fall in love

Next Fall, a play by Geoffrey Nauffts, originated Off-Broadway as a production of the Naked Angels company, playing at that mecca of impressive new drama, Playwrights Horizons. The fact that it has moved onto Broadway, despite its quaint production size and lack of star power (the idolatry of the latter which everyone was flogged with mercilessly during Sunday's TONY awards) is a testament to this show's sheer brute force.

The show revolves around a gay male couple living in New York City. The twist: one is an atheist and one is a Christian. Let's stop there. As someone who reads and sees a great deal of contemporary drama, I cannot, off the top of my head, think of one single interesting, multi-dimensional, likeable Christian character. Every time a Christian is written into a play, it seems that character's sole purpose is to act as a foil to the 'enlightened', cynical, agnostic/atheistic intellectuals that the playwright so readily identifies with. Even supremely talented writers seem to get stuck in this trap -- Theresa Rebeck's Sunday on the Rocks comes to mind, as does Alan Ball's Five Women Wearing the Same Dress. The Christian is a dogmatic moron, who perhaps has a deep dark secret revealed, so maybe the audience is supposed to start to like him/her, but basically he/she is a predictable and meaningless waste of space, who fits the right wing, Tea Party Republican profile to a tee.

Enter Geoffrey Nauffts. He writes Luke, a white Christian male from Tallahassee, who happens to be a homosexual. A complex, thoughtful, intelligent, conflicted, hopeful, confused, silly, affectionate, loyal human being. ATTENTION ALL OTHER PLAYWRIGHTS: Not all Christians are hypocritical, Bible-thumping, judgmental, homophobic Republicans with only one dimension. The Christian archetype does make an appearance in Next Fall, in the person of Butch, Luke's father. However, just like Luke and every other character, Butch is written with immense compassion. His denial and bias appear infinitely more tragic juxtaposed next to his son, who has cobbled together a lifestyle that can encompass his ardent beliefs, most basic instincts, and the expectations of those around him.

As I am loath to reveal the plot trajectory or any other specifics that greet the audience like sweet surprises throughout the course of the play, I will simply say this: every performance given is awe-inspiring; surely these are real people living out their lives in front of you. The play will actually steal the breath out of your chest. It grapples with such relevant, timely, sensitive, uncomfortable issues. It breeds easy laughter, then gently flips you around to incite tears. It is so honest, so truthful, so brave, so humane, so painful, so blissful, so subtle, so jarring. It has wisdom to share and does so graciously. Hours after seeing it, I'm still replaying it in my mind and peeling off new layers of significance, realizing minute details that didn't occur to me during the performance. It is easily one of the most beautiful things I have seen on a Broadway stage, ever. Please go; life is short and, unfortunately, the Broadway shelf-life of meaningful drama is shorter.

@ the Helen Hayes Theatre, 240 W 44th St b/t 8th & Bway

End Run

Dear Readers (all less than 10 of you),

I am embarrassed to say that while I have seen plenty of plays since my last post, I have been bested by life and did not actually get around to reviewing any of them. But no longer will my need for 3 hours of sleep a night reign victorious. It has taken the ill-fortune of my favorite performer's latest venture, but I am back to urge you to flock to the Broadhurst Theatre by Sunday, when Enron closes far earlier than planned.

The most important reason to see Enron: Norbert Leo Butz. Anyone who's met me knows the deep deep depths of my love for him ("Moving Too Fast" may or may not be my iPhone ringtone...) Everyone I know who's ever seen him in anything loves him. Because he is so ridiculously talented and versatile and clever and did I mention TALENTED? It is literally impossible for him not to be amazing in a role, and to see him take on a character of such intellectual and moral complexity as Jeffrey Skilling, ex-CEO of Enron, is worth the ticket price alone. He's so utterly watchable as the brilliant and brash, oafish creator of the mark to market strategy, who rises to ultimate power, wealth and acclaim, all the while tortured by the perpetuation of the dark secrets of his company's alleged success.

The show masterfully depicts the rise and fall of the company over a decade, weaving in relevant world events like September 11th. Lucy Prebble, the playwright, does a remarkable job of explaining the Enron schemes and their subsequent unraveling in layman's terms, and in illustrating the political milestones (W's inauguration, the deregulation of electricity) that set the stage. The coherence and completeness of the storytelling is impressive, especially considering that Prebble is a) British and b) 28 years old.

Not ignoring the opportunity to humanize the phenomenon, Prebble includes gems such as a monologue by an analyst, likening the belief in Enron's viability to a belief in air travel -- just because you don't understand how it works or don't think it should work doesn't mean it doesn't work, and if you stand up and question it everyone will think you're crazy. Skilling's monologue at the end of the show, post-sentencing, is also potent, especially coupled with the sobering fact of the trillions of dollars the U.S. Government has pumped into financial institutions all copying Enron's greedy strategies since that company's demise.

Director Rupert Goold does not shy away from eccentric and unconventional instruments in conveying the atmosphere of the empire. Pyrotechnics, musical interludes (note: this is a "play with music," NOT a musical, and no, Norbert does not sing, to everyone's great loss), and light sabers all appear, and justifiably so. No dialogue about soaring stock prices can adequately communicate the feeling of the execs riding inside the bubble, the traders searching for that next great high. Although initially unsure about the concept, I quickly came to appreciate the use of actors in suits and raptor heads depicting the entities created to "consume" Enron's ever-mounting debt. Watching them prowl around the basement with Andy Fastow, Enron's CFO, gave me a sick, on-edge feeling perfectly suiting the nature of the company's misdeeds.

However, the show's risks and accomplishments were part of its undoing. Tourists do not flock to see interesting, innovative theater (all the more reason they should be rounded up and poked with sticks). There are F-bombs aplenty, and Norbert has never been on "Dancing with the $#@%ing Stars". The show, having played less than four dozen previews and performances combined, was nowhere near full houses. And as much as it pains me, I can't blame everything on tourists. While this show was extremely successful in London, in the U.S., still laden with a financial industry creating bubbles then begging for bail-outs, many people undoubtedly feel like it's "too soon." As someone too young to have been aware of Enron's existence in its heyday or to have owned any stocks during its crash, the production appeared like an fascinating history lesson. For older audiences, it must be slightly less entertaining to relive the moment their retirement accounts dried up.

Coupled with a markedly unflattering review by my arch-nemisis, Ben Brantley of the NY Times, and the failure to land a Tony nom for Best Play (or, AHEM, for Norbert, though Stephen Kunken is nominated for his superb turn as Fastow), the producers have decided to take a $4 million loss rather than continue the show's run. Never mind its 5-star rating (out of 5) in Time Out New York, or other glowing reviews (I hear that Broadway Lagniappe chick really liked it). Once again, substantial theater is quickly ushered off stage left, while Jersey Boys rakes in the dough.

Enron never got around to instituting a rush ticket policy, but check out Broadwaybox.com for discounted tickets for this and pretty much every other show. Please tell me you all knew that trick already.

Through Sunday, May 9 (extra performance added 7:30 p.m. Sunday) @ the Broadhurst Theatre, 235 W 44th St between Broadway & 8th Ave

Afterthought

Another show I was quite eager to see (based partially on good reviews) was After Miss Julie. Yet again, I met disappointment. More precisely, my theatre-loving friend and I both left going, "Huuhhhh?"

At first, I enjoyed the leisurely pace of the production, the time so generously spared by the director for stage business of various kinds, furthering the reality of the characters. Once the show ended abruptly after an intermission-less 90 minutes, it felt more like he was just trying to find a way to fill the time.

My main source of anticipation for this play was its playwright, Patrick Marber, who previously penned the incredibly potent Closer (for those not in the know, this was a play before it was a movie starring lots of famous sexy people). While I liked the writing in After Miss Julie, I would not say it compared.

Onto the acting: Marin Ireland is amazing. She was amazing in Reasons to be Pretty, she was amazing in this, and I imagine she is amazing at various other life functions apart from acting, such as brushing her teeth and decorating Christmas trees. I want to be her friend.

Jonny Lee Miller is also quite good. His demeanor and tone are always perfectly drawn from the life his character has led, and he has marvelous control of his emotions.

Onto the other Miller, Miss Sienna. Sienna, Sienna, Sienna....Sienna was a hot mess. It wasn't that it was physically painful to watch her act, as is sometimes the case with Hollywood actresses making their Broadway debuts (not naming names, Katie Holmes in All My Sons). As my friend so concisely put it, Sienna's entire performance was laden with an affect. "I'm being emotionally unstable!" she seemed to cry. Except that she never really cried.

Her character is supposed to be a hot mess, so the fact that she comes across as such (on multiple levels) leaves the audience with a bit of a chicken-and-the-egg scenario: where does the lame acting stop and the poor direction begin? An interesting topic for debate, but ultimately a moot point. I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen to Miss Julie at the end of the play, and I didn't particularly care. Her poor-little-rich-girl failed to garner any sympathy, or empathy, or respect. I'm not sure what comes after Miss Julie, but I hope it's Christine (Ireland) kicking ass and taking names.

If you want to see a sexy movie star on Broadway, Hamlet is still running. Jude Law was clearly the talented (if disloyal) half of that ex-power couple.

@ the American Airlines Theatre, 227 W 42nd St

Well....ah....

Fela!, the new Broadway musical based on the life of Nigerian musician and government opponent Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, has received rave reviews. I don't mean to be a dissident, but -- the show is good. It's not great.

Many parts of the show are great. The music is, as expected, invigorating and flawlessly performed. The dancers are amazing, and expertly execute the choreography. Sahr Ngaujah, who I saw perform the role of Fela (the role is double cast for some reason), was charming, talented, and engaging. But the show, with so many things going for it, seems to be missing a few things. Such as a plot. As a life study of Fela, much of Act One is consumed by exposition and anecdotal "recollections". Throughout the show, there is a noticeable lack of major milestones and advancing plotline, and as such, no satisfactory ending. One earth-shattering event proves influential, but by then (~ 2 hours in), my attention had already wandered. I will say that both me and my companion were very tired the night we attended, but with such a weak story line, not even the continuous African beats and gyrating were enough to snap us into full consciousness.

Bill T. Jones, who directed and choreographed (and was a co-conceiver and co-book writer) has won many prestigious awards for his past choreography. All I will say to those past accolades is: Spring Awakening - really? Everyone jumping up and down and rubbing their boobs? I loved it, but don't know how much it technically advanced the world of dance... As far as his work on Fela! goes -- the choreography is an essential part of this production. And it's excellent. Does that mean that the choreographer should also be the director of the entire show? In this case, it seems to be a mistake. Jones is clearly in over his head, and while the show has lots of crowd-pleasing one-liners and a dynamic cast that's not afraid to bring it, this production which celebrates revolution fails to be revolutionary.

I'm not saying don't see this show. You will be entertained, and learn about a fascinating historical figure previously obscure in the U.S. But don't believe the hype. This show could be lots of mind-blowing things, but it just isn't.

at the Eugene O'Neill Theatre, 230 W 49th St

If It Ain't Broke

I saw that Broke-ology (the study of being broke, for those not so quick with suffixes) had gotten positive reviews, was closing soon, and kept appearing on my TDF. What better reason to go to the theatre? My $24 seat landed me on the front row, feet literally above the would-be yard (fake dirt and astro-turf).

The first thing that struck me, in the curtain-less, open acting space of the Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater at Lincoln Center, was the set. It was fascinating, and I can only describe it as appearing exquisitely lived in. The show's single set, after all, is a house that is old in 1982 (during the first scene) and remarkably more so in 2009 (when the rest of the action takes place). Donyale Werle, keeper of the set, didn't just provide sufficiently dated furniture and electronics. There is, well, crap everywhere. A VHS of Independence Day pokes out from beneath a table in proximity to the TV. A basket on a shelf contains some Gold Bond powder, a single photograph, and some unidentifiable trinkets. Basically, an incredible amount of time was taken to make the space look like a real family house would look, especially if only a man was left to its up-keep. I'll stop rambling about it now, but a personal favorite touch, visible to less than 2% of the audience, was a copy of Dreams of My Father stowed in the coffee table -- how apropos.

Now to the play itself. Nathan Louis Jackson's script is very good. The script is smart (less smart than, say, Superior Donuts), and keeps a good pace. A few times I felt cliches creeping up, lurking around corners, but those fears were largely unjustified. The script is a strong tool, and the actors and Thomas Kail, the director, use it bravely.

At first, I felt that perhaps Wendell Pierce, playing head-of-household William King, was a bit too superficial in his portrayal. However, as the play progressed, I came to realize that he was giving a very honest and vulnerable interpretation of a simple but heart-wrenching character. Francois Battiste (holy shit, was he repressing a French accent the whole time?!) is excellent as self-sacrificing-but-over-it Ennis. Crystal A. Dickinson shines during her brief scenes, and even Alano Miller (as Malcolm), who bothered me for some reason, won me over by the end.

His victory over my skepticism came largely in the form of a hugely powerful scene in which Broke-ology's three men all sit together for a substantial amount of time, in silence, crying. Now I'm a pretty big wus, and the sight of one man crying gets me going, much less three. You know I lost it. But I certainly wasn't the only one. It was an extremely moving theatrical moment, one that surprised and touched me in a very meaningful way. Mad props to Kail for facilitating, and to the actors for bringing it every performance.

Overall, the play is entertaining and authentically emotional; it also provides great fodder for debate, though to raise the subsequent questions now would give away too much. Go see it and then give me a call.

through Sunday, November 22, The Mitzi E. Newhouse Theatre at Lincoln Center, 150 W 65th St

Prince Charming

I forgot how many people die in Hamlet. It's the same amount as die in any other Shakespeare tragedy. A lot. Fortunately, during The Donmar Warehouse Production of Hamlet, you don't ever wish you were one of them. Which is much more than can be said for many versions of this play.

First, there's Jude Law. I would be remiss in my journalistic obligation of full disclosure if I denied that I would very much like to have his babies (I know, I know, there's a line). But not just because he's delectable. Mainly (also?) because he's talented as hell! His Hamlet is not a weeping willow, barely conjuring the energy beneath his grief to extract his revenge. Neither is he so obtuse a royal as to miss any of the proverbial wool others wish to pull over his eyes. Rather, his is a Hamlet of easy intellect, sharpened and propelled by his quest for revenge, faultlessly manipulating the lesser mortals around him and all the sadder for his hyper-sensitivity to the hypocrisy and treachery which invade his world. Law seems to sincerely grapple with the meaning and worth of life, is overcome with frustration at others' misdeeds, and handles all of Shakespeare's loftiest speeches with surprising authority and grace. He is even outfitted in a (fine cashmere) cardigan for most of the production, no doubt the founding father of sad and downtrodden emo kids everywhere. As he paddles barefoot through the snow, he at once seems to shrink and expand, to collapse and soar, beneath the weight and subsequent responsibility of his insight.

Law could easily carry the show himself, but Shakespeare does have a habit of getting heavy somewhere around the middle of Act II. The supporting cast is more than willing to help him out. Ron Cook as Polonius & 1st Gravedigger, Gwilym Lee as Laertes, and Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Ophelia are most notable. The Shakespeare spoken here slips easily off the tongue and does not confound the audience as it makes contact with their ears (an added bonus of an English production making its way across the pond). Extra points were scored for the incredibly well-staged and executed sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes.

The cavernous, chilly set is the perfect negative space to accent the bright performances. I especially loved the cold blast of air that greeted the audience every time the King's ghost appeared, or an outside door was opened. The snow bears mentioning again, and the lighting was perfect - unforgiving, focused straight down from above, and dividing each person's shadow precisely in half, so that it stained the floor to both his right and left.

While it has no relation to the show itself, I feel compelled to mention Jude Law's graciousness after the show. He was clearly and undoubtedly exhausted from emptying himself emotionally on stage for 3 hours, yet spent a solid 5+ minutes outside the stage door signing every thing that every person thrust into his hands, genuinely thanking people for their praise and attendance, and never quibbling about the incessant flashes going off inches from his face. Truly a prince.

Through December 6th @ the Broadhurst Theatre, 235 W. 44th St

angering the gods

On Saturday evening, I went to see God of Carnage. After a break for summer (and yachts, I'm sure there were yachts), the original B'way cast has returned to continue the run, until one of them gets on Tony Soprano's nerves and he has them killed.

Going into the show, I knew the basic gist of the plot, the impressive cast members, and that the show had received good reviews and a slew of Tony nominations/awards.

Which is why I was so disappointed that it wasn't, ummm -- better?

A few things rubbed me the wrong way, some of which may be personal hang-ups, so let's start a list:

• The play is short. About 90 minutes, with no intermission. I know nobody's supposed to have an attention span anymore, but seriously - if I make a night of going to see a show, I want it to take up a decent chunk of the night. As I said, a matter of personal preference, but for the prices being charged for these tickets, a short show can feel like a rip-off to me. More on this later. Oh, and they started the show around 8:14 (!!!) To make it seem longer? Because a 5 minute grace period is no longer enough? Boo.
  

• I'm more than a bit bored by playwrights using alcohol as a deux ex machina to advance the plot. "Oh, they're talking, they're fighting, things are heating up -- how much more exciting it would be if they were all DRUNK! Then I could write whatever crazy dialogue and staging I wanted and people would buy it!" I'm aware that people drink, especially and often in social situations. I'm also aware that while I don't drink, ~103% of people in NY do. I don't give a shit if playwrights include it, except when it seems like such an obvious crutch. And it does here. It results in the desired/predictable mayhem, which is amusing, but it feels like lazy writing.
  

• Hope Davis' character, Annette, reminded me a bit too much of Honey from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I mean, the two characters' personalities are nothing alike. I think it was more the combination of blonde hair and puking, in tandem with 4 adults torturing each other in a living room while drinking...again, probably my own mental connections.

Anywho, the acting really is terrific. Marcia Gay Harden and Ton--ah, James Gandolfini make a wonderfully miserable couple, and Jeff Daniels is all too believable as a work-crazed lawyer. The simple set is quite functional, and is used resourcefully throughout. The storyline provides a great foundation, and builds to reveal quite taboo reactions and confessions from the characters.

But here's where we get back to the question of length. The play is going along, doing anything and everything for shock value, which the audience happily accepts and encourages, laughing and gasping all the while, and then it just...kind of ends. But it isn't really an ending. The actors do a damn fine job with the time and material they've been given, but the script doesn't lead to the place they deserve to go. Rather, the actors (and audience) feel like they've been abandoned somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night.

@ the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre
242 W 45th Street