With his crazy-popular TikTok account (and tributary social media accounts), Harry Sisson is one of the next generations most vocal supporter for democracy – and at a time when our country very much teeters on its own destruction should the GOP come into full power, voices like Harry’s will be necessary to see us through these turbulent times. He earns this Dazzler of the Day for his relentless speaking of truth, and encouragement to keep our democracy working.
Full, unhappy disclosure (with spoilers ahead): I am one of those annoying F. Scott Fitzgerald purists who prefers their Gatsby writ large and wildly unbound within the immortal words and pages of the writer. That will always taint how I view any adaptation, and I acknowledge it now as a factual part of my enjoyment of the musical version currently playing at the Broadway Theatre. That said, I’ve always welcomed any and all versions of the work, ready and perhaps too willing to embrace whatever interpretation any number of creators have attempted to employ over the years, including an original Broadway musical, whose over-the-top format might have been the jolt of drama that the novel has demanded, and all-too-often damned.
Starring Jeremy Jordan as Jay Gatsby and Eva Noblezada as Daisy Buchanan (understudy Kayla Pecchioni admirably performed in that tricky role on the evening I saw it), ‘The Great Gatsby’ arrives with much-ballyhooed hype and one of the most outwardly-lush productions of excess, which is one of its strong points. Mirroring the sparkling decadence of the novel, the atmosphere and backdrop is a striking combination of stage wizardry, employing a spectacular hybrid of set pieces and projections that work in seamless tandem to capture the epic scope and expanse of the novel. Capturing this superficial world is like capturing the green light – it looms forever elusive.
This production seems to take more of its inspiration from the Bad Luhrmann movie version than the actual novel itself – something the modern-audience might be clamoring for, and my old, stodgy, stickler ways simply may not appreciate. As such it is at least two interpretations away from the source material, and it feels like that sacrifices some of the novel’s magic.
As Gatsby, Jeremy Jordan brings down the rafters with his soaring voice, and certainly has the wit and beguile to justify assuming the mythical role, yet through either the direction or his full-on embrace of Gatsby’s more charming qualities, Jordan seems to project a knowing wink to the audience, who largely eat it up (judging by their rapturous reaction to his mere presence on stage). The problem is that Gatsby would never give a knowing wink to the world – only perhaps to Daisy, or possibly Nick – an important distinction that tends to plague any and every theatrical adaptation of the book due to its seeming impossibility of expression – it’s too small and quiet for something as demanding as a Broadway theater. And despite the fact that Jordan is given a couple of grandiose solos that are performed alone on stage, one never gets the feeling that this character is in any way lonely – another hallmark that Fitzgerald masterfully merely hinted at, and which ran deep into the dark heart of the novel.
By the time this Gatsby, decked out in his military uniform, steps into a choreographed production number that thrills the audience with Jordan tap-dancing his way into musical theater heaven, the mystery of the character has largely fallen by the wayside, while the magic of the performers and the tradition of Broadway pizazz steps up to center stage. If you’re willing to give in to that, and let go of the wish for something as beautifully dark and gorgeously hopeless as the book so thrillingly conveys, this Gatsby may be enough for you. The singular talent of powerhouse Jordan (who has been deserving of a worthy star vehicle since ‘Newsies’ and the pre-Broadway run of ‘Finding Neverland’) and a supremely adroit cast firing on all cylinders (stand-outs including Samantha Pauly as Jordan Baker and Eric Anderson as a bespectacled Wolfsheim) might be the modern-day Gatsby the world deserves.
Visually, the evening is a sumptuous feast; musically, it provides a typical Broadway score, taking the necessary cues from its 1920’s inspiration, then adding in the requisite bombastic ballads and second act reprises. Taken as a whole, it’s almost enough to approximate the magic of Fitzgerald’s prose, but ‘almost’ and ‘approximate’ will never quite fully capture Gatsby’s glory. If you clamor for the ache and the dimmer underside that only the wondrous cadence of Fitzgerald’s marvelously ambiguous evocations could elicit, then you may find fault with the empty liberties being taken on stage, no matter how much they may dazzle.
Following my own foolish pontification is not something I usually do. It’s fine to fill this space with empty words when I’m looking for filler, and my friends who know my voice know when my heart’s not in it. Just kidding – my friends don’t even visit this place, and if they do they certainly don’t admit it. There would be too much guilt associated with such displeasure. I’m digressing… which happens more often the older I get. A concern upon many concerns.
Back to the pool, which Andy had heated as an early treat, to capture one of those elusive sunny days that dared to climb into the 70’s and flirt with the 80’s. Every day counts when summer can be so fleeting. Andy had already been in once, and after a few days of him encouraging me to take the first dip of the season, I gave in – because when you have a chance to swim beneath a blooming cherry tree, you should always do it – especially if the day is beautiful.
So in I went, after a day of work and worry, wading into the water for the first time this season, in quiet and unheralded fashion, the way the months have passed since last summer, the way they will pass through this summer. Some years are quiet like that.
PS – The featured GIF is not the product of any filter or special effects – it’s the magical reflection of the sun bouncing off the pool water and lending its traveling, mottled light to the cherry blossoms.
The post title here may be slightly misleading, as it’s not so much about boffo-content than it is about it falling the day after Mother’s Day. So let the let-down ensue – it’s what we do best! On the bright side, there is this featured pic of fun at Proctor’s with Mom, Suzie and Andy – on the night we saw ‘Six’ (a must-see). And now, on with the weekly recap, as getting this past rollercoaster of a week over is probably the best for all involved.
Jim Verraros released a follow-up to his international smash ‘Take My Bow’, tantalizingly entitled ‘Pyramid’.
The Met Gala had a very promising and inspirational theme, but the participants and their outfits fell slightly flat (and maybe I’m just bitter for never having been invited).
We celebrated an unremarkably remarkable 14th wedding anniversary a little early in Boston. Fourteen years into married life, and almost twenty-four together, there is still joy and surprises to be found.
Remember me when the lilacs bloom.
When a non-weeping cherry tree weeps.
Evolving into the Carnal Flower.
Ladies & Gentlemen & All Those Who Have Yet to Make Up Their Mind: Presenting Lilacs.
Dazzlers of the Day included Gleb Savchenko and Grace Jones.
“They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling around them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is involved, there is a definite name for such behavior – flirting – and if carried far enough, it is punishable by law. But no law – not public opinion, even – punishes those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these?“
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The lilac that Andy’s Mom had gifted us almost a quarter of a century ago is once again in bloom, along with all of its descendants in three different areas of the yard. So prolific has its growth been that we’ve had to cut it back as it attempted to take over an entire corner of lawn in the backyard. In the process, I transplanted several suckers over the years, each of which has developed into a sizable shrub.
This hybridized version – all fancy double blooms adding to the florificence (a word I just totally made up but that should totally exist) – is like a supercharged lilac – packing perhaps even more fragrance than the old-fashioned variety. There are all those extra flower petals to emit even more perfume. Blessings upon blessings.
This Mother’s Day marks our first without Dad, and it finds my Mom and me in New York, resuming our Broadway tradition in bittersweet style. I was sort of dreading the day when we would be able to do this again, because that would mean Dad had gone. Attempting to accept that, we return to the city as my gift to her for Mother’s Day, and we find joy in the little things, the way Dad would want us to go on.
For all of my life, she has been the family member who has kept us all together, expanding our ranks to include Andy, the twins, Jaxon, and Landrie, and forming the stable core around which all our lives revolve. That’s not always easy – and Moms probably have the toughest job in the world – but she has done it with love and care, and our family is intact today because of her.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom – thank you for all that you do. Here’s hoping you have a wonderful day – and a better year ahead. I love you. ~ A.
A number of years ago, Suzie and I were having a night-cap (or a night-start, I can’t quite recall) at Quill at The Jefferson in Washington. A favorite DC haunt, introduced to me by my friend Chris, Quill provided the quiet and contemplative scene ideal for sharing time with a treasured friend. A piano player tickled out a few standards, and as we settled into our evening, a woman brushed by us and sat down in the next table. I didn’t notice her at first, as I don’t typically notice strangers, especially when talking with a friend. That changed as my nose pricked up at the gorgeous trail of perfume she left behind her, and so exquisite was it that I broke out of my public shyness and told Suzie I was about to ask this woman a question.
“Hi, I just have to ask… what perfume are you wearing? It’s beautiful,” I said.
The woman looked slightly sheepish as she explained that felt a little embarrassed to say the title, but she gave up the name: ‘Carnal Flower’. I told her I knew the Frederic Malle line and it was lovely, then we left her alone. At that time, I wasn’t ready to take on such a fragrance, in name or actual fragrance. It was exquisite on her, but I said that it wasn’t something I could wear. Not then – I was still too unsure of myself.
Created by the brilliant Dominique Ropion for Frederic Malle (the same genius behind ‘Portrait of a Lady’ among many other jewels), ‘Carnal Flower’ is one of the classic early entries in that glorious line. Way back when I was just beginning my scent journey, I tried it out in Barney’s and it was much too much. For years, that’s where it remained in my mind, in the section of ‘too much, even for me’ that no one believes I actually harbor.
Over those years, the Tom Ford Private Blend line brought me into a realm where my nose evolved, and I came to appreciate richer and more complex works, things that went beyond citrus cologne, hinting at deeper and more beautifully dark perfumes. A brief but vibrant excursion through the decadent Diana Vreeland line further expanded my idea of olfactory allure. As time passed, I found myself appreciating perfumes that once repelled me. One of those was ‘Carnal Flower’, which finally revealed its full enchantment to me years after that woman at Quill whispered its forbidden name to me through a shy smile.
A bottle of it greeted me on our anniversary this year, courtesy of Andy, who has supplied more magical fragrance memories than anyone else – this was no different, and it’s been kicking off a floral spring and summer that will hopefully be filled with healing moments of rebirth. With its heart of tuberose, and gorgeously green opening with a dose of bergamot and melon, it is the embodiment of floral freshness, and sticks around surprisingly well, drying down with the lasting tuberose and happy access of orange blossom. All of it leads seamlessly into summer…
The aftermath of a weeping spell was found the day after a spring rain that pulled many of our cherry blossom petals into the pool. One end of the water was completely covered in a layer of pink – a scene that was as enchanting as it was annoying, for someone had to scoop all those petals out before they clogged the filter (and the someone was decidedly not me). Still, what price beauty? What sacrifice charm? What would you give up to gain a bit of enchantment?
Andy turned the pool heater on and has already been in while the cherry was in bloom – at the precise time of this writing I have not yet gone in, but by the time this actually gets posted I may have taken the season’s virginal dip. When you have the opportunity to swim beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, you should always take it.
Our Kwanzan cherry tree is not a weeping form, except when it rains and its blooms are full. At that time, the heaviness pulls the blooms and branches down, closer to the ground, and it assumes weeping form. On a recent rainy day, the tree looked particularly downtrodden and sad, mirroring a stressful week at a time of the year when we’re usually celebrating. It’s ok, and I’ve expected such stretches in this first year after losing Dad.
Lately, he has been on my mind, and as much as that is a comfort to know he’s still here, it’s also a reminder of loss and sadness. This weekend Mom and I are making our first Broadway Mother’s Day weekend since he declined to the point where she couldn’t leave him for a night. The last time we were able to go was in 2019, so it’s been a while. When I think of that, I think of how long Dad’s decline was, and how the process of losing him was something that had been going on for years. There were some wonderful moments, and then there were fewer and fewer good days.
Every time I feel myself thinking I’m starting to be all right again, whatever all right was, and whenever I find myself saying, ‘I’m starting to feel ok’ a bad stretch will result, reminding me that he’s not been gone a year yet. Time does tend to heal, and my healing usually happens when it’s least expected, when I’ve finally accepted that we won’t ever be the same. There is a little relief then, and then there’s not.
My preference for structure and order has been challenged, perhaps for the better, with the process of grieving. I had thought, or foolishly hoped, that it would be the first year which would prove the difficult one, and perhaps that’s still partly true – but in that hope was the idealistic notion that it would only be a year. As much as I understood that was not how grief worked, I wanted so badly to have it be true, and part of me still holds onto that. In an effort to mitigate my disappointment when it doesn’t happen, because I know that it won’t, I don’t put off the sadness when it comes. Life, at its saddest points, won’t be bound or dictated by arbitrary dates or timeframes.
And so I accept the sadness, finding whatever beauty there might be here, the way I find beauty in the weeping of a cherry that normally doesn’t weep.
While I don’t have the energy to write a review, just trust me when I tell you to go see ‘Six’ if it plays anywhere near you.
After what seems like a lifetime of delicious teasing, Jim Verraros releases his new single ‘Pyramid’ today, making this a day worthy of celebration, continuing the splash he made with recent hit ‘Take My Bow’. From cuts like ‘ Go Deep’ on his debut album ‘Rollercoaster’ to much of the ‘Do Not Disturb’ era, Verraros has often offered cheekily unabashed musical takes on gay love and life. Sprinkling in enough skin and spiciness to the proceedings to visually entice viewers, Verraros is also making music that moves the masses. ‘Take My Bow‘ charged across dance floors around the world, and ‘Pyramid’ aims to erect a similar trajectory.
Happiness will always be the promise of a first-time stay at a new Kimpton hotel. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to travel with Mom, and this weekend will mark our first Mother’s Day Broadway trip since 2019, a resumption of a happy tradition. When seeking out a comfortable base of operation for our shows, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a new Kimpton hotel had risen since our last trip (and a few memorable stays at The Muse).
The Hotel Theta is ideally located in midtown – perfect for where we like to be – in the heart of Manhattan and yet somehow just slightly, and blessedly, removed from the madness of Times Square. According to their literature, the rooms offer more space than the average New York hotel room, which can be, at best, uncomfortably cozy. After a day of feeling packed into humanity, the escape of a hotel room high above the business and busyness of the grid is a welcome indulgence. Elevating that experience is the client care and customer satisfaction for which the Kimpton company has been rightfully renowned. I’m very much looking forward to returning to the city, celebrating a Broadway weekend with Mom, and checking out a new Kimpton property.
{Check out the Hotel Theta website here for further information.}
Iconic goddess Grace Jones, original slayer of pop culture and still a magnificent force with which to be reckoned, has crafted a career and life destined to blaze for ever after. This crowning as Dazzler of the Day is a mere footnote in her storied lifetime of achievements. In a world where the word ‘icon’ has lost some of its hallowed meaning, Jones is a reminder that only a few truly exist. Behold her eternal power and revel in her ongoing relevance.
Are the cherry blossoms more enchanting during the day or at night?
My current answer is at night.
The effect of their pale pink petals glowing against a darkening sky is exquisite, and while there are charms that can only be gleaned upon closer inspection in the unforgiving light of day, there is something more magical about them in the mystery of night.
