The Cough of Utopia
I've been seeing a lot of theatre lately and haven't really talked about it on here. It's been Gay Marriage Week on He Who Laughs, I suppose. Let's take a break, shall we? Those cuddly, sexually-satisfied Christians talk enough about it as it is.
On Tuesday night I got lucky when Katie called with a second press ticket to Mary Poppins, Disney's latest extravaganza to hit the footlights. I must say, after months seeing plays off-Broadway,
it was a nice change of pace to ooh and ahh at an enormous, multi-million dollar Broadway musical. The set is especially impressive, with a complete house that just zips around that stage and then shoots up into the flyspace. I know, what? And in terms of performances, it has a fantastic one from Gavin Lee, who played Bert in London, was nominated for an Olivier, and will surely be nominated for a Tony here. I think the show's too long, though, and the book and score were much weaker than I was expecting. Lots and lots of broad, broad strokes in the storytelling and in the other performances -- not a lot of genuine, organic emotion going on. Sure, it's a machine, so I don't know what I was expecting. It's technically spectacular, and it hits all the marks it should -- and maybe the actors don't have much choice about that. The kids around us were certainly enjoying it, so maybe I should just shut my jaded mouth.
Wednesday night I was also lucky. Elena invited Melanie and me to a preview of Grey Gardens, a new musical based on the infamous documentary that I've been looking forward to seeing for months. The buzz is all around Christine Ebersole, who plays one role in Act One and another in
Act Two; she received unanimous raves and just about every theatre award you could win off-Broadway last year. She's expected to win the Tony this year, and, having seen her now, I can say she deserves it. The show's kind of a mess, with a first act that can hardly justify its existence and a far, far superior second act that is undone by what precedes it. The story it tells is quite unsettling, though; the show's effectiveness was evident when the three of us, over margaritas and nachos afterwards, confessed we were terrified of becoming abandoned, old, mad cat ladies.
Last night I saw the first play, Voyage, in Tom Stoppard's trilogy The Coast of Utopia at Lincoln Center. As per usual at Lincoln Center, I sat in a sea (a sea) of the pale and aged. They even make a special announcement about turning off hearing aids at the beginning. And did they? Of course not. And you know why? Because they're old, and they've lived so long that they no longer need to honor society with good behavior. They've paid their dues. And, because they're ancient, we shouldn't dare confront them. They're our elders.
Well, last night, my elders pissed the hell out of me. I shushed the woman next to me about forty times. She kept turning to her husband and saying, at normal talking volume, "I hope the second half's better," and "What movie was he in?" And then she got out some candies and it took about five years to unwrap it, sending that horribly loud crinkling sound throughout the entire mezzanine. I was feeling positively murderous.
Oh, and the coughing. The coughing! I've never heard so much coughing in a theatre before in my life. I know the weather's changing and it was raining and freezing, but come on, folks. At least try and stifle it, with your hand or your sleeve or your program or your companion. Many of the characters in the play, being Russian revolutionaries, had seizing coughs, and they met their match with the thousand invalids at Lincoln Center last night. Big whooping coughs, small staccato coughs, rattling juicy coughs, piercing dry coughs; you name the bodily fluid, it was coughed up last night. I could hardly concentrate on the play.
Speaking of the play, it's hard for me to comment at the moment because I feel like I haven't seen all of it. Even though Stoppard said in his program notes that he wants the plays to stand alone, it felt to me like the first act of a three-act play. It's staged beautifully by Jack O'Brien and designed within an inch of its life -- the opening of the play is the most spectacular series of visual moments I've ever seen on a stage. I can't even describe it. It has a great cast, too: good performances (so far) from Martha Plimpton, Billy Crudup, and Jason Butler Harner. Ethan Hawke got a lot better throughout the evening (and I think he's a great stage actor), and so did Jennifer Ehle. Amy Irving had little else to do but beat her serfs, and Brian F. O'Byrne's accent distracted me. His character is the central one, however, and becomes more prominent in the remaining plays, so my thoughts will probably change.
Lincoln Center provided fantastic synopses in the program, and it was fun at intermission to walk out into the lobby and see everybody sitting on the stairs, the railings, chairs, leaning against the walls, studiously reading the dramaturg's notes.
Right before the curtain call, the lights were going down, and everything was silent; the old boot next to me turned to her husband and said, "That was long." I turned to her, looked her in the eye, and put my finger to my lips. And she shrugged. She shrugged her arthritic shoulders at me.
On Tuesday I was slightly irritated by the young kid sitting behind as at Mary Poppins who kept saying things like, "Where's she going?" and "Will Mary come back?" But now, I look back on that lovingly. Give me an audience of children over an audience of the elderly any day. To watch a show through kids' eyes is better; they want to be there and they want the show to be good. The elderly want the show to be over so they don't miss the 10:38 crosstown bus.
On Tuesday night I got lucky when Katie called with a second press ticket to Mary Poppins, Disney's latest extravaganza to hit the footlights. I must say, after months seeing plays off-Broadway,
it was a nice change of pace to ooh and ahh at an enormous, multi-million dollar Broadway musical. The set is especially impressive, with a complete house that just zips around that stage and then shoots up into the flyspace. I know, what? And in terms of performances, it has a fantastic one from Gavin Lee, who played Bert in London, was nominated for an Olivier, and will surely be nominated for a Tony here. I think the show's too long, though, and the book and score were much weaker than I was expecting. Lots and lots of broad, broad strokes in the storytelling and in the other performances -- not a lot of genuine, organic emotion going on. Sure, it's a machine, so I don't know what I was expecting. It's technically spectacular, and it hits all the marks it should -- and maybe the actors don't have much choice about that. The kids around us were certainly enjoying it, so maybe I should just shut my jaded mouth.Wednesday night I was also lucky. Elena invited Melanie and me to a preview of Grey Gardens, a new musical based on the infamous documentary that I've been looking forward to seeing for months. The buzz is all around Christine Ebersole, who plays one role in Act One and another in
Act Two; she received unanimous raves and just about every theatre award you could win off-Broadway last year. She's expected to win the Tony this year, and, having seen her now, I can say she deserves it. The show's kind of a mess, with a first act that can hardly justify its existence and a far, far superior second act that is undone by what precedes it. The story it tells is quite unsettling, though; the show's effectiveness was evident when the three of us, over margaritas and nachos afterwards, confessed we were terrified of becoming abandoned, old, mad cat ladies.Last night I saw the first play, Voyage, in Tom Stoppard's trilogy The Coast of Utopia at Lincoln Center. As per usual at Lincoln Center, I sat in a sea (a sea) of the pale and aged. They even make a special announcement about turning off hearing aids at the beginning. And did they? Of course not. And you know why? Because they're old, and they've lived so long that they no longer need to honor society with good behavior. They've paid their dues. And, because they're ancient, we shouldn't dare confront them. They're our elders.
Well, last night, my elders pissed the hell out of me. I shushed the woman next to me about forty times. She kept turning to her husband and saying, at normal talking volume, "I hope the second half's better," and "What movie was he in?" And then she got out some candies and it took about five years to unwrap it, sending that horribly loud crinkling sound throughout the entire mezzanine. I was feeling positively murderous.
Oh, and the coughing. The coughing! I've never heard so much coughing in a theatre before in my life. I know the weather's changing and it was raining and freezing, but come on, folks. At least try and stifle it, with your hand or your sleeve or your program or your companion. Many of the characters in the play, being Russian revolutionaries, had seizing coughs, and they met their match with the thousand invalids at Lincoln Center last night. Big whooping coughs, small staccato coughs, rattling juicy coughs, piercing dry coughs; you name the bodily fluid, it was coughed up last night. I could hardly concentrate on the play.
Speaking of the play, it's hard for me to comment at the moment because I feel like I haven't seen all of it. Even though Stoppard said in his program notes that he wants the plays to stand alone, it felt to me like the first act of a three-act play. It's staged beautifully by Jack O'Brien and designed within an inch of its life -- the opening of the play is the most spectacular series of visual moments I've ever seen on a stage. I can't even describe it. It has a great cast, too: good performances (so far) from Martha Plimpton, Billy Crudup, and Jason Butler Harner. Ethan Hawke got a lot better throughout the evening (and I think he's a great stage actor), and so did Jennifer Ehle. Amy Irving had little else to do but beat her serfs, and Brian F. O'Byrne's accent distracted me. His character is the central one, however, and becomes more prominent in the remaining plays, so my thoughts will probably change.
Lincoln Center provided fantastic synopses in the program, and it was fun at intermission to walk out into the lobby and see everybody sitting on the stairs, the railings, chairs, leaning against the walls, studiously reading the dramaturg's notes.
Right before the curtain call, the lights were going down, and everything was silent; the old boot next to me turned to her husband and said, "That was long." I turned to her, looked her in the eye, and put my finger to my lips. And she shrugged. She shrugged her arthritic shoulders at me.
On Tuesday I was slightly irritated by the young kid sitting behind as at Mary Poppins who kept saying things like, "Where's she going?" and "Will Mary come back?" But now, I look back on that lovingly. Give me an audience of children over an audience of the elderly any day. To watch a show through kids' eyes is better; they want to be there and they want the show to be good. The elderly want the show to be over so they don't miss the 10:38 crosstown bus.
posted by Isaac at 3:48 PM
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