When people ask me what I do, I do not say I am a photographer. I answer any other way that I can; but never that way.

Watching Laura Linney, one of the greatest actresses we know and one of my favourites (also, like Brian James, one of the nicest and kindest persons ever to grace me with their presence for a photo shoot), play a character that cut so close to home, was especially cathartic for me. I felt like I didn’t need to take a journey back to my cameras; Laura had done it for me and allowed me to watch. I didn’t ever need to look through the lens again: the image of Laura doing it at the end of Time Stands Still would be in the foreground of my memory forever; she would be looking through the lens.

In a moment that I remember at least once every day, Alicia Silverstone tells Laura Linney that she always found her photos (of war ravaged countries and people) beautiful. She stops and remarks that it is probably wrong to say that, that they are BEAUTIFUL. Laura’s character replies something like “I always think they’re beautiful; but I’m their mother.”

Pat grabbed my hand and squeezed it, tight, hearing the stifled but audible sobs caught in my throat.

Great Moments in New York Theater HAIR

This is a story I started a few weeks ago and never finished… I will finish it today without going back to change facts or tenses. When you read the first sentence, you will understand…

It was announced this week that the much lauded production of HAIR that is currently on Broadway will close. That is, indeed, a shame; and yet… I have made my peace with it for a couple of reasons. I actually think it is wrong for a show to have extremely long Broadway runs. Free up the theaters for new shows and new experiences, for one thing. The other? It has been proven, all too often, that productions get tired after awhile and lose their luster. We who live in New York and frequent the theater have seen it time and time again – like a sitcom that has lasted two seasons too long, shows run until audiences are seeing a less than fresh, less than stellar production. I think every audience who goes to see HAIR deserves the exact same experience I had when I saw it.

Perfection.

I had seen productions of HAIR in the past and when this one opened I wasn’t thrilled to see it. It wasn’t at the top of my list. For one thing, my friend Jonathan had played Claude in Central Park but was not coming to Broadway with the show. An actor who I felt was too old for the part had replaced him. Secondly, I hadn’t really, I mean REALLY, liked the productions I had, previously, seen. I supported those productions because they featured friends of mine and because I think Hair is an important work that deserves to be acknowledged. The first production I saw had SO many of my friends in it that I ended up seeing it a few times and, even, doing production shots of it. I loved it for them and for the innate emotion of the play; but the truth is that I found it to be completely over directed and somewhat pretentious. That feeling carried over into almost every other production (live or on bootleg dvd, which everyone knows I collect) I saw. I always felt like directors and actors, alike, completely overthought the show and tried to get so deep, so conceptual, so intent on presenting a message that they ignored the basic point of Hair. Hair, at the time of its’ creation, was a happening. It wasn’t musical theater, although it was a musical and a piece of theater, it was just what it appeared to be. Even though there were honest to goodness actors performing in the show, they weren’t all actors; and, as people, most of them were of a hippie-esque nature in their lives and actors in their work; so even though stagecraft was involved, they were really just living in the moment eight shows a week and using their stagecraft to share the moment with their audiences.

Now, it is difficult to do that with a cast now because times, mindsets and controlled substance use has changed, greatly, not to mention the nature of sexuality. One cannot approach a production of Hair the way the original was. It is, now, a museum piece and must be directed, as such. HOWEVER. There are new issues and new mindsets that were born from the era in which Hair was created. There is still a war on overseas, there are still causes for which we crusade, there are still controlled substances, widely used, and there is still promiscutity… no, I don’t like the word promiscuity… I’m going back to the 70s and saying Free Love. It’s not the same, no, but these factors in our lives can be used as a frame of reference for the actors working in a production of Hair. I think it is essential that the actors feel a serious sense of kinship with the characters they play. I believe they should have marched in at least one march, done one controlled substance, had one threesome and lost one loved one to death before embarking on a production of Hair.

When I saw the original cast of the recent revival of Hair, I felt that all the actors had had these life experiences. That gave them permission to relax onstage and let the text do the lions’ share of the work, causing a perfect collaboration of writing talent, directing talent and performing talent. The performers had the perfect opportunity to just live onstage, live in the moment and live in the characters.

Which is precisely what they did.

The first time I saw Hair was just before Christmas. One of my best friends said to me “Let’s go get tickets to Hair!” on a Sunday morning. At TKTS we were unhappy with the ticket price of 80 plus dollars for unacceptable seats; so we went to the box office, where they wanted 100 plus dollars for seats downstairs in the center orchestra. It was just a few dollars more and it was Christmas and it had snowed… we may as well treat ourselves! The box office man did say, though, “they are going to draw the lottery in twenty minutes” so we decided to try it. We won! We both won tickets to the matinee and the lottery tickets were up in the box seats. PERF! We called my husband and told him we were going to see HAIR from the box seats on a snowy Christmas season day!!!! PERF. Only one thing would make it more perf; and when we sat down in our seats at the Hirschfeld, we were all three under the influence of an unnamed controlled substance. WHAT. FUN.

When you sat in the box seats (as well as many other places in that theater) you were fodder for the frolic of the actors, all of whom came out into the house and played with the audience. Natch, in our box, the person they went to was the dude without hair. I LOVED it! I got touched, I got to touch, I got to get up and dance with a spotlight on me.. it was a gas. That part of the show was certainly special for us all, as was the high amount of chair dancing we did. It was like being at a rock concert with a theater filled with people who understood the meaning of the words PEACE and LOVE. I felt the love from the cast and the fellow audience members – it was something I will remember, always.

Aside from the levity of the experience, there was the little matter of the show being extraordinary. What a generously talented group of artists, from the actors to the musicians to the directors. I felt that I had finally SEEN the play Hair. They GOT it. Then they gave it to all of us. We laughed and wept and sighed and chair danced for two plus hours and when it was all over, we were pulled down onto the stage to dance with the cast and the other audience members, singing at the top of our lungs that famous anthem, Let the Sunshine In.

Magic.

The same best friend and I went back for another viewing of Hair in March, just before the original cast went off to London. We knew we needed to see that cast again, one more time, so we planned a mid-week trip to the lottery, which we won, on a snowy day. We had the same seats as before (though not the same cast – at both performances, there was an understudy or two on but it made no matter – everyone was stunning in both performances) and, once more, we ended up on the stage dancing with the cast.

And what a cast it was. The actress playing Sheila gave me what I always wanted from the role and was always missing; the actress playing Chrissy gave me, for the first time ever, a live performance of Frank Mills that allowed me to hear the original notes; the two different actors I saw play Woof held me captive, entirely, (I think Woof may be my favourite character in the show and I was especially drawn to the original Woof in this production – he totally embodied the feel of the show for me). I loved all of the tribe but found, particularly, interesting to watch the girl named Megan and the boy named Paris, who seem to have an ability to open themselves up, completely, for the audience to come in. And the lead, Claude Hooper Bukowski, was mesmerizing. The first night we saw the show we saw an understudy named Jay Armstrong Johnson who had the youth needed for the character, not to mention a star quality in his performance that one doesn’t find in a young person every day. The second time I saw Hair, I saw Gavin Creel, the man I said at the start of this story I felt was too old for the part; I still think he is too old for the part but I don’t care. What presence! What talent! The man is special, so special; so it’s totally cool by me that he is not the teenager that Claude should be – just one of those things you learn to overlook, with extreme pleasure.

I’m so happy that my bestie said we needed to go see Hair, that Christmas Sunday. After the productions of the show I had seen, previously, I never thought I would want to see another Hair. Now, having seen a real production of Hair, I don’t need to see another, ever. I am, for all time, satisfied.

Great Moments in New York Theater: Steel Pier

Steel Pier is widely acknowledged as a flop musical. I guess the people who saw the show and didn’t like it didn’t see the show I saw. But then, I was at the Gypsy Run Through.

The Gypsy Run Through is the last dress rehearsal of a Broadway play before the general public and press are allowed in. It has an invited audience of friends and family – an audience that is made up, almost entirely, by show business people. We have attended a few of these. Steel Pier was one of the most memorable Gypsy Run Throughs I have attended.

A longtime fan of the musicals of Kander and Ebb, I knew I would like the show – it was inevitable. There was something special about it, for me, though. I genuinely love that score; I truly adored that cast; hell I even liked the time period and that is saying a lot (a depression era musical – doesn’t sound appetizing, does it? I mean, unless it’s ANNIE, right?). It was obvious to me that what this was meant to be was a musical of They Shoot Horses, Don’t They but when the obvious changes in storyline indicated that it wasn’t a retelling of that awful (in a completely artistically triumphant, slit your wrist out of depression after it is over kind of way) movie, I went with it. And I bought it. I imagine that the reason I bought it (that is to say the reason that put me over the top) was Karen Ziemba; because I loved the whole show. It was tuneful, colourful, glitzy, dance-filled… it was my kind of show. Admittedly, the glitz became a problem as the show moved forward because these characters are dance marathoners and they are supposed to get more tired and haggard and run down and they were still pretty much just as clean and pretty at the end of the show as they were at the beginning…that was a directorial choice that could have been changed but not one that, I felt, could have caused the total failure of the show.

But I digress. Let’s get back to Karen Ziemba. I have never kept my adoration of this artist a secret. She is a wonderful actor, a delicious dancer and an enjoyable singer; more to the point, though, is that she exudes a charm and warmth that always makes me cheer for her – and in this role, you were required to cheer for her. The character was so likeable, so lovely, so much one of us – the dreamers, the real people who just want something more. To make us be even more in touch with her, she had a villain in her life – her own husband! Ech. Karen had great numbers in this show, including a (it has to be said) McKechnie-esque rant in which the character recognizes the villain that is her husband, sings her tantrum and then climaxes her diatribe with a tour de force of dance. It kicked so much ass. From the moment Ziemba walked onstage at the top of the show to the moment she stood, downstage center, all alone, asserting her independence amid great fear and trepidation, the audience rooted for her. Well. This audience did.

Karen Ziemba’s cast mates were equally engaging for me. First of all, there was Daniel McDonald, one of the dreamiest leading men you could ever hope to witness and, sigh, what a voice! Oh I just loved him. I was crestfallen at his death. Then there was the great American actress Debra Monk and I just don’t know how a person could sit in a theater and not be drawn to her by the heartstrings (except, possibly, in THOU SHALT NOT, which I did not see, but which I hear left audiences stupefied). Debra Monk’s performance in Steel Pier remains one of my all time favourites but not because of the famous Ev’rybody’s Girl number.. no, no. It was the obligatory act two quiet ballad that got me. I have studied Kander and Ebb and it is part of their formula. CHICAGO – Mr Cellophane. WOMAN OF THE YEAR – Sometimes a Day Goes By. ZORBA – Woman. KISS OF THE SPIDERWOMAN – Mama, It’s Me. THE RINK – Marry Me. In STEEL PIER it is the lovely Somebody Older; it’s a song that moved me so that, years later, when I was 38 and dating a 24 year old, I even went into a studio and recorded it. It can’t come close to the original performance by the genius Miss Monk, but, still, it’s a part of me.

Then there was Kristin Chenoweth in a supporting role that told all of the people in the seats that this girl was destined for greatness. I’m so proud of myself when I think of the fact that I saw her in this show and, immediately, penned her a letter asking her to be in The Sweater Book. It sort of validates that I know what’s good and what goes and, dudes, from that first show, I knew she would rise to the top.

So what do we have here? A great score by multiple Tony award winners, a cast of beautiful actors and dancers (and, for the record, Gregory Harrison did a wonderful job playing a completely reprehensible character that warrants no comments in this story, though Mr Harrison’s performance does and here it is: great work being a slimeball!) and amazing choreography by a Broadway genius named Susan Stroman.

So WHAT went WRONG?!

I will tell you.

They didn’t trust their audience.

When we saw Steel Pier, at that Gypsy Run Through (and be warned, there is a spoiler coming up here), Act One was moving right along. Great overture. Curtain up. Handsome pilot onstage meets pretty marathoner. Marathon starts and neither have partners and they end up dancing together. Dance. Sing. They get to know each other. She’s married to the marathon promoter who is a schemer who lies to his wife (he freakin’ sold their house to pay for the marathon and has never told her). She and the pilot are, clearly, developing a real affection for one another and as the desperation of the marathon moves to the end of the Act something amazing happened (and this is one of those things that you never forget – at least me). At the end of Act One there is a number called The Sprints in which the marathoners are leashed together in pairs and have to run a race and whoever falls is out. At one moment, Karen Ziemba falls, taking down her partner, Daniel McDonald. They will be out. But then… in one of the most baffling moments I have ever, ever, ever seen onstage, the music sounds like a record album being played backwards and all the runners begin moving slowly in reverse. WHAT?! That was me, in my seat, saying WHAT is THAT?! I was baffled and confused. Then, after a few seconds of slow-me, they all began running at top speed in the right direction as the curtain fell.

I went out to the street during the intermission, eyes wide, asking Pat what he got out of that and dying to get back to my seat so I could watch Act Two and get my head around it.

THAT is THEATER.

Every play in the world should have that as their goal: send your audience out to intermission, desperate to get back to the action.

In Act Two there was an AIRPLANE on STAGE and a Busby Berkley number with girls tap dancing on the wings. What’s not to love? Then comes Debra Monk trying to convince the ( oh please forgive my profanity ) FUCKING GORGEOUS Jim Newman to do the older-younger thing that I know oh-so-well, Kristin Chenoweth doing Jeanette McDonald, Karen Ziemba doing Donna McKechnie and the earth shattering realization that THE PILOT IS DEAD.

Wait.

What?

He’s dead? He’s, what, a ghost? An angel? What? He died in a plane crash and he has been given three weeks to come back to earth just to dance with Karen Ziemba and, in the process, change her life. And that’s what he does because, at the end of the play she leaves her no good husband and goes out on her own to have her own life. The last thing that happens is the pilot tells her “Go on. Fly.” Well, kids. We all need someone to tell us to fly. I’ve needed it. Right now my husband needs it. This girl in this play needed someone to tell her to “Go on. Fly.”

And she does.

That kind of effing optimism is what I have built my life on. It’s what Kander and Ebb built their musicals on. It is what we all need – to be reminded that we can fly; we have the power inside of us to do it. We just forget now and then and need a reminder. And when I listen to the cast album, (and I am loathe to admit this) I still cry at this point.

STEEL PIER was a magical experience for me – it still is. When the reviews came out, I didn’t get it. They were almost universally bad to lukewarm. The show was nominated for some Tony awards but failed to catch the brass ring. When the closing notice went up, Pat and I knew we had to see the show a second time, for he loved it as much as I did.

That is when I found out why the show tanked.

They changed the script. They didn’t trust the audience to be smart enough to get it. When I went out for intermission, confused, it was that confusion that brought me back to my seat. When Rita Racine found out he was dead, I found out he was dead. The book kept me in the dark until that moment and I gasped. I was with them the entire time. Upon our return visit, the overture played, the curtain came up and the pilot was lying on the stage. He stood up, looked heavenward and said “I understand. I’ve got three weeks. Three weeks!” and I turned to Pat, both our eyes THIS WIDE and we mouthed the words “What the FUCK?!” Throughout Act One the audience was given at least two, maybe even three tips to the fact that he was dead and he had some kind of fucking heavenly magic that heals injured pigeons and makes time roll backwards and other nonsensical garbage. Oh, it made me so mad! No wonder audiences didn’t like it. I am, and have been (since I was old enough and smart enough to think about this) always been a fan of trusting your audience. Whether you are writing a book, telling a story, making a movie or a play or any other form of storytelling, you MUST trust your audience. Make demands on them. MAKE them KEEP UP with you. No wonder so many people are so stupid – the dumbing down of society has reached a fever pitch because of the lack of intellectual challenge being presented to the public. I know that, in the grand scheme of things, a Broadway musical doesn’t greatly affect the intelligence level of the American public – but it’s a part of the whole big puzzle.

There are a few trivial things in my life about which I am certain, in my heart:

--When a female movie star who is married to a male movie star wins an Oscar and he doesn’t have one, the marriage is doomed.
--If the movie Dolores Claiborne had been released at a different time of year, there would have been Oscar nominations for all three of the stars
--If the creators of Steel Pier had trusted their audience and demanded that they keep up with the story, the show would have been a hit.

It isn’t fair for me to make this criticism, though. After all, I have never written, directed or produced a Broadway play. It must be tough work and very nerve wracking. However, as an audience member, I am a bit of an expert. So I stand by my opinion and my conviction.

Still.

I’m so very happy that I saw that Gypsy Run Through. It’s what puts Steel Pier on my list of favourites.



A place it will always be.