Category Archives: Theater

With its epochal questions of the artist versus the man, ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ is a good musical that wants to be great, but falls just slightly short of that unreachable goal. Like its flawed hero David Shayne, it performs admirably enough, but misses that final pull on the heartstrings that would make this more than what it is – which is, thanks to an ensemble of sheer perfection – already a pretty good show. (When Karen Ziemba is relegated to a rather minor supporting role, you know the talent pool is deep.) Luckily for this premiere staged version, that talented cadre of a cast is what lifts it into something better than its lighter-touch would have anyone presume.

Before you consider purchasing tickets, the bad news upfront is that I saw the show on its closing day. There’s something special about the closing performance of a relatively new musical, and this one proved exceptionally powerful, with the cast and crew rising to the occasion to produce a series of show-off-numbers and comedic gold. Making his leading man stage debut, Zach Braff as David Shayne takes the helm and carries the show on his more than capable shoulders. Broadway veteran Marin Mazzie (of ‘Passion’ and ‘Ragtime’ fame) fittingly portrays Broadway diva Helen Sinclair, in a role originated onscreen by the great Dianne Wiest. Comparisons are inevitable, but Ms. Mazzie’s golden voice supersedes any messy holes in the plot – though this reveals the fatal weakness of the production: these performers are far better than the material.

Whereas the movie was more of a comedic farce, the stage version leans a bit too heavily on the artist/man hang-up at one moment, before falling into broad humor the next. It can’t quite make up its mind whether to wallow in the pathos of the moral questions at hand or gloss over it all with superb stage presence. Some shows can have it both ways, but not this one.

Talent will always rise above, however, and this show had it in spades. There’s the aforementioned Braff and Mazzie, who perform the most moving highlight of the show – ‘There’s a Broken Heart for Every Light on Broadway’ – and by the end of it, as waves of applause echoed through the St. James Theatre, you could see Mr. Braff wipe a few tears from his eyes, perhaps realizing the bittersweet ending of a dream. He need not cry about it – his performance was pitch-perfect, and his singing voice was a revelation. It’s no mean feat to go head-to-head with a Broadway pro like Mr. Mazzie, but Mr. Braff more than held his own.

Hélene Yorke snatched the bulk of the laughs with her dithering portrayal of the worst actress in the world, Olive Neal. As her mafia-man sugar daddy, Vincent Pastore brings some slithering Sopranos charm to his mobster role, while Brooks Ashmanskas brings belly laughs (literally) as the ever-expanding Warner Purcell. With charisma and charm, and equal parts generosity and menace, reaches into the rafters with his spot-on portrayal of secretly-talented hit man Cheech, whose creative relationship with Braff’s Shayne is more interesting than any of the other predictable romances. Yet not enough is made of this, and not enough is done to make this anything more than the movie version come to imitated life.

Still, there are glimmers of what could have been. In many ways, this is a throwback to a more innocent Broadway, when song and dance and triple-threat performers wowed audiences with their sheer precision and bombast. That was most evident in the raucous take on ‘Taint Nobody’s Business If I Do.’ For those of us who started off almost cringing at the idea of a dancing chorus line of mobsters, the troop quickly won most over with their exuberance, their talent, and the sheer force of their will to entertain.

As good as the actors give, the show itself fails to fully rise to the occasion. Director, choreographer, and all-around genius Susan Stroman does her best to thrill and dazzle, and several unique staging decisions (from an ingenious train to a three-sided merry-go-round of scenes) provide both spectacle and plot-points that drive the story (the climactic staging of the play features a spinning behind-the-scenes look at the play-within-the-musical), yet it lacks a cohesive arc. Part of this is due to the source material: at once a love letter and a Dear John kiss-off to Broadway, especially its critics. Ruminations of the value of art versus the value of a human being feel heavy-handed in a show that wants to delight with sheer showbiz pizzazz. Its musical reliance on a few tried-and-true standards also feels like a tepid retreading wanting for deeper resonance, something that connects more.

That said, praise must still be sung for that cast, those fine performers who carried it into the realm of something spectacular. It showcased the magic of artists at the height of their power, making the most of what they are given, and putting on a performance that made everyone in the audience a believer… even if it was the very last time.

The hottest ticket of the season belongs to the titular victim of a botched sex operation in ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch.’ If you’re lucky enough to get seated in the first few rows you may get a kiss, a motorboat, a car-wash, or a drop of glittery sweat. I got something far more precious. A song or two into the show, Neil Patrick Harris as Hedwig looked me straight in the eye, raised his middle finger, and mouthed the words, ‘Fuck you.’ It was glorious. It was thrilling. It was the blessing of Hedwig.

Gorgeous and grotesque, hilarious and morose, male and female, good and bad ~ Hedwig embodies the best and worst within all of us. Harris gives his blood, sweat, and tears to this committed performance. As the “internationally ignored” songstress of the show, he is making the star-turn of the Broadway year, and every accolade you’ve heard turns out to be winningly accurate. He doesn’t leave the stage once for the intermission-free marathon of a show, even as he does countless costume changes (most of Hedwig’s sartorial journey is one show-long strip-tease, with a couple of hair-raising exceptions – and for one of those quick-changes, his head still manages to remain on-stage.) Defying conventional Broadway rules, this is more of a rock-show than a book-musical, but the loose narrative is given bulk and weight by the themes of identity (sexual and otherwise,) loss, sacrifice, family, love, cruelty, redemption, and acceptance.

Hedwig represents and champions the misfits and losers, not in any heavy-handed anti-bullying message, but rather through sheer exuberance and example – of living as she is and not making any apologies for it. Hedwig has been dealt a rather cruel number of blows (ba-dum-bum) but her resilience, her perseverance, and, yes, her bitterness, turn her into a champion. There is rage burning here, mostly misdirected toward the put-upon Yitzhak, who gives challenge to Hedwig’s attention-getting theatrics with his own sheer talent and propensity for toying with wigs. It’s a risky move – showing off in the proximity to such a show-off – and it takes Hedwig the majority of the show to offer someone else the spotlight.

Harris is so mesmerizing and entertaining as Hedwig, projecting such raw star power and finesse, it almost works against the show in that it’s unbelievable how Hedwig did not become the star that her nemesis Tommy Gnosis did, until you think about her story, her appearance, and the ways we resist all that is foreign and different. That becomes the sad apex of the show, and in the final third of the evening, as she comes to terms with the unfair hand she was dealt, in a moment of redemption and forgiveness, she overcomes her outsize, over-compensated ego, and gives her “husband” Yitzhak the opportunity to do what she never could.

It is an act of supreme generosity and it frees both Hedwig and Yitzhak in one fell, and moving, swoop. As she rises on a pedestal, recalling the boy she was, and the person she longed to be, she also comes to a sort of peace with the Hedwig within. Like most of us, that defies a rigid idea of gender or a single set rule of what it means to be human. We are like the multi-faceted crystals hanging from her first outfit, throwing off different colors depending on the light and shadows of life, moving and fluid, yet sharp and dangerous.

Not many of us can directly relate to the story of a sex change operation gone so horribly wrong, nor of the brush with fame, or such singular musical talent, but somehow Hedwig manages to touch a heart-string of humanity, ring a gorgeously raw note from it, and leave us all just a little better for having heard it plucked.

Why is it that certain undeserving shows seem to run now and forever, while more thoughtful and beautiful works close before they can be fully appreciated? Such was the question that ran through my mind as I took in a performance of ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ the weekend before it was set to close. As written by the brilliant Jason Robert Brown (‘Parade’, ‘Songs for a New World’) the raved-about score does indeed prove ‘gorgeously rapturous,’ and the lead performances are nothing short of magnificent. This is a show that must be heard in its entirety to fully capture the emotional arc of its characters. It builds from its slightly mournful opening notes, into a sweeping, lush masterpiece, with touches of bouncing country bits and soaring operatic flourishes – a strange juxtaposition of Iowa and Italy that somehow works.

While this rendition of the popular but oft-maligned book is almost immaculately faithful to its source (at odds with its subject matter), a musical version of the tale sounded, on paper at least, less than thrilling. Yet it is precisely the power of the music that finally makes this story about more than a cheating housewife. ‘Bridges’ tells the narrative of Francesca Johnson, a married housewife, and Robert Kincaid, a photographer traveling through her town, and how they fall in love and deal with the aftermath of that.

It is a tough tale to sell, and only the most accomplished actress and singer could make Francesca into a heroine for whom the audience roots. Kelli O’Hara is more than up to the task, and her Francesca transforms from a woman whose main duty in life has been sacrifice, to a woman giving gratefully, if reluctantly, over to her desires. As she loosens her hair and unties her apron, Francesca comes alive in discovering her love for Robert, even as she acknowledges the pull of her husband and family.

The success of this production relies upon both her and the audience being torn. It’s not enough for her husband to be the proverbial bad-guy, and he isn’t. A bit bland perhaps, harried to the point of anger at times, but it’s still not enough to fully support Francesca’s choosing the sexy stranger ~ played with equally winning spirit (in equally fine voice) by Steven Pasquale. As Robert, Mr. Pasquale begins a bit in the dark, emerging from the back of the theater, lost literally and perhaps figuratively, before finding himself, and a focus, in Francesca. Even so, the story requires something more to be truly moving, something to convey a love that is more than excitement or kindness or sensitivity, and that added element – the one that solves the initially-insurmountable yet undeniable fact of adultery – comes in the unlikely form it has taken: a musical.

I can’t tell you I know what the answer will be – it’s impossible, but this thing, this is bigger than what we can see.

This is destiny. We are tied, we are locked, we are bound.

This will not be reversed or unwound.

Whatever fate the stars are weaving, we’re not breaking, I’m not leaving…

It’s the music that supplies the solution to the moral dilemma, and the songs Francesca shares with Robert (‘One Second and A Million Miles’) are what make ‘Bridges’ such a compelling, and devastating, production. It may not entirely eradicate the blame, but it makes it gorgeously relatable, inevitable in fact.

Francesca’s actions aren’t simply an act of betrayal, they are a protection of her heart, a curious way of protecting her husband and her family, with whom she could only stay after having glimpsed another life. The love she shared with Robert is carried closer to her heart, burning quietly as her life goes on, in an exquisitely staged montage of temporal movement. The moral dilemma over whether it was right or wrong is not wholly solved with the “love is never wrong” argument, but finds some minor resolution and come-uppance in the sad musing of “what-might-have-been.”

While the show is not perfect (moments ripe for greater emotional impact – Francesca and Robert’s first dance, for example – are initially given a comic, country angle when a more earnest delivery of the waltz that accompanied it may have made for greater impact), such trifles are minor compared to the emotional journey of the show, a journey matched and exalted by its music – the waves of which begin lapping softly and gently, growing into a pounding and gloriously overwhelming emotional climax that left even this hardened viewer, who was relatively unimpressed with the book, moved and affected.

The mark of artistic magic is in making the viewer empathize with something. ‘Bridges’ is the stuff of dreams almost-realized, of sacrifice and love, of safety and obligation. It’s a study of the difficult choices we must make, how we deal with those choices, how we come to terms with our decisions, and whether we will always wonder “what if?” This is a beautiful show, and though its challenging themes and somewhat-unhappily-ever-after ending does not send the audience out beaming or tapping toes, it leaves a deeper stamp upon their hearts.

For our first show of the season, Mom and I saw, rather fittingly, ‘Mothers and Sons’ – Terrence McNally’s Tony-nominated play starring Tyne Daly. Mr. McNally has written some powerful plays over the years (notably ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ and ‘Master Class’ – which we had the fortune to see on Broadway during their original runs) and this one is no exception. If it doesn’t quite match the polish of those two standards, it may because this one is a little more raw, a little more urgent – something befitting the times recalled here. It helps that the play features a trio of fine performers, led by the amazing Ms. Daly, who gives a brittle, controlled, seething-just-beneath-the-surface performance as a monstrous woman (Katharine Gerard) still mourning the loss of her only child to AIDS. The early days of that plague are recalled with a distant but humane detachment. With each passing year, it becomes easier and easier to forget, and ‘Mothers and Sons’ may be McNally’s best efforts at seeing that that never happens.

Ms. Daly gives a subtle yet stunning turn as a lonely yet terrifying woman, filled with sly moments of black humor, hidden pockets of pathos, and one perfectly-rendered tear that, on this particular evening, happened to fall literally two seconds before the fall of the final curtain. That sort of precision is the work of a studied actress at the height of her power. Daly never lets her guarded heart show until the very end. In a few heaved sobs, she finds release, but it’s not quite clear if she’s found redemption. To Daly’s credit, you want to love some part of her, in spite of all her awfulness, and you almost do.

Anger plays a large part in this play, seen in the anger of her black fur coat, in her blood red dress, in her rigid black handbag that she carries with her about the apartment. Such fussiness is at odds with the relaxed, casual attire and attitude of her son’s former lover, Cal Porter, who picked up the pieces of his tragic past eight years after the death of his partner. As Cal, Frederick Weller has the emotionally-open roller coaster ride of the evening, veering from a hopeful earnest belief in people – showing a woman who has only hurt him the city of New York and drawing the audience into his comfortable life – before careening back into the dim days in which he lost his partner, and ending up somewhere ambivalently at peace with all that has happened.

Bobby Steggert as Will Ogden offers the idealistic and innocent view of the current generation, while their young son Bud (a precocious Grayson Taylor) offers a peek at the open-minded unaffected future. McNally offers many things to many people – the struggles of gay men and the AIDS crisis of the 80’s, as well as questions of age and gender roles, and new families being raised by two dads. In discussing Katherine’s past and the way she chooses to portray herself as being from Rye instead of Port Chester, New York, larger questions are raised and examined, particularly regarding secrets and the ways we pretend – or the ways we feel we have to pretend. It’s an ambitious work, that almost proves too much, threatening to dissolve beneath such broad historical strokes, but in the end it retains its heartfelt core, anchored by a spot-on group of actors who give these full-bodied characters conflicted, exasperated, heart-rendered life.

(After watching such a terrible mother mourn her son and the way she treated him throughout his short life, I was left feeling incredibly grateful for the woman who sat beside me in the theater, who loved me no matter what, and who did her best as my mother. We walked back through a misty night, to rest up for the next day’s surprise…)

She first caught my eye scrambling to the top of a human pyramid in ‘Steel Pier’. She then cast a spell over us as she descended in a bubble for the opening of ‘Wicked’. But last night, Kristin Chenoweth captured my heart just by being herself, in her solo show at Proctors Theatre, where she brought her music and magic to an adoring crowd.

A Broadway baby who’s made a mastery of the star-turn on television and in movies, Ms. Chenoweth is perhaps best-known and most-beloved for originating the role of Galinda in ‘Wicked,’ yet she was treading the boards for years before that. I remember her fondly in a smaller, scene-stealing role in one of her first Broadway shows: John Kander and Fred Ebb’s under-appreciated ‘Steel Pier’ from 1997. I sat in the third row for that show, and every time Ms. Chenoweth came onstage, she drew the attention and energy of the entire theater with her exquisite, heart-stopping coloratura. That such a petite pixie could produce such a powerful sound was a stunning and unexpected thrill, and I found myself standing at the end of the performance just for her.

She referenced that show before launching into one of Kander and Ebb’s better-known ballads ‘Maybe This Time’ from ‘Cabaret’ – capturing the brittle crux of desperation and hope that makes Sally Bowles such a transfixing and tremulous character. Chenoweth knows her way around the dramatic rendering of a story-song, both in poignant form (‘Coloring Book’) and lighter fare (‘Taylor the Latte Boy.’)

Her background in musicals made this a gratifyingly-Broadway-focused evening, even though she has several pop/country albums under her belt. After ‘Steel Pier’ she went on to win a Tony in ‘You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown’ and a couple of years later she returned to reclaim her Broadway crown in ‘Wicked’. The only issue I’ve had with all of her shows was that she wasn’t in every scene, which makes a solo performance such a supreme joy.

Chenoweth sprinkled self-deprecating interludes and anecdotes throughout the night (including a sweet shout-out to Schenectady’s own Ambition Cafe, where she’d gone earlier in the day) but it was her pure musical talent and artistry that reigned supreme, and the audience loved every pristine note, erupting in a couple of standing ovations.

A centerpiece of ‘Wicked’ tunes provided a contemplative gaze back over the last ten years. After performing ‘Popular’ for over a decade, she said she needed to do something to keep it interesting – in this instance that meant singing some of the verses in Japanese and German (she’s working on her Norwegian). From that touchstone song she moved into a touching audience participation moment in a duet with local eight-year-old Olivia, who held her own in ‘For Good’. Chenoweth said that Oz would always be a part of her, and proved it with a powerhouse version of ‘Over the Rainbow’ more than a little inspired by its originator Judy Garland.

Even with weaker material such as Andrew Lloyd Webber’s treacle (‘Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again’) she managed to make something transcendent, and while she impressively showed off her belting prowess at several points, it was the quieter moments that were more emotionally devastating. Her touching, delicate rendition of ‘Bring Him Home’ from ‘Les Miserables’ became a literal prayer, a song of faith, and an exhibit of finding the universal meaning in a lyric, turning it into something both intensely personal and utterly relatable. The high she gets off that sort of connection was exuberantly apparent.

The finale of the evening was her self-proclaimed anthem ‘I Was Here’ – a rousing and inspiring song in which she extols the importance of doing something that matters, and making your presence felt. In the hands of a lesser, less-genuine performer, the platitudes might have rung hollow, but in the care of such an impassioned and earnest master, it was nothing short of breathtaking. The crowd stood, demanding an encore, and Chenoweth delivered with an acoustic version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ done in original Dolly Parton fashion. It was the perfect ending to a perfect show.

Displaying genuine warmth, gratitude, grace, and a seemingly-effortless gift that soared beyond the rafters of Proctors and into the hearts of all in attendance, Chenoweth delivered a performance that cemented her status as one of the finest vocalists and song interpreters out there, as well as one of the most charismatic and enthralling stars to grace any stage.

1995 was the year I was obsessed with ‘Sunset Boulevard’ – mostly the musical, but my enthusiasm spilled over to the original movie (which has worn far better than the musical over the ensuing years – and probably before too). Granted, the musical is far from perfect, but this scene is. It features the original Broadway cast – which is the one my mother and I saw together. Glenn Close gave one of her seminal performances as Norma Desmond, and it really was her magic that stole my heart – she was frightening, feral, humorous, desperate, moving, melancholic, giddy, ferocious, hilarious, hopeful, and utterly mesmerizing. While Betty Buckley may have had the vocal prowess, and Gloria Swanson may have been the real thing, it was Ms. Close who moved me the most in this role. I recognized in her the frantic last grasp at happiness, the distorted and disturbed result of years of being loved and adored by strangers but not one specific person. There’s a loneliness like no other in that.

I usually post this clip of my favorite scene from the musical for New Year’s. The one seen above is the best quality of the show I’ve found thus far, and in it we get to see the many nuances of Ms. Close’s performance. From the opening entrance down that magnificent staircase to that ridiculous but somehow poignant feathered-hairpiece, the whole thing always brings tears to my eyes. It wasn’t the dramatic histrionics that moved me so, or the over-the-top trappings and costumes – it was the simple moment of falling in love with someone who didn’t love you back. Ms. Desmond storms into the scene all fiery hope and intensity, refusing to believe in anything other than the happy ending she has planned for herself and Joe Gillis. She does her best, pulling out all the stops, seducing alternately like an army sergeant and a little girl, tugging on the heartstrings and a passion that was never there in the first place. I cannot watch that futile act without feeling sad. She wants so badly to be loved…

At the 3:19 mark they begin their dance, and in her eyes is all the hope of the world, focused in her gaze, her giddy motion, her girlish glee. We’ve all danced like that in our hearts – at least, if we’ve been lucky once or twice. To not know that kind of unrequited love is to not have lived. I watch her happiness at that moment, the way she loses herself in their dance, and my heart breaks a little. Every year.