We were heading back to the subway from the Marquis Theatre after attending the matinee performance of Thoroughly Modern Millie on December 31. Suddenly I froze in my tracks at the corner of Broadway and 47th Street as the thought hit me. “My reading glasses!” I blurted out, patting my empty shirt pocket.Always on the alert, my wife shot back, “They’re not going to let you go back to the theater!”
She was right. After soldering down all the manhole covers and setting up phalanxes of guardrails surrounding — and partitioning — Times Square, police weren’t allowing the crowds to stream in for the big neon New Year’s Eve extravaganza. Not until the area was totally secured.
Apparently, some Pakistani hood up in Canada had told authorities that five terrorists had penetrated US border control. So the whole law enforcement establishment, just like our nation’s economy, was spooked yet again by the ripples of 9/11.
But on the Great White Way, business was booming over the holidays, unfazed by Al-Qowards. Box office receipts for Christmas week topped $21.3 million, setting an all-time record and beating the 2001 Yule log by more than 15 percent.
Of course, you just can’t run up to the theater and grab a seat for Hairspray and La Boheme, the hottest smash hits. Nor can you expect to see Paul Newman’s return to Broadway in Our Town unless you’ve already latched onto tickets for the limited engagement.
But there are plenty of goodies if you don’t follow the herd. Among the lineup of 33 Broadway shows that set the all-time mark for attendance, 26 have opened since the beginning of the new millennium.
The big names aren’t confined to Broadway. We saw Elisabeth Shue, Jeff Goldblum and Amanda Plummer up close and personal in smaller houses. In all, we took in 10 shows over the holidays. Better still, my reading glasses turned up in my pants pocket.
Here’s the official scorecard:
Broadway
Medea (
3/4 out of 4 stars) — Fiona Shaw’s performance in the title role is the talk of Broadway, the surest Tony Award up there. With a new translation of the venerable Euripides text by Kenneth McLeish and Frederic Raphael and a radically fresh vision of the tragedy by director Deborah Warner, this is not the majestic termagant Medea of old.
The murderous mom has been transplanted to the modern world and deposited in a curiously imposing villa with a plexiglass facade. When she emerges, striding toward the family pool in sunglasses and casual wear, raging over Jason’s opportunistic betrayal, Medea is besieged by a female chorus — construed by some critics (without overpowering evidence) to be paparazzi.
If this mythic sorceress radiates less majesty, the heat of Shaw’s rage is no less fearsome and scorching. She is so outraged, so bent on vengeance, she can hardly remain in her skin — jumping and stamping madly to escape it. Does that sound oddly like childish petulance?
That’s the horror of it. Pampered in a plastic aura of celebrity, it’s not Medea’s royal dignity that’s offended. It’s her vanity. She cold-bloodedly murders her own children for petty spite — because she’s driven to win and come out on top at all costs.
Jonathan Cake makes Jason a heroic hunk, quite the appropriate object for Medea’s towering rage. What’s more, Cake plays Jason’s pragmatism with hardly a trace of guile, slightly slick in his charm, but matching Shaw decibel for decibel in his passion — and sense of injury. A very human performance.
While the final murders are lurid, Warner is not fixated on shock value. At the end, Jason and Medea are poolside, drained and enervated from all their tantrums and sufferings. You almost get the idea that the whole passionate, bloody cycle could begin all over again.Thoroughly Modern Millie (1/2) — The Tony Award exploits of Sutton Foster are still on view in the title role, more than sufficient reason to take advantage of “Season of Savings” discounts available at 1-800-ILOVENY and ilovenytheater.com. This budding superstar belts, taps and charms with the best of them. And the award-winning villainess, Harriet Harris, is still stopping the show with her dragon lady shtick as Mrs. Meers.
Book and new music also live up to their press clippings, staying close to the nutty spirit and storyline of the 1967 film while sprinkling new twists along the way. And the deathless “Mammy” is sung in Chinese.
Thoroughly irresistible.
Def Poetry Jam (1/4) — Harvesting the creme de la creme of the burgeoning poetry slam circuit, producer Russell Simmons and director Stan Lathan have honed a new theatrical format that uses rap and performance art as its twin launching pads. The result is nothing like a musical.
Moving unpredictably from silly self-absorption to revolutionary rage, from topical comedy to meditations on the poets’ cultural roots, the Def Poetry Jam somewhat resembles Ntozake Shange’s For Colored Girls. But instead of a half dozen actresses alternately performing a single poet’s writings, Def brings us nine poets performing their own.
While the same high level of poetic sophistication isn’t sustained, the diversity of the performers — and their perspectives — is breathtaking. Start with Beau Sia, of Chinese descent, raised in Oklahoma City. Move on to gay Jamaica national, Staceyann Chin. There’s a Palestinian wench from Brooklyn, Suheir Hammad. A Latina from Chicago, Mayda Del Valle. An angry Afro dude from Philly, Black Ice, and a jolly Afro dude from LA, Poetri.
So in a way Shange never could, this troupe can audaciously claim to “write America.” They do it from the vantage point of outsiders — youth- ful, creative, sometimes bemused and often angry. Alienated, yes, but also determined and upbeat.
Except for Ice — the most abrasive and off-putting of the poets. Denouncing his young brothers, he liberally sprayed them with the N-word. Then from his Broadway pulpit, boasting a new contract with Def Jam Records in his bio, he hypocritically derided blacks whose aspirations rise no higher than a record deal.
Poetri, on the other hand, was an irresistible delight in the mock lament inspired by his “Krispy Kreme” addiction. Del Valle delivers the most lyrically fervid of the rants, “Descendency.” Steve Colman, cleverest of the slam troubadours, rhymes and puns resourcefully, the only Def Poet guilty of any detectable literary erudition.
Audiences for Def are younger than typical Broadway crowds — more diverse and communal. The Jam experience is a provocative, uplifting change of pace, perhaps a peep at how theater will evolve in the coming decades.
Say Goodnight Gracie (1/4) — Frank Gorshin has an impressive arsenal at his disposal as he engagingly recounts the century-long odyssey of George Burns, who rose to stardom from humble beginnings as Nathan Birnbaum in the Lower East Side. There are antique photos of the hood projected behind Gorshin onstage, followed by authentic movie and TV clips. Simulations of old Burns & Allen radio shows, recorded with Didi Conn, seem to emanate on cue from an ancient Philco. And of course, there are the classic narratives, comedy routines and song shticks perfected by the beloved master himself — woven artfully together by playwright Rupert Holmes.
But there’s no overlooking Gorshin’s own weaponry as he brings Burns’s avuncular presence back to life — with a pitch-perfect replication of that unique gravely voice. We can look back and forth from the projected images of Burns to the impersonation by Gorshin without the slightest twinge of disorientation.
An endearing, entertaining gem.
Metamorphoses () — This Chicago import from Lookingglass Theatre Company made a big splash last March when it opened at Circle in the Square, my favorite Broadway venue. About a dozen of the fabulous myths narrated by the great Roman poet Ovid are retold around and inside a spacious pool of water. The medium is perfect for simulating the mutability of mortals who become playthings of the gods.
Trouble is, the Lookingglass gloss on Metamorphoses strips away the sensuality and the wit of Ovid, overlaying a mocking comedy of its own. Nor was the spectacle, water and all, as impressive — or creative — as I’d hoped. Until the concluding Philemon and Baucis, the myths seemed mostly dumbed-down and trivialized.
But even if these weren’t truly Ovid’s metamorphoses, what a treat to see it all at Circle in the Square. For all their Second City slickness, these mythic skits are undeniably enchanting, and it’s encouraging that Broadway theatergoers embraced such unique fare.
Imaginary Friends (3/4) — When Lillian Hellman reached the pinnacle of her second career, switching from the stage to personal memoirs, the esteemed novelist/essayist/critic Mary McCarthy had the temerity to attack the grand dame. “Every word she writes is a lie,” she smiled, guesting on The Dick Cavett Show, “including “and’ and “the.'” Hellman, catching the nationwide telecast, responded swiftly, slapping McCarthy with a multimillion-dollar lawsuit calculated to financially crush her detractor.
Sadly for all who revel in juicy gossip and catty spectacle, Hellman died before she could star in Versus McCarthy on the courtroom stage. Nora Ephron, the screenwriter who gave us Sleepless in Seattle, seeks to rectify that anticlimax by granting an onstage afterlife to both litigants. Now they can snipe at each other with charismatic gusto, recount their thumbnail biographies, and… sing a few songs.
Two stage heavyweights make the fight worth watching. Swoosie Kurtz captures Hellman’s scrappy malice and steely fury. In a subtler, more nonchalant triumph, Cherry Jones revives McCarthy’s serene arrogance.
Music by Marvin Hamlisch, with lyrics by Craig Carnelia, reassures us that Ephron’s exploration will never get serious. Instead we get a lengthy laundry list of parallels between the lives of these two literary lionesses, paired with an equally long list of contrasts.
Yes, this hybrid musical bitch-a-thon grows tedious at times. The question Ephron keeps posing to us, whether Hellman and McCarthy could ever have been friends, is not the sort a world-class playwright would obsess over. It’s more like the preoccupation of a world-class yenta.
Flower Drum Song (1/2) — David Henry Hwang has totally rewritten the book for the revival of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s abortive San Francisco treat of 1958. PC pulsewatchers will be glad to find our heroine Mei-Li has been upgraded from an illegally immigrating mail-order bride to a political refugee whose father was martyred back in Red China.
But there’s no rehab performed on the R&H score, which pales next to the oriental splendors of the team’s South Pacific. That’s rather fatal when the new ethnic backbone supplied by Hwang proves brittle.
Ta, the object of Mei-Li’s devotion, has been transformed from a princely playboy to a nightclub director. When Ta’s dad is corrupted by his son’s commercialism, the girly China Vegas product at Club Chop Suey is cheesier than anything staged at the Celestial Garden in the 1958 version. A Chinese chorus line dressed up like take-out boxes? Believe it. When the babes’ boobs light up, the boxes turn translucent.
Eventually, Ta learns to treasure his heritage and appreciate the chaste Mei-Li. When that happens, the chemistry between Jose Llana and Lea Salonga (Broadway’s original Miss Saigon) warms to a nice glow.
Off Broadway
The Exonerated (1/2) — This intensely researched script, pieced together by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen from public records and personal interviews, is as much a crusade as a drama. A bunch of A-list talent has mobilized behind the cause since this reading stage production opened in October, including Richard Dreyfuss, Jill Clayburgh, Elliott Gould, Judy Collins, Lynn Redgrave, Mia Farrow, Mary Steenburgen and Debra Winger.
Blank and Jensen interviewed a staggering total of 60 people who were exonerated of capital crimes after serving between two and 22 years on death row. Six of those interviews form the core of the script, which builds to a sweeping indictment of the American criminal justice system.
Sunny Jacobs, poignantly read by Amanda Plummer when we went, was ratted on by the actual murderers. Gary Gauger, read by Jeff Goldblum, was railroaded for the death of his parents on the basis of a “hypothetical” confession interrogators tricked him into. Others, like African-American horse groomer Robert Earl Hayes, were convicted on no solid evidence at all.
A powerful, sobering dose of reality.
Tuesdays With Morrie (1/4) — Let me confess that I’ve never read the Mitch Albom bestseller nor seen the TV movie, starring Jack Lemmon, based on the book. But I daresay neither boasts the simplicity or the artful symmetry of the new stage version by Jeffrey Hatcher and Albom.
At the beginning, before the onset of Lou Gehrig’s disease, we see Mitch’s forgotten Brandeis professor dancing. After Mitch reconnects with his former mentor and faithfully makes his weekly pilgrimages to New England, taping Mitch’s wisdom on a cassette recorder and nursing him until he dies, Morrie rises one last time and dances in a lyrical epilogue. In between the two dances, the grim procession to the grave is sparely, eloquently symbolized.
Alvin Epstein teems with life, open-heartedness and candid vulnerability as Morrie. As Mitch, Jon Tenney gauges exactly the right pace for learning his lessons and growing as a person. Director David Esbjornson has perfect empathy for the material, and his entire design team is on the same page.
Burn This () — All four roles in Lanford Wilson’s taut chamber piece have fascinating contours. For me, there’s a fine spontaneity elevating this drama above the playwright’s other fare. But for Burn This to work overwhelmingly, the chemistry between Anna and Pale — radical opposites who attract — must convincingly combust. She’s a dancer mourning the death of her gay roommate. He’s the roommate’s vulgar lookalike brother, repulsed by his brother’s lifestyle — and wracked with guilt as a result.
Elisabeth Shue brought all her screen magic to Union Square Theatre intact as Anna. The profile. The smile. The allure. But as successfully as Shue replaced Catherine Keener, who opened in this revival, Peter Sarsgaard never recaptured the charisma of his predecessor, Edward Norton.
So Wilson’s evocative title became unintentionally self-descriptive. The production crash-burned and closed on December 29, a week earlier than previously announced.
This article appears in Jan 15-21, 2003.
