Michael Dale - Page 140

I had the immense pleasure of taking another visit to Grover's Corners, New Hampshire last week, via the fascinating David Cromer production of Thornton Wilder's Our Town that opened in February at the Barrow Street Theatre. Back then I wrote that the director's non-traditional take on the play - which remains completely faithful to the author's text and themes - was one of the most exciting theatre events of the season. On second look, with a mixture of new and old cast member, I'd say it's the best theatre production I know of currently playing in New York.

From Show Boat to Finian's Rainbow to Ragtime to Hairspray the racial divide between white America and Americans of African decent has been one of the richest resources for both Broadway musical dramas and musical comedies. And a popular theme of such musicals has been the assimilation of African-American music into the white mainstream. The latest to tackle this topic, Memphis, certainly wouldn't look like the best of the lot on paper, but on stage the gritty sincerity of Joe DiPietro's book coupled with David Bryan's infectiously melodic compositions (they collaborated on the lyrics), under Christopher Ashley's dynamic staging, frequently threaten to tear the roof off of the Shubert Theatre.

You wouldn't expect a 1937 Broadway musical that satirized American profiteering from wartime rumblings in Europe and was written to showcase the unique comedy talents of 'The Perfect Fool' Ed Wynn to be especially playable in the year 2008, but The Medicine Show, on their tiny stage way out west on W. 52nd Street, do a bang-up job with Hooray For What!

While there are many artistically pleasing features to be seen on stage in SLAVA'S SNOWSHOW, the Russian clown piece that returns to New York for a limited Broadway run, you can also have a heck of a good time if you just like having things thrown at you, dropped on you, sprayed at you or bouncing off of you.

If I were a betting man I'd wager Billy Elliot to be the last show standing should the economy remain steadfast in its current quest to entirely obliterate Broadway. (Any truth to the rumor that the next thing moving into the St. James is a Starbucks?) Throngs who were enchanted by the musical's source film and even more who have been undertowed by the waves of publicity surrounding the three adolescents who alternate performing the title role (presumably until puberty brings out the hook) will no doubt enter the Imperial Theatre for many months or even years to come, as eager to see the kid dance as audiences at Miss Saigon were to see Royal Academy of Dramatic Art graduate Jonathan Pryce hump a Cadillac. And Billy Elliot never disappoints in that respect. My Billy of the evening was the very game Trent Kowalik, but even if you catch a performance starring David Alvarez or Kiril Kulish (or understudy Tommy Batchelor) you can take your seat assured you'll be witnessing the work of a specially trained specimen carefully schooled in the arts of ballet, tap, street dance, jazz and gymnastics at the exclusive Billy Elliot House, which I'm told is only a short drive from Grease Academy.

After his Broadway debut shut down after four performances, All My Sons was the play that put Arthur Miller on map; running for a good nine months, winning the 1947 Tony Award for Best Play and bringing the author to the attention of Senator Joseph McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee.

First things first; there is no hot air ballooning in Mark Brown's stage adaptation of Jules Verne's Around The World In 80 Days, just in case your only familiarity with the plot comes from Michael Todd's not exactly faithful 1956 movie version. (For that matter, there aren't any martial arts fight scenes either, in case you only saw the Jackie Chan remake.) But if Verne's hero did dabble in a bit of ballooning, I'm sure Brown and director Michael Evan Haney would have found some clever way to depict it in this lively and entertaining little production that's landed at the Irish Repertory Theatre in association with Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park.

While the rest of the country celebrates Independence Day with barbeques and fireworks, musical theatre lovers like me will gather around their television sets for the traditional viewing of what I and many others call the finest film ever made from a Broadway musical, 1776.

There's a moment in Show Boat where a woman sings that her true love, 'just plain Bill,' is 'an ordinary man' who 'isn't half as handsome as dozens of men' and is, on the whole, kinda stupid.  This is considered by many to be one of the most romantic love songs of the 20th Century.  In Neil LaBute's new reasons to be pretty the main character, reacting to his buddy's ravings about how hot another woman is, says that his girlfriend of four years may be 'regular' looking, but he wouldn't trade her for a million bucks. This will not be considered one of the most romantic sentiments of the 21st Century.

Though Ervin Drake's 'The Friendliest Thing (Two People Can Do),' from his 1964 hit What Makes Sammy Run?, has been called the first song from a Broadway musical to be directly about having sex, Suzanne Carrico employs no vampy winks or purring vocals as she observes with heightened intellectual interest the unnecessity of foreplaying drinks and dances when a couple in lust could simply get right to it.  (Yes, I just made up two words in that sentence.  Deal with it.)  Her new show at The Metropolitan Room, opening less than three weeks afters winning the MAC Award for Outstanding Debut, is named for this suggestive showtune but the self-described geek cleverly treats the song as a subtext to Cy Coleman and Dorothy Fields' 'Welcome To Holiday Inn,' sandwiching the cerebral sexuality between slices of broader, comical pass-making.  This is either the smartest show about sex or the sexiest show about smarts in town.In outstanding company both offstage (Mary Cleere Haran is her director) and on (she's got music director/arranger Tedd Firth on piano and Steve Doyle on bass), Carrico has the kind of sunny, uncomplicated voice that can fill Harold Arlen and Leo Brown's 'Hooray For Love' with perky glee, matched with the kind of acting skill that can explore the dark dramatic longings of Arlen and Johnny Mercer's 'I Had Myself a True Love,' climaxing in an anguished belt that is far more about the woman she portrays than her ability to vocally shine.She calls this her hanky-panky show and most every number has something to do with sex.  There's the sweet simplicity with which she approaches Jimmy Roberts and Joe DiPietro's 'I Will Be Loved Tonight,' where a woman who has gone too long without a lover's touch anticipates how the evening's date will end, and the wry exasperation of 'Toothbrush Time,' William Bolcom and Arnold Weinstein's tense contemplation on why last night's lover is taking so long to get out of the apartment.  She savors the snazzy jazz jauntiness of Michael John La Chiusa's 'The Thief' and turns George Gershwin and B.G. DeSylva's 'Do It Again!' into a lopsided debate between the mind and the libido (guess who wins).The very funny sexpot character song, 'Femininity' (Jay Livingston/Ray Evans), is given an interesting personal twist as she introduces it with some of her own feelings as an adolescent girl surprised by the different way boys would look at her once she started developing.  Her admiration for the romantic passion expressed by Alan and Marilyn Bergman fuels her detailed story-telling in 'Like a Lover' and 'The Island.And for those who believe that hanky-panky is never complete without a bit of cuddling after, she finishes the evening with a very satisfied and satisfying 'Embraceable You' by the Gershwins.

Set designer Derek McLane exercises no subtlety in immediately establishing the mood for Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's drama Good Boys and True.  On entering Second Stage's theatre the audience is greeted by three walls full of dozens and dozens of sports trophies neatly displayed in wooden shelves that stretch from the floor to upper reaches of the playing space.  Though the characters never recognize these trophies as a realistic part of their environment, they serve as a continual backdrop reinforcing a culture that believes those who achieve victory – in athletics, in career or in solving conflicts – are the only ones who matter.

Maybe I've been watching too many Sex & The City re-runs but once or twice during Manhattan Theatre Club's terrifically acted revival of Caryl Churchill's 1982 drama of gender politics, Top Girls, I couldn't help wondering how its famous first act might work if the cast included Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Cattrall, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon. Because if you don't know the play itself, it may strike a familiar chord if I said, 'It's that one where a group of interesting women get together in a restaurant having revealing conversations while drinking lots of alcohol.'

Spotted at Cafe Edison:  Hillary Clinton and Cubby Bernstein in serious conversation huddled over bowls of motzah ball soup.  As Leo Frank sang, this is not over yet.

I mean it with the most sincere amount of respect and admiration for both gentlemen when I write that Peter Gallagher seems to have morphed into Jerry Orbach.  At least in his portrayal of Bernie Dodd, the hard-driving Broadway director convinced that when the star of his new play suddenly leaves for a Hollywood gig he can get a great turn out of the washed-up alcoholic actor whose performances twIce Thrilled him many years ago.  He's the best part of Mike Nichols' new production of Clifford Odets' The Country Girl (which has undergone some text tweaking by Jon Robin Baitz).  His tough, but passionate mannerisms and gruff speaking voice bring out a sense of urgency to the proceedings as he convinces a skeptical producer (Chip Zien), a reluctant actor and his long-suffering wife that his high-stakes risk can pay off big.  By the end of the evening I was half expecting the man to send his star on stage with an exhilarated, 'Think of musical comedy!'

Check your good taste at the door and have a blast at Cry-Baby, the deliriously warped new musical comedy based on the John Waters flick spoofing the culture clash between squares and juvies in 1950s Baltimore. While jokes about polio and sexually abusive priests and songs about tongue kissing may not be for everyone, this hilarious and spirited tuner serves up its crudeness and with extra helpings of whipped cream and sprinkles from the first notes of its revved-up overture to the final chord of the play-out music. I laughed for over two hours and when I looked down I saw my toes involuntarily tapping. It's a fun night out.

Though Julie Wilson was certainly not the first and by all means not the last great singer to have her heart stomped upon by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht's 'Surabaya Johnny,' there is no one I can name more deserving to claim it as their signature song.  (Okay, maybe Lotte Lenya, but you know that's a special case.)  Though for many years now the 83-year-old beloved cabaret star has been singing songs less and less and speaking them more and more, there are few who can match her for painting vivid word pictures and bringing complex dramatic subtext to a lyric.  With pianist Christopher Denny doing a marvelous job of softly supporting her many pauses and tempo changes, Wilson's crushing performance of Marc Blitzstein's translation, played to a pin-drop silent crowd on opening night of her new show at The Metropolitan Room, is an emotionally striking portrayal of a woman who can explode with anger at the mistreatment she endures from her faithless lover while moments later barely control a sob at the admission that she still loves him.  Through the years I've seen Julie Wilson sing 'Surabaya Johnny' many times but her performance that night was the best I've ever seen or heard from anyone.  (And as is typical of her modesty, she actually introduced the song by complimenting Donna Murphy's performance of it on Broadway in LoveMusik.)  She follows it with a devilishly humored 'Mack the Knife' (also Blitzstein's translation) that builds so slowly and precisely that she goes through the entire song twice in order to hit the climax.  I heard no complaints.

There were actually those who thought Cole Porter, Broadway's fountain of divine wit and sophistication, had run dry by that winter of 1948.  Though his recent offerings like Something For The Boys and Mexican Hayride were far from flops, his kind of thin-plotted musical comedy where the book and the songs often had little more than a passing acquaintance with each other was being overshadowed by the enormous success of Rodgers and Hammerstein's integrated musical dramas.  Even in the lightest of entertainments, the public was becoming more and more enthralled by musicals with strong plots and well-developed characters.

With all due respect to Kelli O'Hara, Paulo Szot, director Bartlett Sher and even Richard Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein II and Joshua Logan, the real star of the Lincoln Center revival of South Pacific is orchestrator Robert Russell Bennett, whose sublime work from the original 1949 production is now enchanting contemporary audiences.

Oh sure, it's still the most breathtaking, emotionally packed evening of damn near perfect musical theatre in town (No, make that of theatre in town.) and Ms. LuPone's Rose is now an even more complex and finely detailed portrayal, but while she hasn't exactly turned demure on us for Gypsy's transfer to Broadway, she has seriously toned it down.

You'll please forgive me if I've run out of superlative adjectives with which to describe the work of Marilyn Maye, who, after a 15-year absence from New York's cabaret scene, just opened her 4th Metropolitan Room show in a baker's dozen months.