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'School of Rock – The Musical'

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[As has occasionally happened on ROT, the coverage of the press response has swelled my report on School of Rock – The Musical beyond my customary limit.  (As you’ll see, the review round-up accounts for more than half the post’s length.)  I’ll make the same explanation I’ve made before for this circumstance: rather than stinting on the review quotations or reducing the selection of press outlets I’ve consulted, I’m letting the report go long.  The discussion and my assessment of the performance of the movical, however, is no longer than more typical posts of this kind.  I hope you’ll at last sample the press response I summarize, but that decision’s up to the reader.  (For discussions of movicals in general, see my posts “Movicals,” 20 September 2013, and “More on Movicals,” 21 February 2014.)]

What’s the matter with kids today? That’s the musical question asked 56 years ago when rock ’n’ roll was still a baby—even younger than the fifth-graders in School of Rock – The Musical.  Back then, the answer, as far as the adults of Sweet Apple, Ohio, were concerned at least, was pretty much everything: their music, their clothes, their language, their dances.  School of Rock’s answer?  Not a thing—as long as they can be in a rock band!

School of Rock is a show I never thought I’d go see, to be honest.  I watched the 2003 Paramount Pictures movie directed by Richard Linklater and starring Jack Black, and it was cute but not really my cuppa.  (I’m not a big fan of Jack Black.  I find him more irritating than funny.)  I figured it was aimed at ’tweens about the age of the kids in the story.  Besides, way back in 1981, when I saw Evita, I decided that I wasn’t going to spend money to see any more Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.  But my cousin and her husband called me and said they’d be coming up from Maryland for a birthday party and they’d like me to join them for a show—and believe it or not, the only one, play or musical, neither of us had seen or were already planning to see that was even remotely acceptable was . . . that’s right: School of Rock.  It had gotten pretty decent reviews, as far as I’d read, and I really didn’t want to say no to my cousins again, having turned them down in January when they went to Something Rotten! (which I saw later and absolutely loved; see my report posted on ROT on 11 May), so I said yes.  And off the three of us baby-boomers went to catch the one o’clock matinee at the Winter Garden Theatre on Sunday, 21 August.

With a book by Julian Fellowes (Broadway’s Mary Poppins, PBS’s Downton Abbey), music by Andrew Lloyd Webber (Jesus Christ Superstar, Evita, Cats, Starlight Express . . . oh, hell, and a passel more everyone already knows!), and lyrics by Glenn Slater (The Little Mermaid, Sister Act, Leap of Faith), School of Rock – The Musical, based on Mike White’s screenplay,began previews on Broadway on 9 November 2015 and opened on 6 December.  (After the mat on the 21st, School of Rock  had played 31 previews and 295 regular performances.)  The production, directed by Laurence Connor (the current Broadway revival of Les Miz) and choreographed by JoAnn M. Hunter, received nominations for four Tonys (Best Musical, Best Book of a Musical, Best Original Score, Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role) and five Drama Desk Awards (Outstanding Musical, Outstanding Orchestrations, Outstanding Lyrics, Outstanding Sound Design, Outstanding Music) but won none.  It was also nominated unsuccessfully for Outer Critics Circle, Broadway.com Audience, and Drama League Awards.  

The Broadway production is the show’s world première, but Lloyd Webber (who’s also a producer of the show) staged a concert version at the Gramercy Theatre (on 23rd Street near Gramercy Park) in Manhattan in June 2015.  Lloyd Webber has announced that School of Rock will make its London début at the New London Theatre this fall with previews starting on 24 October and an opening on 14 November.  (A U.S. national tour will go out in 2017.)  The original cast recording of School of Rock – The Musical was released by Warner Bros. Records on 4 December 2015.  Also before the play’s opening, Lloyd Webber and R&H Theatricals, a division of the Rodgers & Hammerstein Organization, announced in October 2015 that the amateur rights for the musical would be available immediately for productions starting rehearsals after opening night; there have already been school productions of School of Rock staged around the country.  (The movie also spun off a half-hour cable series on Nickelodeon which débuted last March and started its second season earlier this month.)

The story of School of Rock – The Musical (which runs two hours and 20 minutes with one intermission) follows the film’s plot pretty closely.  Aside from the exchange of original songs for covers, the stage musical changes a few characters’ names, mostly among the kid musicians.  Dewey Finn, played by Black in the movie and Will Blum (the alternate for Alex Brightman) at the matinee performance I saw, is still the central figure in the plot.  He’s still a slacker rock guitarist; he’s still booted out of the band he helped start; and he still impersonates a substitute teacher at the prestigious Horace Green prep school in his anonymous city.  (One other small change: in the movie, the class Dewey turns into a rock band is fourth grade; in the play, the kids are fifth-graders.  That only means the 11- to 13-year-old actors playing the students are supposed to be 10 instead of 9.)

Dewey Finn (Blum) is a wannabe rock guitarist who’s kicked out of his own band, No Vacancy (think Metallica rip-off), for constantly up-staging the lead singer, Theo (John Arthur Greene), with his on-stage antics (“I’m Too Hot for You”).  The band’s moving up, the other musicians think, and Dewey no longer fits in; for one thing, they’re all good-looking (they say) and Dewey’s . . . well, a zhlub.  Then he’s also fired from his day job at a record store (“When I Climb to the Top of Mount Rock”).  Constantly broke, Dewey shares an apartment with his friend and former Maggotdeath bandmate, Ned Schneebly (Spencer Moses), who’s now a substitute teacher with a domineering girlfriend, Patty Di Marco (Mamie Parris).  Dewey’s months behind in his share of the rent, and Patty demands that Ned kick him out.  Patty goes off to work and Ned’s out, too, when Dewey answers a phone call for Ned.  It’s the exclusive Horace Green school in need of a substitute teacher for the rest of the term.  Needing money and a job, Dewey pretends to be Ned and accepts a job as a fifth-grade teacher at the snobbish private school.  

Of course, Dewey arrives late (and hung-over) and finds Principal Rosalie Mullins (Jenn Gambatese) anxiously waiting for him (“Here at Horace Green”).  Uptight Ms. Mullins hardly notices Dewey’s unpreparedness, slovenly attire, or physical state as she ushers him into his classroom.  He promptly declares permanent recess, much to the disbelief and consternation of the over-achieving pupils, as he stretches out on the desk for a bit of recovery time.  When he happens on the students’ music class and recognizes their talent, he forms a plan to realize his dreams of rock stardom.  The sub forms a rock band with his 10-year-olds in an effort to win the prize money (and spotlight) offered by the Battle of the Bands competition—out of which he was cheated when his old combo dumped him.  

Obviously, Dewey has to do this in secret because Ms. Mullins and the children’s parents, who all have expectations for and demands on their offspring, would clearly disapprove and shut him down.  Needless to say, though, the students, after some hesitation, take to the idea wholeheartedly—though Dewey has to convince one or two that forming a rock band is an educational benefit, or even a good idea.  He hands out band assignments to musicians (Zack on electric guitar – Brandon Niederauer, Katie on bass – Evie Dolan, Lawrence on keyboard – Diego Lucano, and Freddy on drums – Raghav Mehrotra), singers (Shonelle – Gianna Harris, Marcy – Carly Gendell), back-up dancers/roadies (Madison – Ava Della Pietra, Sophie – Gabby Gutierrez), a manager (bossy, gold star-craving Summer – Isabella Russo), a lighting techie (Mason – Gavin Kim). a stylist (the Streisand-adoring, Vogue-reading Billy – Luca Padovan), and a security chief (James – Jersey Sullivan) who’s job it is to warn the class when Ms. Mullins or one of the teachers heads their way.  (In an amusing—and serendipitous—bit, Summer, who’s a terrible singer, auditions as a back-up vocalist by croaking her way through Lloyd Webber’s “Memory” from Cats, which originally ran for 18 years at the Winter Garden and is now in revival at the Neil Simon.  The song was used in the same moment in the movie, but takes on special significance in the adaptation.)

When Tomika (Bobbi MacKenzie), the shy new girl who’d been silent and isolated till now, reveals that she’s a talented singer (with a spectacular rendition of “Amazing Grace” worthy of Vy Higginsen’s Gospel for Teens Choir), she, too, joins the combo; “You’re in the Band” iterates the class’s—and the play’s—point and becomes a catch phrase for acceptance and belonging.  (As in the movie, the young band members really play their instruments, sing, and dance as well as act—as a pre-curtain announcement recorded by none other than Lloyd Webber himself assures us.  There’s also a pit orchestra of eight that supplements the on-stage combo for the non-band numbers.)  Dewey and his anti-establishment anarchism (“Stick It to the Man” is a signature song for Dewey and the new band) soon have a noticeable effect on the fifth-graders’ self-assurance.  (Many reviewers noted the irony of this theme in a play written and composed by two millionaire life peers—Lord Lloyd-Webber of Sydmonton and Lord Fellowes of West Stafford are both barons—who sit in the House of Lords as Tories, the very embodiments of “The Man”!)  The Horace Green faculty is jealous of Dewey’s unconventional success (“Faculty Quadrille”).

At home after school, each of the young band members shows us the difficulties each has relating to his or her parents, none of whom really listens to their children (“If Only You Would Listen”).  (This is the one area of the plot that’s been expanded from the movie: we learn more of the pupils’ family lives.)  In order to secure permission to take the students on a “field trip,” Dewey, having learned that Ms. Mullins was once a Stevie Nicks fan, asks her for a drink at a road house where she reveals what’s under her tight-ass exterior (“Where Did the Rock Go?”).  Back at Dewey’s apartment, Ned and Patty have opened the mail and found a check from Horace Green made out to Ned.  After Patty leaves, Dewey comes clean but makes Ned promise not to tell his girlfriend. 

At school the next day, Zack plays the class a song he’s written (“School of Rock”) and Dewey is so impressed with Zack’s talent, he asks Zack to teach it to the band.  There’s a near-crisis on Parents’ Night when the pupils’ parents discover what the kids have been spending their time on, but Dewey charms them—with a lie, to be sure, but they buy it (“Math Is a Wonderful Thing”).  But just as Dewey navigates this predicament, Ned and Patty burst in and, Patty having gotten the truth out of pussy-whipped Ned, expose Dewey.  In the ensuing chaos, the students and Dewey escape Horace Green, but Dewey’s so dismayed he retreats to his darkened room until the students explain how much he’s meant to them (reprise of “If Only You Would Listen”).  In the end, of course, the School of Rock, the name the fifth-graders chose for their group, manages to make it to the theater. 

In a slight twist, they don’t actually win the competition—No Vacancy, Dewey’s old band, does—but School of Rockdoes win the hearts of the spectators—including the previously skeptical parents—who demand an encore from the mini-rockers (significantly, a reprise of “Stick It to the Man”).  Dewey explains to the kids that winning isn’t the important thing because together they accomplished something more significant.  They beat “The Man”—the one who makes and enforces all the rules.

Back at Horace Green, following the Battle of the Bands (which is really the dramatic conclusion of the play), Ms. Mullins, who’s the children’s actual music teacher, combines some heavy rock licks with her classical singing (“Queen of the Night” from Mozart’s Magic Flute), signaling that things are in for a change at the school—all due to the School of Rock and Dewey’s influence.

School of Rock is fun—the little kid musicians are fantastic!—but I have some significant quibbles.  One is with the sound system, which muddled the singing so badly neither my cousin nor I could decipher Slater’s lyrics.  Even the non-rock numbers—more-or-less regular theater songs—were blurred.  I’ll get to the other issues in a bit, when I cover the show in more detail, but the music is significant because one of the major differences between Linklater and White’s movie and the Fellowes-Lloyd Webber-Slater stage musical is in the score.  Where the movie used mostly covers of rock songs, the play has original songs whose lyrics impact the plot and characters.  (Four songs are reprised from the film: “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks; “School of Rock,” aka“Teacher’s Pet,” by Mike White and Sammy James, Jr.; “In the End of Time” by Jack Black and Warren Fitzgerald; and “Math Is a Wonderful Thing” by Black and White.  James is a member of Mooney Suzuki, a  garage rock band featured in the film; Fitzgerald is a punk guitarist.)

In case no one else spots it, if Harold Hill played an instrument instead of just selling them, and if he were a would-be musician instead of a huckster salesman, School of Rock would be The Music Man—as long as the music’s rock and not Sousa marches.  (Principal Mullins would be Marian the Librarian and Lawrence, the unconfident keyboardist, would be young Winthrop with the lisp.)  I don’t know if screenwriter White, filmmaker Linklater, or stage adapter Lloyd Webber considered this or if its just a universal tale, but the parallels are pretty hard to overlook.  And that’s where my second quibble comes in.  The apparent point of the show seems to be that if you let your kids be rock musicians, they’ll be great, even of they never learn anything else in school.  Of course, that’s bogus—but if you take the play seriously, that’s what it says.  (Dewey delivers a very heartfelt speech to the parents making that point, and it’s not treated as a joke.  In fact, the play turns on this scene.  You have to believe that the whole play takes place in an alternate universe to overlook that and just see it as a charming fantasy.)
                 
Oh, well, as some great philosopher once said: We don’t need no education!  (He also said: Teachers leave them kids alone, another aspect of the play’s philosophy.)

There are other essential problems here as well.  While Blum is a worthy stand-in for Brightman, his Dewey isn’t really loveable the way the character should be to make the play soar.  In fact, he’s pitiful—and that’s the way the character’s written and directed, not just the way Blum comes off.  Now, as I said, I’m not a fan of Black’s, so the movie didn’t work for me in that way, either, but I’m enough of a dramaturg to be able to analyze the performance text to see that that’s what’s supposed to—or what needs to—occur for this story to take off.  The result of the lack of this quality in the anarchic, slovenly, loud-mouthed Dewey is that his message begins to seem potentially dangerous.  He comes close to the Pied Piper luring Hamelin’s children into the cave.  (Indeed, David Rooney of the Hollywood Reporter dubbed him “the renegade pied piper of bad-assery.”)  He’s teaching the kids to be sneaky, dishonest, disrespectful, and defiant (for example, one lyric from “Time to Play,” a song Summer and the fifth-graders sing, is “Look rebellious, act more crude / Bring your best bad attitude”), which is only good if the authority figures like Ms. Mullins and the parents are actually venal (think Nazi prison guards and authoritarian dictators).  But they’re not.  Horace Green may be snobbish and hidebound, but it’s not Animal Farm (it’s also not Matilda or Annie).  The parents don’t listen, but the family lives aren’t The Great Santini or Mommie Dearest.  What’s Dewey up to?  Starting a cult? 

(By the way, the parents are another small thing that bothers me.  In an entire fifth-grade class, every single parent suffers from the same shortsightedness and inattentiveness to his or her child?  Not one ’rent pays attention?  And while I’m at it, this is a whole class of musical prodigies?  Really?  What are the chances of that?  I guess we are in that alternate universe.)

And if we presume that somehow Dewey is redeemed in the end by his encounter with the kids or maybe the reborn Ms. Mullins, that doesn’t happen, either.  (Actually, he goes into this gig for his own selfish purposes.  Like Professor Hill, Dewey only pretends to care about the children—until he sort of comes around near the end.)  When Dewey’s exposed for a fraud and an imposter, he escapes punishment because Mullins tells a lie to cover for him.  (And Patty—who, granted, is a harridan—is the one who’s threatened with legal consequences.  Even though she’s actually right about Dewey, she’s made to be the heavy of School of Rock )  Why does he deserve this outcome?  Because the band kids capture everyone’s heart—not by saving a baby from drowning, the theater from burning down, or the school from closing, but by being good at playing rock music.  Wait, let me amend that: by being 10-year-olds who are good at playing rock music.  In School’s Brigadoon universe, this is apparently the highest of human aspirations.

(I think you’re getting an idea why I didn’t figure I’d buy a ticket for School of Rock.  I have the wrong temperament for it.)

Let me repeat, however, what I said at the start of my assessment: School of Rock is fun.  Despite what may seem harsh criticism, I did enjoy the performance overall.  It’ll never go down on my list of best-ever theater experiences, but it was far from one the worst.  Blum’s performance was fine, but what really puts School of Rock – The Musical over the top as a piece of musical theater are the 13 band members.  No matter how well Dewey’s performed, no matter how good Fellowes book is, and even no matter how tuneful Lloyd Webber and Slater’s score is, it’s the performances, both the acting and the playing, provided by the pre-teen members of the cast that sets this movical above the run-of-the-mill.  (I haven’t seen Matilda, but I’ve heard those youngsters are even more astounding—but I can’t make a comparison.) 

The members of Dewey’s fifth-grade School of Rock are a mixed group now, some from the opening cast and some replacements; at the mat I saw, there were even a couple of understudy/standbys on stage.  Nonetheless, they're by far the best things in the whole show, both as characters (Isabella Russo’s Summer is deliciously bossy,  Diego Lucano is touchingly insecure as Lawrence, and despite the stereotypicality of the character as written, Billy is compellingly determined in Luca Padovan’s hands) and rockers.  (I’d like to think that in the real world, in an ironic reversal, School of Rock would have beaten No Vacancy in the Battle of the Bands.  Lloyd Webber’s music and Slater’s words are pretty derivative—it’s one of the problems that turned me off Lloyd Webber years ago—but “School of Rock” and “Stick It to the Man” are both more interesting pieces of music than “I’m Too Hot for You” and the kids’ musical staging was more fun than No Vacancy’s been-there-done-that posing!  I’m just sayin’.)

The acting of the adults is a different matter.  With children, I think, it doesn’t matter if the roles are written as clichés and stereotypes because I don’t think that registers with really young actors.  They just commit to what the playwright and director give them and go for it.  As Matthew Murray of the website Talkin’ Broadway explained it, they do “exactly what all great musical theatre actors do: transcending the falseness of their surroundings to create a new and better reality through nothing more than their impeccably honed and applied talents.”  It’s part of the childlike quality actors try to retain—believing fully in what they’re doing in the moment.  It’s acting as playacting, and the closer the actor is to childhood, the stronger that impulse is.  But adult pros lose more and more of that the more experienced they get and they have to work at getting it back.  They’ve been around long enough to recognize stereotypes and stock characters and it’s harder for them to play them truthfully without signaling what they feel.  In School of Rock,the adult characters are in such a category and for the most part, the actors don’t or can’t disguise that or play though it.  The parents and teachers (played by the same corps with doubling: Steven Booth, Natalie Charle Ellis, Josh Tower, Michael Hartney, John Hemphill, Merritt David Janes, Jaygee Macapugay, et al.) certainly don’t add anything to their characterizations beyond the caricatures Fellowes wrote for them.  They follow their graphs faithfully, but never rise above cartoons—sort of like the grown-ups in a Peanuts animation. 

I’ve had my say about Blum’s Dewey (and, from the opening-night reviews I read, the same holds true for Alex Brightman, so it’s apparently not entirely the actor’s responsibility): he doesn’t turn Dewey from an unlikeable slob into a charming and child-like rebel.  But Jenn Gambatese manages to make the transition with Rosalie Mullins.  In the opening scenes, she’s the classic tight-ass, even costumed with glasses and a hair-bun.  In the bar scene with Dewey, however, when she almost literally lets her hair down (now, that would be a cliché) and lets her inner Stevie Nicks loose, we get a peek at a Roz that’s genuine and personable.  Her little speech about how she hates the social and academic politics of Horace Green that’s the foundation of her job may be a little too on-the-nose dramatically, but it apparently gives Gambatese enough fuel to take her into a more human characterization and it’s even possible to see her fall a little under Dewey’s spell at that moment.  (It’s a tad incredible, but that’s because Blum doesn’t make the concomitant shift in Dewey that makes him loveable—but that’s hardly Gambatese’s fault.)  When it comes time for Ms. Mullins to release the fifth-graders for their “field trip” and then, more momentously, for her to lie to save Dewey, it’s almost justified by her left dogleg after her Fleetwood Mac turn. 

Director Connor seems to have worked better (or perhaps just more) with the children than with the adults, and he achieves more with them as a result.  Most of School of Rock is staged perfunctorily, but the young wannabe rockers get the best moves.  Hunter’s dances, too, are less than sparkling except for the children, though their numbers tend to be repetitive (and even perhaps derivative) in their pogo-stick jumping movements that look a lot like the kids in Matilda in that show’s commercials.  Anna Louizos’s sets and costumes are fine (her get-ups for Dewey’s grunge-wear couldn’t be . . . well, grungier), with mostly minimal scenery to allow room for movement (except Dewey’s classroom where shifting desks and furniture around to disguise what he’s up to is part of the play’s performance text).  The three rows of sliding panels that make up the detailed back walls of various rooms work well here, and re-jiggering the pupils’ school uniforms for their band costumes (and giving Dewey an adult version for the Battle of the Bands bit) is, if not inspired, then just this side of kinky.  (Blum, in his knee socks and high-tops, looks like an off-kilter scout leader in his maroon plaid shorts and Horace Green blazer.  There should be a prize for the most disturbing costume at the contest.  I wonder what stylist Billy was thinking . . . .)

Natasha Katz’s lighting is well-conceived, from the under-lit atmosphere of Dewey’s bedroom, where the curtains are probably never opened, to the institutional blandness of the prep school hallways, to the rock-concert LED glare of the Battle of the Bands (which caught me right in the eye—but never mind).  The musical direction of Darren Ledbetter works perfectly well for Lloyd Webber’s orchestrations, especially in the faux-rock numbers, but I’ve already said my piece about the sound design of Mick Potter (which is why I have nothing to say about Slater’s lyrics).  Since I feel the musical is a showcase for the ’tween band, all the production elements are really just eyewash for those moments anyway, so as long as they don’t get in the way, they’re perfect for this production.

The press coverage of School of Rock – The Musical was immense.  Show-Score tallied 60 reviews, including out-of-town papers (Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune) and even abroad (London’s Telegraph), giving the movical an average score of 74.  The site reported that School of Rock got 75% positive notices against 3% negative ones and 22% mixed reviews.   (My round-up will cover 33 press outlets, some different from Show-Score’s.)  The one aspect of the show which united almost all the reviews was the nearly unanimous praise for and delight in the performances of the 13 children who play the members of the School of Rockcombo.  From the highest scoring to the lowest rated notice, not one reviewer dissed those kids. (As it happens, I saw then-12-year-old Niederauer, who plays lead-guitarist Zack, on Stephen Colbert’s Late Show last November and his musicianship was indeed remarkable.)

Among the dailies, the highest Show-Score rating (85) went to Matt Windman’s am New York review, in which the review-writer called School of Rock “highly enjoyable and heartwarming” with music that’s “occasionally serviceable and sappy” but “contains [Lloyd Webber’s] best music in a very long time, bursting with excitement more often than not.”  Windman made a special point of stating, “The dozen or so children are wildly talented and absolutely adorable.  I dare you not to smile as they stomp around and chant that they will ‘stick it to the man.’”  In the shadow of the blockbuster of last season, Hamilton, School isn’t “a game-changer,” the amNY writer offered, “but . . . it is a solid, well-structured musical comedy.”  (Windman also caught that School of Rock is “a modern version of ‘The Music Man.’”)  With a “Bottom Line” of “The kids are definitely all right in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s enjoyable show,” Linda Winer’s Newsday review labeled the movical “high-energy, enjoyable, [and] unrelentingly eager-to-please.”  The production, Winer asserted, “is as slick and sure of itself as if it had been running at the Winter Garden Theatre since Lloyd Webber’s ‘Cats’ closed 15 years ago.”  The pre-teen musicians are “all terrific,” declared Winer, and Slater’s “easygoing lyrics” are set to a “hard-rocking and comfortable” score by Lloyd Webber. 

In the New York Times, Ben Brantley described School of Rock as Lloyd Webber’s “friskiest [show] in decades” and “is about as easygoing as a show can be that threatens to break your eardrums.”  Brantley reported that “for its first half, at least, [School of Rock] charmingly walks the line between the cute and the precious, the sentimental and the saccharine.”  Brantley cautioned, however, that “in the more lazily formulaic second act . . ., you can taste glucose in the air.”  The adaptation’s creative team “translates [the film’s] sensibility into Broadway-ese with surprising fluency.”  In sum, the Timesman declared that “‘Rock’ is surprisingly easy to swallow, in large part because everyone involved seems to be having such a fine time,” adding that “family audiences should be grateful for a Lloyd Webber show that only wants to have fun and hopes that you do, too.”  The New York Post’s Elisabeth Vincentelli  pointed out that every part of the show except one is “on the plot’s outskirts” because “the story is centered on the relationship between the children and Dewey.”  Vincentelli, though, did complain of the play’s sexism since the “adult women are either straight-laced or shrewish, while the little girls are stuck in rock’s traditional parts.”  The musical’s “whole heap of new tunes by Andrew Lloyd Webber,” says the Post reviewer, are his “catchiest tunes in years.” 

The unsigned Daily News review (which Show-Score identifies as Joe Dziemianowicz’s) described School of Rock as a “wildly energetic but uneven show” made up of “the great and fantastical stuff” of Broadway musicals.  The News review-writer named a few songs that “jolts [sic] the show awake,” then complained that “they’re exceptions.  Most of the new songs tend to be just okay at best.”  The songs, Dziemianowicz said, feel “generic” and at many points, “the music is just too loud for its own good, suppressing what may be decent lyrics under amplified purple haze.”  Overall, the Newsmancomplained, “The show wants to rock your socks off, but it just moves in fits and starts and feels labored” and director Connor’s “staging is inconsistent.”   Still, the “young actors/musicians all kick axe,” but it’s “a show that can’t get out of its own way—or add much to the classic movie.”  In the U.S. edition of London’s Guardian, Alexis Soloski labeled the movical a “perfectly pleasant, perfectly innocuous new musical,” though she warned that early scenes “are wholly predictable” and “musical numbers are unhappily anodyne.”  Then Soloski added, “But things perk up when the younger cast members finally get a chance to sing and play.”  She explained: “The children are universally adorable and several of them are staggeringly accomplished musicians.  It is an absolute treat to hear them.”  Soloski complained, however, that Lloyd Webber’s songs don’t really rock: “any hard electric edges have been sanded away.”  School of Rock – The Musical, the Guardian reviewer concluded, “wants to please and please it does.  But rock it doesn’t.”

Robert Feldberg of the Bergen County, New Jersey, Record called School“old-fashioned and predictable” in a review entitled “Remember when people thought rock-and-roll would save the world?”  He responded to his own question by asserting, “That mantra is the ringingly dated message of ‘School of Rock,’ a throwback musical in more ways than one.”  Then, however, Feldberg added, “But it’s also fun, demonstrating how entertaining a formulaic evening, smartly executed, can be.”  “Directed . . . at a rapid pace,” School of Rock has “a strong, if simple, story . . ., apt songs . . ., [and] lively performances.”  With “all-around theater know-how, the show is a tribute to professionalism,” affirmed the Record review-writer.  Feldberg concluded that School of Rock “is meant to be a feel-good musical, and, despite its manipulativeness and cartoonish characters, it largely succeeds.”  

On NJ.com, Christopher Kelly of the Newark ­Star-Ledger predicted that the “faithful-bordering-on-slavish adaptation of the” movie “will win no prizes for originality.”  Labeling the movical a “big, noisy musical,” Kelly asserted that it “transposes virtually every scene from the film onto the stage.”  The Star-Ledger reviewer found that the music and  lyrics “are a forgettable pastiche of contemporary Top 40 pop-rock,” then reported that School of Rock “nevertheless keeps a smile plastered on your face” because “there can be no denying the verve and indomitable energy of the young cast.”  Connor and Fellowes “do a fine job moving the story along at a pleasant clip”; however, “the real stars of this show are the thirteen children who play the members of Dewey’s class, pint-sized forces of nature who sing, dance and play instruments.”  Kelly’s last thought was that spectators

could wish that choreographer JoAnn M. Hunter had come up with something more inventive than the stomp-heavy moves so reminiscent of the dance numbers in “Matilda.”  You could also complain that the two main female parts . . . are such tired, rhymes-with-witch clichés.  Or you could sit back and enjoy a musical that reminds us that “family-f[riend]ly entertainment” need not also be an insult to a grown-up’s intelligence and good taste.  “School of Rock” may not be one for the history books, but it nonetheless has plenty of valuable lessons to teach. 

The Wall Street Journal’s Terry Teachout opened his notice with a declaration:

The commodity musical, that parasitical genre in which Hollywood hits of the relatively recent past are repurposed for profit by turning them into paint-by-the-numbers big-budget Broadway shows, is the worst thing to happen to American musical comedy since maybe ever. 

Then he conceded that “there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be theoretically possible to write a good commodity musical,” and grudgingly allowed, “Turning ‘School of Rock’ into a musical isn’t the worst idea in the world.”  In fact, he affirmed that “if you need a safe, undemanding show to take your baby-boom parents to see over the holidays, it’ll do perfectly fine—but if that sounds like lukewarm praise, it is.”  Teachout reported that “Fellowes’s version isn’t funny” and the Lloyd Webber-Slater songs, except “Stick It to the Man,” which “is catchy, fun and extremely well staged by” choreographer Hunter, “are filler, synthetic and innocuous.” The WSJreviewer also complained, “The music is loud but not ear-shreddingly so, though it’s impossible to hear the lyrics when the pit band cranks up.”  As for the “good stuff,” Teachout said only: “The kids are absolutely wonderful.”  His final comment?

I’ve seen worse and so have you, and if that’s enough to get you to spring for a pair of $145 tickets to “School of Rock,” go for it.  Just be forewarned: This is the kind of musical that sends you home wanting to rent the movie.  I don’t know about you, but that’s not why I go to the theater.

Brendan Lemon of the U.S. edition of the Financial Times, another wag on the theater beat, mused:

“Are you not entertained?” bellows Russell Crowe at the arena in the 2000 movie Gladiator.  All during School of Rock, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Colisseum-loud [sic] musical . . ., I kept asking myself the same question.  Like the victims of those enslaved warriors, I felt pummelled [sic] by the experience.

He, too, conceded that “the tremendously talented children in this cast perform with an intensity that only a churl could deny”; this is where the “show’s chief pleasures reside.”  Still, Lemon observed, “None of the new songs created by Lloyd Webber and Glenn Slater, his lyricist, do much to enhance the existing tunes from the source material” even if the show “has been energetically directed.”  Fellowes’s book “honours the movie’s storyline with a Dowager’s dutifulness,” though “the transitions are abrupt and the characters’ backgrounds a little sketchy.”   

Elysa Gardner started right in by asking in USA Today: “How could you possibly resist them, these fresh, sunny faces and sweet pre-pubescent voices that dominate the cast of School of Rock – The Musical?”  Gardner reported that Lloyd Webber “happily, has approached the project with a healthy sense of humor, though he and lyricist Glenn Slater also provide a few earnest ballads.”  Repeating that “it’s the younger cast members who engage us most,” Gardner concluded that “you’ll root for all of them, and have a grand time doing so.”

The New Yorker’s “Goings On About Town” column declared that School of Rock “goes straight for the pleasure center” and that the Lloyd Webber-Slater songs “really do rock.”  (The New Yorker reviewer was another who saw “a latter-day Harold Hill” in Dewey Finn.)  The columnist concluded by pointing out, “But the chief triumph of Laurence Connor’s production is the child actors, who give winning, distinctive performances.”  Also making comparisons with Meredith Willson’s classic Music Man, Jesse Green remarked in New York magazine, “If you are willing to overlook trite sentiments like” those expressed in the lyric “Wreck your room and rip your jeans / and show ’em what rebellion means” (from “Stick It to the Man”), School of Rock “has a fair amount to offer: . . . a clean, swift staging by Laurence Connor; and, for those who like it, temporary deafness.”  Green confirmed, though, “The big gimmick is of course the kids,” whom he labeled “terrific” (and, the man from New York assured us, “not overly adorable”) even if each “has a predictable arc and a backstory full of clichés” that’s “completely pro forma and signboarded like crazy.”  The adults, said Green, are saddled with the need to “turn salesmanship into character,” but “Fellowes’s book doesn’t allow it, offering no psychology, only traits.”  Comparing the score to that of “the best musical comedies,” Green asserted, “But School of Rock, like many rock musicals, has a problem availing itself of the genre’s full power, because reasonably authentic rock of the type imitated here, circa 1975, has such a limited vocabulary.”  Slater’s lyrics,” when they can be heard, are clean and on point,” but Lloyd Webber “is not, in any case, a real rock composer” and his music “grabs whatever tropes seem handy” for the moment at hand.  But, Green proclaimed, “The problem is what the point is”:

If Dewey represents the anarchic spirit of rock, and we are meant to cheer when he gets the kids to share that spirit, do we suddenly not notice that he’s, well, a loser? . . . .  Looked at squarely, this is a show about a poseur, not just liberating but undermining everyone around him.  (The musical’s villain is his roommate’s girlfriend, who is punished for the crime of wanting him to pay his rent by being turned into a hideous nightmare bitch.) 

“There is [a] tremendous amount of talent . . . behind School of Rock," asserted Jesse Oxfeld in Entertainment Weekly

And yet, without a doubt and by a long shot, the best things on the stage of the Winter Garden Theatre are the dozen or so unknown kids who steal the show . . . .  They bring to what might otherwise be a dutiful screen-to-stage retread an inspiring jolt of energy, joy, whimsy, and—do the kids still say this?—mad skillz.

School of Rock isn’t perfect,” the EW reviewer observed, but Lloyd Webber “has written a fun, catchy, rock-ish score,” reported Oxfeld, continuing that “when those kids . . . take the stage, School of Rock is a delight.”  Time Out New York’s David Cote said the adaptation from film to stage by the “unlikely creative team” of School“successfully execute such a smart transfer,” even if those who saw the movie will know what to expect.  “It worked for the movie, and wow, does it work on Broadway,” declared Cote.  School of Rock is “one tight, well-built show,” according to the man from TONY; having “absorbed the diverse lessons of Rent, Spring Awakening and Matilda,” it “passes them on to a new generation.”  He asserted, “You’d have to have zero sense of humor about pop to not enjoy Webber’s jaunty pastiche score.” 

In the Hollywood Reporter, David Rooney, labeling School of Rock “disarming,” asserted that “the show knows full well that its prime asset is the cast of ridiculously talented kids.”  Still, Rooney reported, “In terms of screen-to-stage remakes, this is neither the most imaginative nor the most pedestrian of them.”  The HR reviewer said that “the musical is funny and endearing for much the same reasons as the movie,” but went on, “Where it distinguishes itself is in providing the sheer unalloyed pleasure of being in the same physical space as the baker’s dozen preteen stars.”  While extolling Lloyd Webber’s “commercial instincts,” Rooney found that “his songs are ersatz rock at best, and more often efficient than inspired, while Slater’s lyrics tend to express feelings rather than advance the action.”  Connor’s direction, the review-writer felt, “is not always the most elegant,” but the production design is “first-rate.”  In conclusion, Rooney stated, “Ultimately, what makes this show a crowd-pleaser is the generosity of spirit.”  Variety’s Marilyn Stasio, describing School of Rock as “an exuberant feel-good musical,” declared, “Andrew Lloyd Webber unleashed his inner child to write” the movical, as he and his creative colleagues “are clearly child-friendly.”  The only change Stasio found between the Lloyd Webber-Fellowes-Slater stage adaptation and the film was that the creators managed “to lay on the energetic rock songs” of the new score. 

David Roberts called School of Rock a “powerhouse musical” on Theatre Reviews Limited and said it “reflects significantly ‘what and how we are now’ and moves forward in creative ways to address significant cultural and—perhaps surprisingly—political issues,” referencing the late Elizabeth Swados.  Roberts added that Dewey’s “antics in the classroom are over-the-top joy to watch and hear” and the four musicians at the center of the band “will make the audience fall back into their seats in awe at the craft of these young musicians.”  The TRL blogger continued, “The electrifying twenty-eight (some reprised) songs literally rock the walls of the iconic Winter Garden Theatre.”  Connor’s direction is “galvanizing,” the cast is “uniformly excellent,” and Fellowes’s book “is refreshing.”  Roberts concluded, “‘School of Rock – The Musical’ succeeds because audience members can so easily identify with its characters and connect to their conflicts.” 

On Theater Pizzazz, Sandi Durell stated, like so many of her peers, that School is “all about the fabulous talented kids and louder than loud music.”  She warned, though, “You may not be able to make out all the lyrics, and may find some of the tunes repetitive but that’s okay, it’s all about the hot, high energy.”  Nonetheless, “Anna Louizos’ fine eye designs the detailed sets and costumes; Natasha Katz’[s] first rate lighting adds the rock stadium quality, while choreographer JoAnn M. Hunter moves [the cast] all around like supple chess pieces.”  The TP reviewer also felt that director Laurence Connor “stirs ‘em up and voila . . . you’ve got a hot ‘School of Rock’ blend of audience pleasers.”  Calling much of Lloyd Webber’s hard-rock score “uninspired” on Theatre’sLeiter Side, Samuel L. Leiter acknowledged that under the “enthusiastic” direction of Connor, the stage musical, with a plot “offering some additional material” by Fellowes, has “its success . . . practically guaranteed.”  Leiter pronounced the story “a fairy tale,” but asserted that “you believe and you accept [it] because it’s presented with a just enough skill and charm to make it irresistible.  In fact, you’ll probably even wipe away a happy tear or two.”  While he praised the work of the design team, Leiter concluded that it’s the “extraordinarily talented kids” who make “a B-minus show into an A-minus one.”  CurtainUp’s Elyse Sommer dismissed School as “not . . . big on originality, depth or high art” but acknowledged (like so many others) that the “kids are irresistible.”  The production, centering on the “super talented” ‘tween band members, is “smoothly directed,” but Sommer warned, “Forget about looking for any especially deep or controversial themes” since “this really isn’t a message musical.”  In the final analysis, “School of Rock [remains] strictly what it is—a not to be taken seriously hard rocking, feel good romp.”

On NY Theatre Guide, Marc Miller, while acknowledging the connection to The Music Manlike some of his colleagues, also compared School with other recent musicals centering on children and observed, “You’ve seen a lot of it already”—although “School of Rock has its share of fun.”  Miller asserted that the movical’s creative team “are out only to entertain, logic and character development be damned.  On a ground-floor level, they succeed.”  Fellowes, this cyber reviewer complained, “knows how to land a laugh and where to introduce sentiment and conflict,” but doesn’t “probe beneath the surface.”  The tease of the musical scene in which the children sing about the inattentiveness of their parents made Miller want “to know more about these parent-kid conflicts and how they’d be resolved.  But they’re resolved in the most pat way imaginable.”  There’s “not much depth,” but the “surface-skimming along the way” is “enjoyable.”  The score, he reported, is Lloyd Webber’s “friskiest in years” and the “lyrics are well crafted and clever, when you can hear them.”  Miller found that “more than half the words are distorted beyond intelligibility or drowned out by the ear-splitting kid rockers.”  He lauded the designers, but Connnor’s “direction is more efficient than inspired.”  Despite its assets, however, “there’s an unadventurous carefulness to School of Rock’s approach that somewhat undercuts what little it’s trying to say.”

Michael Dale of Broadway World labeled School of Rock an “enthralling, high-energy kickass new hard-rockin’ musical” with a “solid set of lyrics, the funny and sincerely touching book . . . and a top flight cast.”  The result, said Dale, “is a big, beautiful blast of musical comedy from start to finish.”  (Instead of The Music Man, the oldie to which Dale likened Schoolwas “basically THE SOUND OF MUSIC without the Nazis.”)  The BWWreview-writer acknowledged that the “crisp production is enhanced by Anna Louizos[‘s] fluidly moving set” and, despite some plot moments “that defy logic” and some “clichéd” small roles, “the musical’s exuberant score and meaningful theme . . . glosses over any weak spots.”  Dale’s conclusion was: “School of Rock is a great night out.”  Suggesting that a theatergoer’s expectations for a show with child actors might be “way too high” and that such a show would be “courting disaster,” Talkin’ Broadway’s Matthew Murray assured us that “those expectations arent just met, theyre exceeded—by several orders of magnitude.”  Of course, Murray went on to heap lavish praise on the work of the young musicians and singers of School of Rock and then moved on to state, “Lloyd Webber still knows how to craft and orchestrate a rock melody, his tunes at once ultra-cool and searing hot.”  Then Murray backed off a little: “Unfortunately, whenever [Dewey] and his glittering charges aren’t center stage, School of Rock satisfies considerably less” because, due to Fellowes’s book and Connor’s staging, “all of the supporting characters are bloated and unbelievable”; the TB reviewer characterized them as “brain-dead stereotypes and dramatic one-dimensionality.” The rest of the score, aside from the kids’ numbers, are “a series of lame songs” and Murray demeaned the production design and choreography as “the straightforward, at-face-value variety” that ends the evening as “one big, loud question mark.”  (Murray was another reviewer who complained that “Mick Potters sound design tends to muddy lyrics when lots of people are singing and playing at once.”)  Still, in the end, he insisted, “Seeing [the young performers] unleash all they have and then some is destined to be one of the most scintillating joys of this Broadway season, and worth the price of admission by itself.”

On TheaterScene, Victor Gluck called School“delightful” and “dynamic and exuberant,” and, extolling the “fabulously talented” ‘tweens, Gluck asserted that School of Rock “also makes spectacular use of its musical idioms as well as the tremendous new talent.”  The movical, he reported, “will have [you] rooting for its hero quite soon and send you out at the end feeling good about the underdog coming out on top.”  Gluck’s final assessment is: “One of the most satisfying shows of the season.”  Zachary Stewart of TheaterMania pronounced that “School of Rock is cute and occasionally funny, but not any more than its source material, making its onstage existence something of an extravagant ‘meh.’”  Calling the play a “whimsically implausible romp,” the TM reviewer characterized the Lloyd Webber score as “hit-or-miss music . . ., considering that many of his songs resemble a cell phone ringtone: electronic notes presented in a repetitive sequence.”  Stewart reversed himself slightly, adding, “Still, they’re often catchy and hard to forget.”  Fellowes’s adaption is “efficient,” reported Stewart, and Slater’s “lyrics are adequate yet unremarkable, getting the job done with a minimal amount of wit.”  While he gave faint praise to Connor’s staging, Louizos’s sets and costumes, and Katz’s lighting, he complained about Potter’s sound design in which “lyrics and dialogue are often lost.”  “Luckily,” Stewart added, “School of Rock has a supercharged cast to transform this leaden material into musical-comedy gold,” even if it’s “an undeniably fun musical that is nevertheless not particularly special.”

David Finkle reported on the Huffington Post that the saving grace of School of Rock is its “great finish,” which, “like just about every other of the not abundant high points in this Lloyd Webber-ized School of Rock, it involves the terrific young actors—several of them young actor-musicians—working like cheerful demons.”  “Oh, yes, musical comedy aficionados,” HP’s First Nighter stressed, “it’s the non-voting-age players, including the adorably proficient Isabella Russo as the band manager, who steal this undertaking while the bigger names above and below the title hit wonky notes on their figurative Fender guitars.”  As for Lloyd Webber’s score, Finkle thought that “his newest melodies and riffs, which he orchestrated, conjure only Broadway-rock of the ’70s” and that they “swiftly begin to sound alike”; he had a similar complaint about Hunter's choreography.  The production design is “more than adequate,” said Finkle, but he had many nits to pick with Fellowes’s book.  Like so many of his peers, Finkle asserted that it’s the “knee-high-to-grasshopper” band members who make School worth seeing, and “More power to them,” the HP reviewer declared.

Calling School of Rock a “pop song of a musical” on WNYC, a public radio outlet in New York City, Jennifer Vanasco affirmed, “One thing you can say for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘School of Rock – The Musical,’ now playing at the Winter Garden Theatre: the kids are really, really charming.  And talented.  They play their own instruments and they really rock out.”  Vanasco felt, “It gets off to a slow start, with too much set up, but then there’s a truly great scene” when Dewey assembles the classroom band and the students “take up their instruments with joy and ferocity.”  The WNYC reviewer objected, however, that “the sunny easiness of the story and the cuteness of the kids is marred by two things”: “rampant gay stereotypes” of Luca Padovan’s Billy and Tomika’s gay dads (Steven Booth and Michael Hartney) and Mamie Parris’s Patty, “written as a one-noted witch.”  She concluded: “These flaws—and the very traditional staging and script—make the show feel cynical, like it’s pandering to the audience’s worst tendencies.  If only it had been brave enough to break out of its own musical theater box.”  On NY1, the all-news channel for Time Warner Cable subscribers in New York City, Roma Torre declared “‘School Of Rock’ is a rock solid hit!”  The story “is a fairy tale of course but it’s an irresistible one” with Lloyd Webber’s score “his best in years” and a book that “matches the film’s subversive humor with a human touch.”  Connor’s direction is “flawless,” bringing “all of the pieces . . . together in perfect harmony,” “aided immeasurably” by Louizos’s “terrific scenic design.”  The play’s “secret weapon,” though, is the “[m]agnificent talents” of the ’tween actors.  School of Rock,Torre concluded, “may not be groundbreaking, but as crowd-pleasing entertainment, it doesn’t miss a beat.” 

On WNBC television, the network outlet in New York City, Robert Kahn declared right at the outset, “A dozen pint-sized and pitch-perfect performers bring heart to” the new musical, “an otherwise workaday screen-to-stage adaptation” with a “faithful, if prosaic book.”  Outside of the young actor-musicians, affirmed Kahn, “we tread familiar territory.”  Lloyd Webber’s songs “are a polarizing bunch,” with few that Kahn predicted “will enjoy an afterlife”; the pre-teen characters “sometimes verge on stock depictions” and the adults “fully cross the line”; and Ned and Patty, though acted well, are “cartoons.”  Kahn warned, “You suspend disbelief to appreciate ‘School of Rock,’” which he admitted “doesn’t particularly resonate for me, but I won’t soon forget the feel-good vibe radiating off the talented young performers.”  The Associated Press reviewer, Mark Kennedy (as broadcast on WTOP radio in Washington, D.C.), labeled School of Rock a “sweet, well-constructed musical” with “a wondrously rebellious spirit and a superb cast.”   Kennedy reported, “A heartwarming story and a stage full of pre-pubescent kids who know their way around an amp prove irresistible” and Lloyd Webber, with Slater’s lyrics, “turns in some perfectly solid mainstream rock-ish anthems.”  The AP reviewer noted that Fellowes has been “so faithful” to the screenplay that “you may wonder why he even gets a credit,” but director Connor “leads a crisp, snappy show.”

I don’t usually do this, but because the spread of notices spanned nearly the entire range of Show-Scoreratings, I’m going to add some comments from the site’s highest-scoring review (Front Row Center, 100) and its lowest-scoring one (The Wrap, 30).  Both of these are sites I don’t customarily consult.  FRC’s Michael Hillyer encouraged people who enjoyed the 2003 movie or like rock music to rush to the Winter Garden box office because “you’re probably gonna love School Of Rock, The Musical.”  Lloyd Webber, Fellowes, and Slater have “absolutely nailed” the transfer from screen to stage and audiences “will enjoy the over-the-top decibel level afforded by the live stage experience, as well as the face-shredding guitar solos, gut-wrenching drum riffs and electric bass and keyboards wizardry that punctuate this joyously unabashed celebration of heavy rock music.”  Hillyer declared, “This is Lloyd Webber’s best rock score in decades, there isn’t a weak song in the show, and the cast is up to its demanding vocals as well.”  With praise for the young actor-musicians of School of Rock, the reviewer for FRC also mentioned the designers. the adult actors, and the “loving and tight control” of director Connor.  Hillyer concluded that “School Of Rock ought to be in session for a long time to come.” 

Robert Hofler complained that Dewey in the play is “a total slob,” which is “differentfrom being a messy free spirit,” as the film’s main character is.  Instead of the “anarchic edge of comedy” portrayed by Jack Black, Hofler found “just a big boorish thug.”  The Wrapper also found deficiencies in the portrayals of Ms. Mullins and Patty on stage in contrast with the film counterparts.  “Other actors and another director might have made this ‘School’ better,” asserted Hofler.  “But then there’s the material itself.”  He affirmed, “What the musical most needs is a complete overhaul for the stage; instead it gets Julian Fellowes‘ faithful-to-a-fault adaptation.”  He gave Lloyd Webber and Slater wan praise for the score, dismissing the “traditionally Broadway” numbers.  (Hofler cautioned against including “other composers’ music,” referring to some classic pieces Lloyd Webber uses in the show.  “It is nice to go out humming Mozart,” he quipped.)  His final comment was: “In ‘School of Rock,’ the parents eventually embrace their children’s newfound love of very loud and not very good rock music.  Most parents in the audience, however, might wonder if Actors’ Equity has taken up a fund for the many talented young performers on stage who . . . will require hearing devices.”

The stage musical’s appeal is obviously aimed at families with ‘tween kids; there were a lot of them in the Sunday matinee audience I attended.  (As I noted in my press survey, the band kids took nearly all the reviews.)  I presume that accounts for a few things about this production.  One, the play’s less than 2½ hours long, quite short for a Broadway musical (most run from 2½ to 3 hours and even more).  Two, the Sunday matinees are at 1 p.m. and the evening show is at 6, both early by traditional standards, presumably to get the families, especially the ones from the ‘burbs, in and out early; the other mats are at 2, but the evening show on Saturday after the mat is at 7:30, and so is Friday’s evening performance.  Three, the other two evening shows are at 7, really early for Broadway nowadays.  Four, there are three matinee performances a week: aside from the Saturday and Sunday afternoon shows, there’s a 2 o’clock Wednesday mat as well.  Five, there’s an evening performance on Monday, the day theaters are traditionally dark on Broadway (switched for Thursday at the Winter Garden), probably to entice theatergoers to midtown on an evening when the rest of Broadway is quiet—easier parking and dining, not to mention maneuvering around Times Square and catching a cab after the show. 

All this suggests “family friendly” to me, especially if you marry it to the kid-centric cast and plot and faux-rock score.  I should caution would-be parental attendees, however, that there are some aspects of School of Rock for whichyou might want to be prepared.  The No Vacancy lead singer struts around stage Jagger-like with a bare chest and tight, leather pants—not particularly threatening these days, I suppose—while singing “I’m Too Hot for You.”  There are also some racially and sexually stereotyped references, though mild, that could be seen as insulting in our PC society: the effeminate Billy and Tomika’s gay dads are pretty much clichés and Dewey casually calls an Asian-American character “Lucy Liu.”  Dewey also tosses out some mildly naughty language now and then—“douche bags” and being “pissed”—and no one calls him on it.  (The Guardian’s Soloski even quipped, “The concession stand should really have smelling salts on hand for anyone who believed that Fellowes could never script words like douche bags.”)

[A really interesting—and I’d bet, fascinating—story to come out of School of Rock – The Musical would be the casting of the kid musicians.  The talent search and auditions must have been amazing, seeking out these beyond-talented youngsters with actual rock chops.  There has to be a Making of . . ./Behind the Music documentary about that waiting somewhere in the wings.  Anyone wanna get on that?]



Now, Live, The Non-Beatles

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by Kirk Woodward

[As veteran ROTters know by now, Kirk Woodward is a longtime friend and a major contributor to this blog.  I can’t even begin to count the number of articles of his authorship I’ve posted here in the 7½ years since I launched Rick On Theater—which, in truth, was largely Kirk’s idea to start with.  But Kirk’s not only an excellent writer (he’s a playwright as well, and a composer-lyricist, too), but he’s very knowledgeable about topics in which I’m deficient.  (That’s a fancy way of saying ‘ignorant’!)  That means he can cover subjects ROT would never treat if it weren’t for him, so I’m damn lucky he’s so generous with his writing.

[One of those topics, as readers of ROT will be able to attest, is the greatest rock band ever conceived: The Beatles.  (You cannot argue with that, so don’t even try.)  I’ve published four Fab Four articles by Kirk already; this will be his fifth—and I daresay not his last.  (The Beatles are forever.)  Now, clearly, I’m a big fan—I was living in Europe when the Boys from Liverpool made their appearance on the rock ’n’ roll scene in the early ’60s, so I heard them before their music made it across the pond as the advance guard of the British Invasion—but Kirk is way more knowledgeable about them and has a background in music that I lack, so he’s much more qualified to write about them from a critical standpoint than am I. 

[So pay heed to “Now, Live, The Non-Beatles,” Kirk’s take on Beatles cover bands.  You don’t have to love the Beatles to find this examination interesting—after all, there are cover bands for many other groups and much of what Kirk says here applies to them as well.  You also don’t have to agree with Kirk’s conclusions about cover bands; you’ll still find his thoughts provocative and informative.] 

Scholars like Richard Schechner (b. 1934) in the last half century have developed the field of Performance Studies, examining the dynamics of the relationship between performers, performances, audiences, and communities both in this country and in locations in South America, Asia, Africa, and elsewhere. These studies have added to our understanding of theater, and also have brought attention to the cultures of peoples otherwise obscure to us.

This is all well and good, but where, I ask, are the scholarly studies of the issues raised by the performances of Beatles cover bands?

I’m not talking about bands that play Beatles songs among others – I’ve been in some of those myself – but about bands that dedicate themselves entirely to the music of the Beatles, and sometimes to their appearance and personalities as well. I’ve heard four of these bands, as well as I can remember. One, at a BeatleFest, played only Beatle songs and wasn’t very good. One, the Fab Faux, is highly regarded by musicians and audiences alike. Its membersmake no attempt to look or act like the Beatles; they just play highly skilled versions of Beatle songs, and the result is a delight.

And then… I have seen two bands that do their best to be the Beatles. I will not name them, because that doesn’t feel right, but trust me, I’ve been there, and both times I’ve found the experience extremely confusing. I don’t think it adds to my confusion that I actually saw the Beatles twice, in Chicago and Cincinnati, on their last tour in 1966. (I have written about those experiences, and others involving the Beatles, on this blog.) The real Beatles were who they were. But these bands . . . who are they?

Imitation bands are by no means unusual in the music field. A number of “big bands” from the thirties and forties are still active although their leaders and members have long since gone to their reward. The Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie Orchestras, for example, are still, so to speak, in full swing. Similarly, in rock, the Coasters have no original members performing; the Drifters became several groups with variations of that name; and so on.

But the Beatles are different. We recognize and enjoy the songs of any number of singers and groups, but many of us know by heart every note the Beatles played and sang on record. We saw their films, watched their interviews, and followed their lives and careers. By actual count I have eighteen books about the Beatles on my shelves, including a complete collection of their scores and at least four books that record their day to day experiences. My enthusiasm may or may not be extreme, but it is safe to assume that many in the audience of a band imitating the Beatles know the originals well.

So what does the audience for a recreation, like, say, Beatlemania (which I did not see, on Broadway in 1977-1979) come to see? To tell the truth, I’m not sure, and can only provide my own impressions, to be taken for what they’re worth.

On the positive side, the music of the Beatles remains an extraordinary achievement and hearing it performed, even badly, brings their accomplishments back to mind. An ordinary concert can play up to perhaps a quarter of the songs they recorded (Beatlemania included about fifty songs), all of them great, with any number of masterpieces remaining unplayed. A cover band of skilled musicians, abetted by a synthesizer, can reproduce the instrumental side of the recordings pretty faithfully, and that means a full helping of delights.

But at this point the problems start. The voices of the Beatles, both singing and speaking, were and are distinctive; the more distinctive, the harder to reproduce. (The Fab Faux don’t try.) And why should they be reproduced? Do we really need to hear a lot of unsteady Liverpool accents spoken by Americans? But if not, the group can’t really be said to be reproducing the Beatles.

And that leads to the central question: who arethese people? We know perfectly well that they’re not really the Beatles. One group I saw carefully never claimed that they were, referring now and then to those “other people.” Another pretended that they actually were the Beatles,but in some sort of time warp, wearing costumes from the Summer of Love but occasionally referring to events that happened much later, after the original group had broken up.

In either case, I sense deep audience confusion. Who is our applause for? The Beatles earned the applause, since it’s both their music and their personalities; but they can’t hear it, no matter how loudly we cheer; they’re not there. Certainly the cover band deserves credit for whatever it achieves in musicianship; but ovations aren’t made from such, and besides, it’s really someone else’s musicianship they’ve borrowed for the occasion. Are the band members proxies for the Beatles? Well, no; it’s pretty clear that there’s no particular support for these enterprises from the principals of Apple Corps, Paul, Ringo, Yoko, and Olivia.

And looming even larger is the problem of imitating any great artist: the imitation can’t possibly be as good as the original was. Otherwise the impersonators too would be great artists, and they’re not – they’re imitators. Someone, I can’t remember who, wrote about Elvis impressionists that there aren’t any great ones, because to be great, you’d have to be as great as Elvis, and if you were, why would you spend your time imitating him? Nobody can be that great, and anyway you certainly would never be if all you did was pretend you were someone else. Ray Charles tried to sound like Charles Brown (1922-1999) for years; he didn’t become the great singer we know until he decided to sound like himself.

A result of this dilemma is that the performers seem to experience an energy leak in performance. The Beatles were excitinglive artists – I saw this for myself. They were exploring new territory, feeding off each other’s enthusiasm, breaking down walls. When this experience became routine, they stopped doing it. The imitation groups are picking up where the Beatles left off – after the thrill has gone. Trying to reproduce the excitement the Beatles felt has got to be hollow. Excitement can’t be reproduced; it has to be created anew.

I have a horrible feeling that the only way to make sense of a Beatles imitation concert is to pretend that it really is the Beatles we’re seeing, fifty years or so later, not as popular as they used to be and now spending their time appearing at state fairs, city parks, and baseball stadiums. They’ve put on weight, they wear wigs to conceal their receding hairlines, they look like imitations of themselves, but we still love them, so we cheer them on as they go through their old paces. That kind of mental exercise is the only way I can think of to account for the weird experience of seeing a group of impersonators . . . but, good Lord, what a bleak way of looking at it.

The Beatles, of course, had much better sense. They stopped touring in 1966. (A new documentary about their concerts, Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years, directed by Ron Howard, will open in September 2016.) They always had a strong distaste for repeating themselves; they had no interest in doing what they’d already done. When touring became a slog, they moved into the recording studio fulltime, in an outburst of creativity that’s seldom been matched (Sgt. Pepper, The Beatles, Abbey Road, and more). Creativity is exciting. Imitation is not, and perhaps the problem with these recreation performances is as simple as that.

But there is also a tribal dimension to such shows. We like to gather around commonalities, and the Beatles bring us together. Everybody knows the Beatles! Audiences at these shows don’t expect surprises; they expect familiar sights and sounds. There’s a feeling of reassurance there. So events like the recreation acts will probably continue for some time to come, and I suppose there are worse things.

[For those who want to look back at Kirk’s past Beatles articles, before “Now, Live, The Non-Beatles,” I posted “The Beatles and Me,” 7 October 2010 (which gets a mention in the article above); “The Beatles Box,” 30 September 2012; “The Beatles Diary” (by Kirk with his late wife, Pat Woodward), 8 January 2013; and “The Beatles’ Influence,” 13 July 2015

[Kirk has other passions as well, many displayed on ROT.  One of those is the films of Woody Allen.  My friend’s next post on this blog will be “Woody Allen’s Recent Movies,” which I plan to publish next month.]

Dispatches from Israel 9

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by Helen Kaye

[I’ve published many articles by my friend Helen Kaye, aka Helen Eleasari, including eight previous selections of her reviews from the Jerusalem Post.  The last installment of “Dispatches from Israel,” number 8, was just this past 12 September, and “Dispatches 7” was only as far back as 13 July.  Though past reviews have covered productions of translated contemporary plays from Europe and the U.S. and classics from William Shakespeare and others—little Israel is as theater-crazy as many much more populous nations—this pair are both new Israeli plays.  For our purposes on ROT and in the U.S., that may be more interesting since it reveals what Israeli writers are interested in and what Israeli theaters want to present.  I expect you will find that so in this installment of Helen’s periodic “Dispatches.”]

Immoveable Mountain
By Gilad Evron
Directed by Irad Rubinstein
Bet Lessin, Tel Aviv; 27 July 2016

The play takes place in 16th-century feudal Japan, and is, of course, a parable of our lives and mores here. The mountain of the title is the land-hungry Takeda clan whose military ambitions aspire to the capture of Kyoto, the imperial capital, but in a crucial battle on the way, the Takeda is mortally wounded.

“Keep my death a secret for three years,” he orders his samurai, “lest the enemy be emboldened to march against you.”

To do that requires a Takeda in place. By a strange coincidence, a captured thief  played by Yoram Toledano giving the performance of his life, is his exact double, so he is bullied and threatened into compliance by the dead man’s brother, Itami (Nimrod Bergman) and his implacable samurai lieutenant, Murata (Daniel Brusovani). Eventually he is deemed ready, and is taken to the Takeda’s palace where he must successfully fool the First wife Kyoko (Yael Vekstein), son Yamada (Shadi Mar’i) and the Heir, Maso (Amit Moreshet).

Itami warns him “You’re a thief. You’ll always be a thief. If you forget that, you won’t be able to play the Takeda.”

But pretense is tricky because, of necessity, truth aka reality, tends to insinuate itself with unforeseen, sometimes disastrous results, as happens here, its metaphor being a pellucid fabric river pulled slowly across the stage whose color slowly turns to blood.

Its creator is set designer Paulina Adamov; her set for Mountain is extraordinary. There are three curved screens on wheels, at least 5 meters high, covered with a rusty scrim, that reveal, conceal, bedevil, deliberately bewilder according to how they’re moved; they become the maze that is the palace, Kyoko’s bedchamber, the council room. When the scrim is opaque, huge shadows menace. When it’s transparent we often glimpse what we should not.

Evron based his play on Japanese director Akira Kurasawa’s film Kagemusha(1980), taken from actual events in Japanese history. Reviewing the film, Roger Ebert wrote that “Kurasawa seems to be saying that great human endeavors . . . depend entirely on large numbers of men sharing the same fantasies or beliefs . . . whether or not the beliefs are based on reality . . . But when a belief is shattered, the result is confusion, destruction, and death.”

But Evron is saying something else. He’s saying that we’re in danger of mistaking the pretense for the real thing, that we are betraying who we are and what our purpose here is, but that the result will be the same – confusions, destruction and death.

Before we turn to the actors, let’s praise the technical staff – costume designer Maor Tzabar, Roy Yarkoni’s music, Ziv Voloshin’s marvelously moody lighting and stage battle coach Uri Bustan, all of whom have successfully labored to create on stage the aura of 16th century Japan, spiced by deliberate anachronisms like sunglasses, zippers and a chestful of medals.

To the acting: Toledano dominates the stage. His character must be and is both larger than life and diminished by it.  His character adapts in seconds, from terrified to confident, to wary, to tender, all underpinned by a nobility that grows and grows. He deserves every award going!
                                                                    
Vekstein is both vulnerable woman and steely-courageous samurai as Kyoko, Bergman is a properly wary, politically astute Itami and Brusovani’s Murata is most marvelously arrogant.

It’s almost superfluous to add that the laurels for this production must go to director Irad Rubinstein, whose opening scene for this production is breathtaking. But then, so is the show.

*  *  *  *
The Wolves
Written & directed by Hillel Mittelpunkt
Cameri, Tel Aviv; 28 July 2016

“We can't live moral lives if state policy is immoral,” Hillel Mittelpunk has said, and  in play after hard-hitting play, he has turned over the rock and laid bare our seamier side, often going to our past to express the present.

So it is with Wolves in which nothing is as it seems and lying is the norm. It’s set in 1978, the year after “Hama’apach” (the upset) which overturned Mapai’s (the then Labor Party) heretofore unbroken dominance, and brought to power Menahem Begin and the Herut – that has since morphed into Likud – an event that transformed both the body politic and society.

“The underdogs are on top, and don’t you forget it,” continues to reverberate.

And so to Zeeva (Tikki Dayan) on her failing flower farm well  reflected  by Alexandra Nardi’s sad-sack, shabby, peeling dwelling that features kitchen, living-room, yard and public space.

That’s where Zeeva – the name means she-wolf -  lives with her eldest son Dov (Alon Dahan) and  her  music teacher brother Schneur (Yitzhak Hizkiya), a sad and aging gay man.

She’s just about the only Revisionist (as the followers of Zeev Jabotinsky, the father of Herut/Likud) were called) on the moshav among a gaggle of Mapainiks who’ve lorded it over her for years. The occasion is the anniversary of her husband’s death, but she’s afraid that no-one will come because for years her own party has shunned her – we discover why later – but perhaps this year…

Then, suddenly, there in the doorway is Nerik (Dan Shapira), her younger son, the success story, the PhD who’s a lecturer at Georgetown University, and has a daughter by his American wife.  He’s home for the anniversary, he says, smiling easily.

Except that he isn’t.

“You’re lying,” his mother says. It takes one to know one. Zeeva lies as easily as she breathes, and that’s what drives Wolves. It’s the lies, evasions, and half-truths about ourselves and the way we live here that we make ourselves believe, and that will now envelop the family as Nerik is rebranded as an honest politician with only his light tan leather shoes – these and a dark business suit don’t mix – to remind us that’s he’s a phony.

They’re a neat touch, these, of a piece with costumer Raz Leshem’s other clothes, like Zeeva’s tasteless muumuus or scuffed boots, or  Dov’s  too well-worn work clothes. The clothes are as scruffy as the character, basically the only honest one in the bunch, but wearied to the bone of the way he lives. Dahan, amazing actor that he is, shows us the muddle that Dov lives in and under as well as a kind of desperate integrity that will allow his escape from the lies – a hint to the rest of us?

Dayan’s Zeeva is a survivor, no matter what. She drinks. She spouts dead slogans, but she’ll survive and win. She’s not nice, but you can’t despise or dislike her because she’s so real. The same is true for Hizkiya as the pathetic, lonely Schneur.  On the other hand, Shapira is a good choice for Nerik because the actor is always a little too conscious of himself, which works here.

Yossi Kantz as a political fixer and Tamar Keenan as Nerik’s former girl friend Yaira are effective but their characters seem to be fillers: the play would probably work without them.

And it does work. We’re left, as we’re meant to be, with a bad taste in our mouths.

[I will continue to publish Helen’s reviews, journals, and articles as long as she sends them to me.  Not only do I find her perspective interesting, but as a practiced cultural journalist, she knows how to get her point down in writing.  Since Helen’s also an actress (that’s how we met, way back in 1978) and a director, she has a great deal of practical knowledge about theater.  (She also did the costumes for the showcase in which I directed her 38 years ago, so she has some experience in production design as well.)  She’s been writing about culture for the JP since the ’80s, she can really take the long view.  I’m constantly in search of additional voices and points of view to include on ROT, especially from people who can write about subjects I can’t cover, and Helen offers a perfect example of what I look for.]

Cultural Appropriation

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[The concept of “cultural appropriation,” the adoption or use of elements of one culture by members of another culture, is an idea that’s gained some currency lately, causing some acrimony among some who consider that their customs are being coöpted by those with no standing to use or even understand them and defensiveness by others, especially artists from many fields, who feel their creativity and free expression is being curtailed and impeded by shortsightedness in our multi-cultural society. 

[I’m presenting two articles about this phenomenon—not that cultural appropriation is in any way new: no less a figure than William Shakespeare practiced it half a millennium ago (consider Othello and Shylock)—from different publications.  First comes a discussion by Cathy Young from the Washington Post, posted to its website on 21 August 2015.  (This article was referenced in an editorial from the National Coalition Against Censorship, “The War on Cultural Appropriation,” which I posted in “Fighting for Free Expression” on 5 February 2016.)  This will be followed by a recent New York Times op-ed article by journalist and author Lionel Shiver.]

“TO THE NEW CULTURE COPS, EVERYTHING IS APPROPRIATION”
by Cathy Young

A few months ago, I read “The Orphan’s Tales” by Catherynne Valente. The fantasy novel draws on myths and folklore from many cultures, including, to my delight, fairy tales from my Russian childhood. Curious about the author, I looked her up online and was startled to find several social-media discussions bashing her for “cultural appropriation.”

There was a post sneering at “how she totally gets a pass to write about Slavic cultures because her husband is Russian,” with a response noting that her spouse isn’t even a proper Russian, because he has lived in the United States since age 10. In another thread, Valente was denounced for her Japanese-style LiveJournal username, yuki-onna, adopted while she lived in Japan as a military wife. In response to such criticism, a browbeaten Valente eventually dropped the “problematic” moniker.

Welcome to the new war on cultural appropriation. At one time, such critiques were leveled against truly offensive art — work that trafficked in demeaning caricatures, such as blackface, 19th-century minstrel shows or ethnological expositions, which literally put indigenous people on display, often in cages. But these accusations have become a common attack against any artist or artwork that incorporates ideas from another culture, no matter how thoughtfully or positively. A work can reinvent the material or even serve as a tribute, but no matter. If artists dabble outside their own cultural experiences, they’ve committed a creative sin.

To take just a few recent examples: After the 2013 American Music Awards, Katy Perry was criticized for dressing like a geisha while performing her hit single “Unconditionally.” Last year, Arab American writer Randa Jarrar accused Caucasian women who practice belly dancing of “white appropriation of Eastern dance.” Daily Beast entertainment writer Amy Zimmerman wrote that pop star Iggy Azalea perpetrated “cultural crimes” by imitating African American rap styles.

And this summer, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston has been dogged by charges of cultural insensitivity and racism for its “Kimono Wednesdays.” At the event, visitors were invited to try on a replica of the kimono worn by Claude Monet’s wife, Camille, in the painting “La Japonaise.” The historically accurate kimonos were made in Japan for this very purpose. Still, Asian American activists and their supporters besieged the exhibit with signs like “Try on the kimono: Learn what it’s like to be a racist imperialist today!” Others railed against “Yellow-Face @ the MFA” on Facebook. The museum eventually apologized and changed the program so that the kimonos were available for viewing only. Still, activists complained that the display invited a “creepy Orientalist gaze.”

These protests have an obvious potential to chill creativity and artistic expression. But they are equally bad for diversity, raising the troubling specter of cultural cleansing. When we attack people for stepping outside their own cultural experiences, we hinder our ability to develop empathy and cross-cultural understanding.

The concept of cultural appropriation emerged in academia in the late 1970s and 1980s as part of the scholarly critique of colonialism. By the mid-1990s, it had gained a solid place in academic discourse, particularly in the field of sociology.

Some of this critique was rightly directed at literal cultural theft — the pilfering of art and artifacts by colonial powers — or glaring injustices, such as white entertainers in the pre-civil rights years profiting off black musical styles while black performers’ careers were hobbled by racism. Critics such as Edward Said offered valuable insight into Orientalism, the West’s tendency to fetishize Asians as exotic stereotypes.

But the hunt for wrongdoing has run amok. The recent anti-appropriation rhetoric has targeted creative products from art to literature to clothing. Nothing is too petty for the new culture cops: I have seen them rebuke a Filipina woman who purchased a bracelet with a yin-yang symbol at a fair and earnestly discuss whether it’s appropriation to eat Japanese, Indian or Thai food. Even Selena Gomez, a Latina artist, was assailed a couple of years ago for sporting a Hindu forehead dot, or bindi, in a Bollywood-style performance.

In some social-justice quarters, the demonization of “appropriative” interests converges with ultra-reactionary ideas about racial and cultural purity. I once read an anguished blog post by a well-meaning young woman racked with doubt about her plans to pursue a graduate degree in Chinese studies; after attending a talk on cultural appropriation, she was unsure that it was morally permissible for a white person to study the field.

This is a skewed and blinkered view. Yes, most cross-fertilization has taken place in a context of unequal power. Historically, interactions between cultures often took the form of wars, colonization, forced or calamity-driven migration and subordination or even enslavement of minority groups. But it is absurd to single out the West as the only culprit. Indeed, there is a paradoxical and perverse Western-centrism in ignoring the history of Middle Eastern and Asian empires or the modern economic and cultural clout of non-Western nations — for instance, the fact that one of the top three entertainment companies in the U.S. market is Japanese-owned Sony.

It is also far from clear that the appropriation police speak for the people and communities whose cultural honor they claim to defend. The kimono protest, for instance, found little support from Japanese Americans living in the Boston area; indeed, many actively backed the museum’s exhibit, as did the Japanese consulate.

Most critics of appropriation, including some anti-kimono protesters, say they don’t oppose engagement with other cultures if it’s done in a “culturally affirming” way. A Daily Dot article admonishes that “an authentic cultural exchange should feel free and affirming, rather than plagiarizing or thieving.” A recent post on the Tumblr “This Is Not China” declares that “cultural appropriation is not merely the act of wearing or partaking in cultural symbols & practices that do not belong to you, it’s a system of exploitation & capitalisation on cultural symbols & practices that do not a) originate from b) benefit c) circle back to the culture in question.”

It makes sense to permit behaviors that encourage empathy and genuine interest while discouraging those that caricature or mock a sampled-from culture. But such litmus tests leave ample room for hair-splitting and arbitrary judgments. One blogger’s partial defense of “Kimono Wednesdays” suggests that while it was fine to let visitors try on the kimonos, allowing them to be photographed while wearing them was a step too far. This fine parsing of what crosses the line from appreciation into appropriation suggests a religion with elaborate purity tests.

What will be declared “problematic” next? Picasso’s and Matisse’s works inspired by African art? Puccini’s “Orientalist” operas, “Madama Butterfly” and “Turandot”? Should we rid our homes of Japanese prints? Should I take offense at other people’s Russian nesting dolls?

And while we’re at it, why shouldn’t a wide range of cultural minorities within Western society demand control over access to their heritage, too? Can Catholics claim appropriation when religious paintings of Jesus or the Virgin Mary are exhibited in a secular context, or when movies from “The Sound of Music” to “Sister Act” use nuns for entertainment?

Appropriation isn’t a crime. It’s a way to breathe new life into culture. Peoples have borrowed, adopted, taken, infiltrated and reinvented from time immemorial. The medieval Japanese absorbed major elements of Chinese and Korean civilizations, while the cultural practices of modern-day Japan include such Western borrowings as a secularized and reinvented Christmas. Russian culture with its Slavic roots is also the product of Greek, Nordic, Tatar and Mongol influences — and the rapid Westernization of the elites in the 18th century. America is the ultimate blended culture.

So don’t let anyone tell you that there is art, literature or clothing that does not belong to you because of your racial, ethnic or religious identity. In other words: Appropriate away.

[Cathy Young is a contributing editor at Reason magazine and the author of Growing Up in Moscow: Memories of a Soviet Girlhood, her autobiography, and Ceasefire!: Why Women and Men Must Join Forces to Achieve True Equality.   She’s also a frequent contributor to Newsday, RealClearPolitics.com , Time, and Allthink.]

*  *  *  *
“WILL THE LEFT SURVIVE THE MILLENNIALS?”
by Lionel Shriver

[Shriver’s essay comes from the Op-Ed page of the New York Times of23 September 2016.  In response to this column, one reader asked, “Why can’t the taking on of symbols of other cultures . . . be considered a tribute, not a mockery?”  I have the same question.]

Midway through my opening address for the Brisbane Writers Festival earlier this month, Yassmin Abdel-Magied, a Sudanese-born Australian engineer and 25-year-old memoirist, walked out. Her indignant comments about the event might have sunk into obscurity, along with my speech, had they not been republished by The Guardian. Twenty minutes in, this audience member apparently turned to her mother: “ ‘Mama, I can’t sit here,’ I said, the corners of my mouth dragging downwards. ‘I cannot legitimize this.’ ” She continued: “The faces around me blurred. As my heels thudded against the grey plastic of the flooring, harmonizing with the beat of the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my mind was blank save for one question. ‘How is this happening?’”

I’m asking the same thing.

Briefly, my address maintained that fiction writers should be allowed to write fiction — thus should not let concerns about “cultural appropriation” constrain our creation of characters from different backgrounds than our own. I defended fiction as a vital vehicle for empathy. If we have permission to write only about our own personal experience, there is no fiction, but only memoir. Honestly, my thesis seemed so self-evident that I’d worried the speech would be bland.

Nope — not in the topsy-turvy universe of identity politics. The festival immediately disavowed the address, though the organizers had approved the thrust of the talk in advance. A “Right of Reply” session was hastily organized. When, days later, The Guardian ran the speech, social media went ballistic. Mainstream articles followed suit. I plan on printing out The New Republic’s “Lionel Shriver Shouldn’t Write About Minorities” and taping it above my desk as a chiding reminder.

Viewing the world and the self through the prism of advantaged and disadvantaged groups, the identity-politics movement — in which behavior like huffing out of speeches and stirring up online mobs is par for the course — is an assertion of generational power. Among millennials and those coming of age behind them, the race is on to see who can be more righteous and aggrieved — who can replace the boring old civil rights generation with a spikier brand.

When I was growing up in the ’60s and early ’70s, conservatives were the enforcers of conformity. It was the right that was suspicious, sniffing out Communists and scrutinizing public figures for signs of sedition.

Now the role of oppressor has passed to the left. In Australia, where I spoke, Section 18C of the Racial Discrimination Act makes it unlawful to do or say anything likely to “offend, insult, humiliate or intimidate,” providing alarming latitude in the restriction of free speech. It is Australia’s conservatives arguing for the amendment of this law.

As a lifelong Democratic voter, I’m dismayed by the radical left’s ever-growing list of dos and don’ts — by its impulse to control, to instill self-censorship as well as to promote real censorship, and to deploy sensitivity as an excuse to be brutally insensitive to any perceived enemy. There are many people who see these frenzies about cultural appropriation, trigger warnings, micro-aggressions and safe spaces as overtly crazy. The shrill tyranny of the left helps to push them toward Donald Trump.

Ironically, only fellow liberals will be cowed by terror of being branded a racist (a pejorative lobbed at me in recent days — one that, however groundless, tends to stick). But there’s still such a thing as a real bigot, and a real misogynist. In obsessing over micro-aggressions like the sin of uttering the commonplace Americanism “you guys” to mean “you all,” activists persecute fellow travelers who already care about equal rights.

Moreover, people who would hamper free speech always assume that they’re designing a world in which only their enemies will have to shut up. But free speech is fragile. Left-wing activists are just as dependent on permission to speak their minds as their detractors.

In an era of weaponized sensitivity, participation in public discourse is growing so perilous, so fraught with the danger of being caught out for using the wrong word or failing to uphold the latest orthodoxy in relation to disability, sexual orientation, economic class, race or ethnicity, that many are apt to bow out. Perhaps intimidating their elders into silence is the intention of the identity-politics cabal — and maybe my generation should retreat to our living rooms and let the young people tear one another apart over who seemed to imply that Asians are good at math.

But do we really want every intellectual conversation to be scrupulously cleansed of any whiff of controversy? Will people, so worried about inadvertently giving offense, avoid those with different backgrounds altogether? Is that the kind of fiction we want — in which the novels of white writers all depict John Cheever’s homogeneous Connecticut suburbs of the 1950s, while the real world outside their covers becomes ever more diverse?

Ms. Abdel-Magied got the question right: How is this happening? How did the left in the West come to embrace restriction, censorship and the imposition of an orthodoxy at least as tyrannical as the anti-Communist, pro-Christian conformism I grew up with? Liberals have ominously relabeled themselves “progressives,” forsaking a noun that had its roots in “liber,” meaning free. To progress is merely to go forward, and you can go forward into a pit.

Protecting freedom of speech involves protecting the voices of people with whom you may violently disagree. In my youth, liberals would defend the right of neo-Nazis to march down Main Street. I cannot imagine anyone on the left making that case today.

[Shriver, who resides in the U.K., is the author, most recently, of the novel The Mandibles: A Family, 2029-2047.  She’s written for the Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times, the New York Times, the Economist, and the Guardian.  Her novel We Need to Talk About Kevin, which won the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2005, was adapted into a 2011 film of the same name starring Tilda Swinton.]


Van Gogh & Miró at MOMA (2008)

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[Eight years ago next month, I went to the Museum of Modern Art in mid-town Manhattan, just four years after it reopened following an extensive renovation that added nearly one third again as much space to the existing museum.  Accompanied by my late mother and my frequent theater companion (whose guests we were in reality), our purpose was to see two new exhibits of artists Mom and I have always liked tremendously: Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) and Joan Miró(1893-1983).  I originally wrote this report, part of a longer one covering other events as well (including Fritz Scholder: Indian/Not Indian at the National Museum of the American Indian in 2008, on which I blogged on 20 March 2011), on 10 December 2008, before I started ROT; I pulled it from my pre-blog archives because, first, I thought the look back at one of my most pleasurable art experiences would be interesting in its own right and, second, I’m working on a play report for next week and haven’t finished anything suitable for posting this week.  (Hey, sometimes necessity is just a mother!)  I hope ROTters will agree with my estimation and enjoy the time trip.  ~Rick]

On Wednesday, 27 November 2008, the day before Thanksgiving, my friend Diana invited my mother and me to join her as her guests at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, where she had taken out a membership this year, so we wouldn’t have to stand on line for Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night (21 September 2008-5 January 2009) and Joan Miró: Painting and Anti-Painting 1927-1937 (2 November 2008-12 January 2009).  We readily took her up on the gesture because both artists are favorites of both my mom and me.  (In fact, Vincent van Gogh is one of my all-time favorite artists of any genre and any period.) 

Fortunately for us, the van Gogh show is small so we could manage both exhibits in one go—with a lunch break in between as a respite.  We’ve learned from experience—we’re veteran gallery-hoppers from way back—that we can’t do two large exhibits at a time without our legs and focus giving out.  I love to read all the wall panels, and most of the plaques with the individual pieces, and that can draw out even a moderate-sized show to a two-hour walk.  (Sometimes the curatorial texts are more informative and interesting than other times.  The Dada show a few years back at the National Gallery of Art and, later, MoMA, in 2006, reported on ROT on 20 February 2010, was like a fascinating lesson in both cultural history and world events and put the art in context; the van Gogh texts were nearly valueless this time around.)  Also, with works like the Dada pieces and Miró’s, it’s interesting to see what media the artists used—those guys were all such experimentalists that they had habits of using really odd materials.  Miró, for instance, includes a lot of tarpaper and sandpaper in the works at MoMA and painted several works on exhibit on copper or Masonite (either the rough side or the smooth side, depending on what effect he was after).  One of Miró’s assemblies includes a painted (blue) chickpea!

We started out at Colors of the Night, whose focus, as the title suggests, is the nighttime paintings of the artist, starting, chronologically, with The Potato Eaters (1885).  The show, of course, included the gorgeous Starry Night (1889, and the only painting I can think of that inspired a rock ’n’ roll song:Don McLean’s 1971 “Vincent,” known as “Starry, Starry Night”), possibly my favorite of all the paintings by van Gogh.  Covering both exterior scenes and interior scenes lit by gas or candles, some dark and shadowy, like The Potato Eaters, others artificially bright, like Dance Hall in Arles(1888), the exhibit includes only 23 painting (plus 9 drawings and several letters by the artist). 

The curators want to make the point that night was a special inspiration to van Gogh (though we know that what attracted him to Arles and Provence was the extreme brightness of the southern sun and the colors that virtually assaulted him in that yellow light).  I suppose there’s a legitimate argument to be made for that point (if art needs an argument to justify an exhibit), but my suspicion is that someone wanted to mount a van Gogh show and, there having been so many just in recent years, that she or he decided there had to be a “unique” perspective to justify a new exhibit.  Anyway, that’s what it looked like to me.  Not that I care, of course.  I’ll accept any excuse to mount a van Gogh show; all I want to do is see the paintings.  And if The Starry Night’s there, or his sunflowers, or some of his portraits, I don’t even need a rationale.

This is why I said that the explanatory texts are nearly worthless in this show.  The justification of the displays and the brief discussions of the inspirations van Gogh had for painting some of the scenes (drawn, obviously, from his letters to his brother and others, some of which are also on display with the art) are often interesting on their own merits, but it isn’t really helpful in appreciating the paintings, which are fully self-explanatory as far as I’m concerned.  (When it came to Miró, his art is so complex and idiosyncratic—and he often had ulterior motives for his work—that the curatorial texts are more revealing.) 

The letters, which I have read before, are remarkable in their own right anyway.  I don’t think there is a similar kind of documentation for any other artist because van Gogh wrote his brother (especially), other family members, and artist friends and colleagues detailed descriptions of some of the paintings on which he was working or scenes he’d seen which he wanted to paint.  He wrote about their emotional reverberations as well as the technical aspects, sometimes even including sketches of the painting he was making.  The letters also often included specific indications of the colors van Gogh was working with or intended to use, and in some cases he has labeled the sketch itself with the color designations he was contemplating.  Now, the pertinent letters, unlike the wall plaques (which often quote from the letters), are fascinating commentary on the artist’s work; but we don’t need a rationale to line up the letters with the paintings.

It struck me as strained, too, that the exhibit of night scenes lumps outdoor painting like The Starry Night and the equally striking The Starry Night over the Rhône (1888) with indoor scenes lit by gas or candles, like Dance Hall in Arles and Night Cafe (1888), or even The Potato Eaters, which is barely lit at all.  The hour may have been the same, but the techniques van Gogh used to create the impressions were vastly different (especially the early work, The Potato Eaters, one of the painter’s first paintings). 

There also seems to be a significant difference, in a painterly sense, between the true night scenes, The Starry Nights, and the twilight landscapes like The Stevedores in Arles(1888) and Landscape with Wheat Sheaves and Rising Moon (1889), which have their own fascination because not only are they depictions of evening over the Provençale countryside, but they include workers at their labor, a subject that really did occupy van Gogh both artistically and philosophically.  (He believed that artists were also laborers, just in the fields of culture.  Artists, farmers, and dockworkers were kin, and labor was an ennobling endeavor.  The Potato Eaters was a subject van Gogh chose not because of the nighttime lighting, but because they were a family of farmers ending their work day with a meal in their homestead.  This was a subject worthy of art to van Gogh.  At least that’s how I understand the work.)  Further, the difference between depicting star- and moonlit night and rendering evening under the dying sun seems as great to me as capturing night is from painting bright day under the Provençale sun.  It’s a little like comparing apples and oranges by saying they’re both fruit!

By the way, it’s not true that the explications were totally useless.  I learned (or was reminded, I don’t know) that when van Gogh painted his night scenes, whether indoors or out, he used the available light at the scene and painted live, as it were.  It’s not so astonishing to picture the artist sitting in a corner of the cafe with his easel and palette while the drinkers and revelers enjoyed their evening.  Others had done that, of course, most notably Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901).  But to imagine the strange, red-headed pastor’s son sitting in the peasant family’s little parlor while they ate supper and drawing them, night after night for several evenings as the text describes, is certainly an odd image.  What must they have been thinking of this odd duck?  And to picture van Gogh standing on the edge of town or down by the riverbank at night, peering at his canvas as he tries to capture the stars twinkling above the town or the lights on the water without even a lantern to help him discern the colors of the pigments on his palette . . . well, it’s no wonder the Arlesians were sure this foreign artist was a fou roux (“crazy redhead,” Van Gogh’s nickname).  But what a fou roux

(Antonin Artaud, 1896-1948, by the way, insisted that van Gogh wasn’t nuts.  In his 1947 piece Van Gogh: the Man Suicided by Society, Artaud asserted that it was all a conspiracy of the establishment, especially the medical establishment, to keep him out of society because he saw too clearly and told the truth.  Of course, Artaud was nuts himself, so from inside his head, van Gogh probably did seem perfectly rational.  If genius can look like insanity, it’s no great leap to figure that insanity can look like genius, too.  Not that the two are mutually exclusive.  Being neither insane—at least, I don’t think so—nor a genius—that one I’m pretty sure of—what the hell would I know?)

Anyway, aren’t we lucky van Gogh passed among us, tortured though he was, for however brief a time.  You can have your Sistine Chapel and your Mona Lisa . . . give me The Starry Nightany time.  (Really—give it to me.  I’ll take it.  No joke.  I will.  I already use it as wallpaper on my computer’s desktop!)

After our lunch break in the little MoMA Cafe 2, conveniently just outside the exit from the van Gogh galleries, we went up to Joan Miró: Painting and Anti-Painting 1927-1937.  (This had been a week for exhibits of opposites in art: Indian vs. Not Indian; Painting vs. Anti-Painting; and—by implication—Night vs. Day.  I just made all that up, of course; doesn’t mean a damn thing!)  Anyway, the Miró covers only ten years of his long life but is a much bigger show than the van Gogh (whose whole painting career lasted only ten years—though he produced around 900 paintings and 1,100 drawings, most of them in the little over a year he spent in Arles). 

Painting and Anti-Paintingexplores 12 of Miró’s sustained series from the decade of ’27-’37, and includes some 90 paintings, collages, objects, and drawings.  It’s also a harder show because, first, Miró, like Fritz Scholder, eschewed pretty pictures and was deliberately working to “assassinate painting,” as he put it, and, second, the 90-plus works in the exhibit, though they cover only ten years of the artist’s prolific career, have an intellectual subtext.  It is possible, even desirable from my standpoint, to see the van Gogh show as a walk through a selection of his work and just let the experience of the paintings affect you however it will.  But with the Miró work on display, even if you were inclined to do only that—a much harder task, I submit, with this artist’s work—you would miss a lot of the point of the exhibit, the experience.

Unless you just don’t like van Gogh—and I don’t want to hear about it if you don’t!—it’s hard not to enjoy, even revel in The Colors of the Night, regardless of the curatorial gloss.  First of all, I find van Gogh’s work almost entirely emotional—and I think he painted that way, too.  He didn’t intellectualize or rationalize much—he was a creature of feelings and senses.  (I think, at base, Impressionism is predominantly emotional: it’s a rendering of what the artist feels about a subject, her or his reaction to it.  Impressionists want to convey what they felt, not what they saw.  It’s more Stanislavsky than Brecht, if you will.) 

Miró isn’t about what he feels so much as what he thinks—and what he wants you to think.  We may see that his impulses are destructive, as far as art is concerned, but he has made rational choices about what to include in his art, what materials to use, what to leave out.  It’s not that Miró has no passion or doesn’t display it—he’s no Vulcan with suppressed emotions—but he decides rationally how he will convey his emotions as well as his thoughts and ideas.  This not only makes his work, especially when assembled in the numbers of the MoMA show, hard to encounter, but very dense.  A van Gogh painting hits you pretty much all at once as soon as you see it.  It’s a gut response, reacting to the artist’s reaction.  A Miró grows on you, your response or understanding accumulates; knowing some background or explication helps, too. 

I don’t need anyone to tell me what The Starry Night means, but with Miró’s 1927 canvas titled Un Oiseau poursuit une abeille et la baisse I needed some clues.  First off, it is one of the few pieces in the exhibition whose French title isn’t translated, which suggests something.  (The words are actually written across the canvas atop the images Miró painted, suggesting that the words are important.)  I looked on the Internet to see if there was an “official” translation of the phrase, and there really isn’t.  One site said that the words are essentially untranslatable into English (and another actually provided a translation that’s wrong).  So I went about translating it myself.  The first part is easy: “A bird pursues a bee and . . . .”  At first I mistook the last two words as a noun with the definite article: la baisse means ‘the fall’ or ‘the drop.’  (What our stock market has just gone through here was une baisse.)  In context, that doesn’t make much sense, though: “A bird pursues a bee and the fall.”  No synonym works any better.  Then I realized that the end of the phrase isn’t an article and a noun but a pronoun and a verb; larefers to une abeille.  As a verb, baissermeans ‘to drop,’ ‘to knock down,’ or words to that effect.  So the phrase now means, “A bird pursues a bee and knocks it down.”  (The incorrect translation on the ’Net was: “A bird pursues a bee and kisses it”; the translator confused baiser, ‘to kiss,’ with baisser, ‘to knock down.’  Silly wabbit!) 

Now, the painting is extremely abstract—there’s no actual bird or bee on the canvas—but it’s easily possible to see the blobs and splotches Miró painted as representing such a picture.  As long as you’re armed with the interpretation of the words the artist put in the painting.  You can also certainly say that the painting bears no resemblance to a bird doing anything at all to a bee—but the process is still intellectual in part.  (A Frenchman wouldn’t need to go through the translation tsuris, of course, but he’d still have to do the interpreting and apply the text to the image and decide if there’s any correlation.)  This is the starkest example of what I mean, but it’s emblematic, I think.  And, at least for me, that’s why the Miró show is more arduous than the van Gogh, which is more exhilarating.  Not that both aren’t worthy—just different cognitive experiences.

The van Gogh exhibit is also a random excerpt of his work, taken from the whole decade of his career.  It may be a study of a certain technique—the painting of night—though I dispute it’s cohesive enough to be that, but the Miró is chronological and carefully arranged and selected so that it provides a view of the process the artist went through to get from where he began in 1927 to where he ended in 1937.  I could have started the van Gogh exhibit at the end and gone backwards, or careened randomly from painting to painting and had the same experience for the most part that I had going from start to finish.  If you don’t follow the Mirós in the order they are arranged, you miss the progression, the changes the painter went through as he experimented and developed new ideas.  (This is particularly where the wall texts help.  Not only do they point out the variations in technique and focus, they provide commentary from both Miró himself and contemporaries, including critics and other artists.)  What Painting and Anti-Paintingdoes is reveal the arc, the throughline, of one artist’s journey at a significant point in his creative life.  Aside from the art itself, which can, of course, speak for itself, that’s a terrific perspective to have.

In Miró’s case, what he was up to in this decade was tearing down and rebuilding the art of painting.  (I’m not sure he had intended to do the rebuilding—I think it just happened despite his intentions.)  The exhibit is arranged into 12 groups of works, each set demonstrating one sortie in Miró’s effort to “assassinate painting.”  He approached this task as a sort of anti-Grotowski of painting: whereas Jerzy Grotowski (1933-99) examined theater and discarded what he determined was inessential, Miró examined painting and began to expunge what was essential, including, first, paint itself—many of the early works include bare spots of raw canvas—and even eliminating, as Holland Cotter’s New York Timesreview (“Miró, Serial Murderer of Artistic Conventions,” 31 October 2008) puts it, the artist himself.  (To continue the theatrical analogy, there’s something Artaudian in Miró’s drive to destroy painting, just as Artaud wanted to destroy theater.) 

At 34, Miró had already established himself as an artist.  He had succeeded as a Surrealist, having moved to Paris in 1920 when the movement began, and had also been influenced by Surrealism’s predecessor, Dadaism—a resolutely anti-aesthetic cultural movement that grew out of the aftermath of World War I and the devastations of mechanized war and the mechanized society.  Restless and endlessly inquisitive, Miró needed to move on to something new, even radical (a trait he shared with his fellow Spaniard and another influence, Pablo Picasso, 1881-1973), but there wasn’t anything on the horizon, so he realized he’d have to invent it for himself and the first step, he famously declared, was to erase what had gone before.  The ten years that followed were occupied by the painter’s efforts to overthrow the established forms by whatever means he could imagine.  His impulse to change everything was exacerbated and informed by world events that overtook him: the rise of fascism (in Italy in 1922 and Germany in 1933) and the Spanish Civil War in his native country (1936-39), the harbinger of another world war. 

It’s little wonder, it seems to me, that an artist might renounce conventional beauty in art—just as the Dadaists saw the destructiveness of machines and technology and abandoned soothing aesthetics for more provocative techniques.  Oddly perhaps, both the Dadaists and Miró could still create a kind of frightening and disquieting beauty—like the menacing splendor of a lava flow or the chilling grace of a shark.   In The Poetics, Aristotle said that we get pleasure in drama even from seeing things we would regard with disgust if encountered in reality because we learn from them, and learning gives us pleasure; the same must be true of art in any form. 

After having discarded paint, the defining medium of the art of painting, Miró moved on to eliminating painterly craft.  In Spanish Dancer I (1928), the artist assembled colored paper, sandpaper, and a cut-out of a woman’s shoe on a wood panel.  There’s not one image or object which Miró created, nothing which required his artistic skill (or any paint or pigment he applied to the collage).  Later, Miró began to mangle art history as well, with his deconstructions of old masters, as Dutch Interior I (1928), the artist’s take on Hendrik Martensz Sorgh’s The Lutanist (1661), a painting of a reclining woman being serenaded by a suitor, or La Fornarina (1929), a seated nude portrait of Raphael’s lover, which both end up in Miró’s versions as his familiar amoeba-like blobs in garish colors such as yellow, red, and brown.  In the end, Miró returned to painting (and his works after 1937 seem less angry and volatile), but in this developmental decade, the artist engaged collage and assemblage and built art from unlikely found materials and ready-mades.

[Mom and I had always enjoyed van Gogh shows, but things didn’t always work out for us.  I went down to D.C. for the year-end holidays in 1998 and my mother and I had planned to see the van Gogh exhibit at the National Gallery of Art, Van Gogh's Van Goghs (4 October 1998-3 January 1999), but the show was so popular that Mother couldn’t get tickets—NGA, whose admission is free, did issue tickets for entry to this exhibit to control attendance—even after standing in line one afternoon in the hope of getting lucky.  In contrast, several years later, Mom and I saw Joan Miró: The Ladder of Escape (6 May-12 August 2012) at the NGA’s West Building.  (I blogged on this show on 5 October 2012.)]


Woody Allen’s Recent Movies

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by Kirk Woodward

[Like George Bernard Shaw and the Beatles (did you ever figure those two names would appear together in the same sentence?), filmmaker Woody Allen is a subject of some interest to Kirk Woodward, my friend of many years who’s been a prolific contributor to ROT.  Kirk’s last two posts on this blog have been about the great Irish writer (“Re-Reading Shaw,” 3 and 18 July, 8 and 23 August, and 2 September) and the Fab Four (“Now, Live, The Non-Beatles,” 27 September), and now Kirk returns with an article about reviewers (another favorite topic—he wrote a whole book about reviewing) and Allen’s latest films.  (Kirk also wrote about Allen before on ROT: he posted an article about “Bullets Over Bullets Over Broadway” on 29 August 2014.)  As in both “Re-Reading Shaw” and “Now, Live,” Kirk writes about his own take on things, based on his experience and observation.  And as with the recent past posts, you may disagree with some of what Kirk says in “Woody Allen’s Recent Movies,” but once again, I maintain that his thoughtfulness and perspicacity make his opinions and conclusions worth considering—even if you’re not a particular fan of Allen’s filmmaking.]                                                                                         
Woody Allen (b. 1935) famously does not believe in God or an afterlife. I hope he’s wrong, if only because I want him to be able to enjoy the critical praise his films are due, and I’m afraid he’s going have to wait until he joins the choir invisible for that to happen.

Many people, in the arts and in other fields, are taken for granted until they’ve passed on, at which point they are idolized. That’s likely to be the case with Allen. All his work – all 1100 or so hours of it – will (I’m guessing) then be issued in one collection, probably on some digital device the size of a toenail clipping, and films that are now essentially disregarded will be considered important for their imagination and creativity.

By my count, Woody Allen has been involved in some seventy-three films to date. He has written around fifty of them, directed forty-nine, and acted in some fifty-five. Obviously there is a lot of overlap here – I count thirty-eight films for which he was the (or in a few cases “a”) writer, director, and actor. (As best I can tell, I’ve seen about half of the total seventy-three.)

I’m not saying that Allen has been ignored, because obviously that’s not the case. He is the subject of a shelf of analytical books, mostly admiring. He is enormously respected in the film-making community, and actors say they consider it a career highlight to be in a Woody Allen film.

But the reviewers . . . ah, that’s a different story. Reviewers often write, so to speak, with their eyes on the rear-view mirror. In Allen’s case, they frequently don’t really review his current film, they review his past career.

A. O. Scott’s review in The New York Times(14 July 2016) of Allen’s most recent film, Café Society (2016), is a typical example. Even the headline for the review – likely not written by Scott, of course – reads, “‘Café Society Isn’t Woody Allen’s Worst Movie” – a reference to Allen’s career right there – and Scott goes on to describe the film as “neither an example of bad, late Woody Allen nor much in the way of return to form.”

Wendy Ide in The Guardian (4 September 2016) writes, “It’s not in the same league as Allen’s finest work, but neither is it a honking misfire like Magic in the Moonlight.” Adam Graham in the Detroit News (29 July 2016) says “. . . it doesn’t reach the heights of Woody’s best . . . .” Ann Hornaday of the Washington Post (21 July 2016) says, “With each succeeding year, Allen’s insular version of the past feels more eccentric.” Examples can be multiplied.

To my mind this is both this strikes me as both a lazy and an offensive approach for a reviewer to take. I say “offensive” because it patronizes an artist who has made significant contributions to film, to comedy, and for that matter to culture. I say “lazy” because what I would describe as a ho-hum attitude of superiority is an easy one for a reviewer to assume – unearned, but easy.

I maintain that a reviewer’s responsibility is to confront the work at hand. I want to know, as if I had never seen another movie, what this one has to offer. Only by approaching a piece of art that way, it seems to me, is a reviewer able to see and describe what might be new, significant, or even revelatory about a particular film.

The career-evaluation approach to reviewing strikes me as one step removed from the gossip columnists’ – “Old Woody isn’t the filmmaker he used to be.” What does that have to do with the movie at hand? But comparing past and present movies is an easy game. It’s also a bad habit.

No one’s art is the same today as it was yesterday. To take another example, Bob Dylan isn’t writing “Blowing In the Wind” any more. Why should he? He wrote it years ago. What’s he writing now? What does it have to offer? Is it valuable or not? Talk about what someone has done, and you won’t have to talk about what they’re doing.

As a result, a great deal of worthwhile work is overlooked. I would argue for the merits of a number of films by Woody Allen that are generally ignored – for example, from his middle period, Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993), Small Town Crooks (2000), The Curse of the Jade Scorpion (2001), and Hollywood Ending(2002).

None of these are remembered as “Woody Allen classics,” and some were panned and/or did badly at the box office. All of them, I submit, would have been considered delightful work if they were not looked at as “Woody Allen films.” Under that burden they could not be “seen” for themselves.

Obviously I am expressing my own highly debatable opinions, but another point can be objectively demonstrated. There is no such thing as a “typical Woody Allen film” because his films are significantly different from each other. They are structured differently, they use different narrative devices, they have widely different kinds of characters.

Certainly elements recur. It would be remarkable if they did not, since one person, Allen, is their prime creator. (Recurring elements appear in Shakespeare’s plays too.) But Allen works hard to differentiate his films. He finds inspiration in numerous sources, and he uses a variety of narrative structures.

I would like to demonstrate this point by looking at five recent films that Allen has written and directed, and in some cases appeared in.

SPOILER ALERT: In order to discuss the various twists of these movies, I have to at least hint at some important – sometimes crucial – plot elements. If you haven’t seen Magic in the Moonlightand Irrational Man in particular, stay away from the following.

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (2011)
This delightful film was both a critical and a popular success; it won an Academy Award for Best Screenplay, and earned the most money among Woody Allen’s recent films. The narrative hook in this film is . . .

I TOLD YOU THERE’D BE SPOILERS! THERE’LL BE OTHERS! YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!

. . . time travel. Owen Wilson plays a writer in modern-day Paris whose favorite time period is the 1920’s. Having problems both with his fiancée and with the novel he’s trying to write, he finds himself traveling, each midnight, into the Paris of that era, where Hemingway challenges him to box, Gertrude Stein reads and evaluates his novel, and Surrealistic painter Salvador Dali visualizes him as a rhinoceros. From a narrative point of view, perhaps the most interesting twist is that a detective, hired to shadow the writer, gets himself stuck in an even earlier time period, and can’t get out.

TO ROME WITH LOVE (2012)
I enjoyed this film almost as much as I enjoyed Midnight in Paris, which is saying something, but the two are radically different. The mood of Midnightis romantic and serene; the mood of Romeis boisterous. A narrator introduces and closes the film (there is no narrator in Midnight). The film intertwines four separate stories told in differing comic styles; it crosscuts between the stories, but presents them in different time frames: for example, one may take a day, another one a number of days.
·         A not terribly successful opera director (played by Woody Allen) discovers a “natural talent,” a tenor who, unfortunately, can only sing when he’s in the shower.
·         An American woman and her husband, inadvertently separated, each become involved in potentially compromising farce situations..
·         Leopoldo, a staggeringly average Italian man, finds that for no apparent reason he has become a celebrity, with his every move, including what he had for breakfast, captured by the army of reporters following him.
·         Jack, an architecture student, meets John, a successful older architect, who accompanies Jack – visibly or invisibly, in fact or in imagination – as he tries to sort out his love life.
Together these four storylines form a sort of seminar on the possibilities of light comedy. The story of Leopoldo is particularly brilliant, in our age, when people frequently become celebrities for odd reasons (“reality” TV shows) or even for no reasons at all.

MAGIC IN THE MOONLIGHT (2014)
In this film, and the next, Woody Allen plays with familiar metaphysical themes – God, death, a meaningful universe. The center of this plot is literally magic: two magicians try to determine whether or not a medium really has supernatural gifts or not. More than that: the plot is literally an elaborate magic trick. I can’t say any more, in order not to spoil the fun for anyone who wants to see the movie, and I hope you will, but I don’t know any other plot that works like this, and it’s a brilliant idea. Some reviewers said the dialogue was uninspired. I suppose they mean that it doesn’t have a lot of gags in it – not that those would be appropriate for the movie, which is deliberately a period piece. A. O. Scott, in his review (24 July 2014), wrote, “Mr. Allen has had his ups and downs over the years.” Need I say more on that subject?

IRRATIONAL MAN (2015)
Irrational Man is a suspense film with a sort of Hitchcock construction to it, as a woman (Emma Stone) becomes increasingly aware that her philosophy professor, testing the idea that a universe without God is meaningless and therefore that every action is equally absurd, has committed a murder, and is likely to have to commit another one – hers. The climax of the action is brilliantly staged – it happens in the blink of an eye, and calls into question much that has previously happened in the film. Reviewers tended to say that the film was dull, which I don’t understand.

CAFÉ SOCIETY (2016)
Unlike the movies discussed above, Café Societyis a thoroughly, almost novelistically narrated film, which allows Allen to skip a great deal of exposition for the large number of characters, and move quickly to their central dilemmas. The love triangle between young Bobby, eager to get out of Brooklyn; his uncle Phil, a major movie agent in Los Angeles; and Vonnie, Phil’s secretary, is a strong story in itself – and the way the characters find out what’s happening is skillfully presented – but the story also allows Allen to demonstrate without preaching that “café society” – the life of the comfortably rich – is not life’s ultimate satisfaction. The bittersweet ending embodies this theme: just because a person has everything, doesn’t mean they have everything.

Even a cursory survey of the five movies shows how different they are from each other. There simply is no sense – even if it were good practice – to view these films as basically one long movie directed by Woody Allen. I can’t think of any equally prolific artist who has produced so many works of such variety. Certainly Allen’s films contain themes, motifs, and even plot elements that can be tracked from one movie to another – as is likely to be the case with any artist over a long career. (I cited Shakespeare as an example; I could also cite Eugene O’Neill.) It seems pointless to stop there, and not look at the way Allen handles his material this time.

A review, I maintain, should consider and reflect the work being looked at – not at something else. Criticism, as opposed to reviewing, can take a broader view, and a critical look at an artist’s entire career may be legitimate for a critic. Reviewing has a different focus. It reports on the work at hand.

I could be belligerent and ask what the reviewers’ outstanding contributions to art that allow them to patronize, say, Woody Allen might be. They might properly reply that their contributions are in the field of reviewing, and that a reviewer is an artist too. I agree, and I have no right to look down my nose at their accomplishments. I see much to applaud in various reviews, looked at one at a time. I just want reviewers to review Allen’s movies according to the nature of each one – not as mere signposts in a career. That, I submit, is the heart of the artistry of a reviewer.

[Kirk’s book about reviewing I mentioned in my introduction, for the curious ROTter, is The Art of Writing Reviews (Merry Press/Lulu, 2009), available to order or download at http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-art-of-writing-reviews/6785272; potential readers can also access this site through Spiceplays, Kirk’s own webpage, http://spiceplays.com/id7.html.  I also wrote a four-part commentary on Kirk’s book which I posted on ROT: “The Art of Writing Reviews by Kirk Woodward,” 4, 8, 11, and 14 November 2009.

[When the reviews of Café Societycame out last July, I thought I spotted a similarity between the film’s plot and the plot of a Woody Allen play I’d seen Off-Broadway back in 2004, A Second Hand Memory.  I mentioned this to Kirk and he did a search to see if anyone else found the same connection.  Turned out, someone did: Don Steinberg in the Wall Street Journal of 8 July commented on the plot similarity and the blog The Woody Allen Pages remarked on the WSJ’s mention in “New Café Society Interviews Discuss Production And New York” on 7 July.  On 1 September 2014, I posted my 2004 report on Second Hand Memory on ROT.

'The Roads to Home'

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There’s story theater and, apparently, there’s story theater.  The first is the theatrical presentation of a story (or stories), usually fairytales or fables, by a group of actors often playing multiple roles.  Characterized by simple scenery and props used imaginatively, the narrative performance is often improvised and music is frequently incorporated in the production.  The other kind, less often seen on professional stages, is a play in which the characters do very little, but sit or stand around telling stories to one another.  It’s a variety of talk theater (see Osloand A Day by the Sea, reported on this blog on 13 August and 17 September, respectively).

Horton Foote’s The Roads to Home is, unhappily, an exemplar of story theater type 2.  A collection of three connected one-act plays (A NightingaleThe Dearest of FriendsSpring Dance), Primary Stages’ Roads is staged in two acts by Michael Wilson, director of Foote’s monumental Orphans’ Home Cycle at the Signature Theatre Company in 2009 (see my report on 25 and 28 February 2010), for which he received both a Drama Desk and Outer Critics Circle Award.  Playing at Primary Stages’ new home, the Cherry Lane Theatre in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village, The Roads to Home, running two hours and 10 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission, started previews on 14 September and opened on 5 October; the revival is scheduled to close on 27 November (extended from 6 November).  Diana, my usual theater companion, and I caught the performance on Friday evening, 7 October.

The Roads to Home, premièred Off-Off-Broadway at the Manhattan Punch Line Theatre, under the direction of Calvin Skaggs, in New York City on 25 March 1982; a revised version was directed by Foote (featuring the late Jean Stapleton, most recognized as Edith Bunker on Norman Lear’s All in the Family on TV, as Mabel Votaugh) for the Lamb’s Theatre Company in 1992.  (Hallie Foote, the playwright’s daughter who appears as Mabel in the current revival, played young Annie Gayle Long in both the earlier productions.)
                                      
The Cherry Lane Theatre, located at 38 Commerce Street in the West Village between 7th Avenue and Hudson Street (and a few blocks south of another landmark Village playhouse, the Lucille Lortel), is New York City’s oldest continuously running Off-Broadway theater.  Opened in 1924 in a former farm silo built in 1817, the Cherry Lane contains a 179-seat main stage and a 60-seat studio.  The structure also served as a tobacco warehouse and box factory before the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay and other members of the fabled Provincetown Players converted it into a theater.  It has hosted works by some of the United States’ most illustrious playwright, from Eugene O'Neill, Clifford Odets, and Gertrude Stein to Lorraine Hansberry, Edward Albee, LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka), Sam Shepard and David Mamet, as well as important European writers like Sean O'Casey, Luigi Pirandello, Eugène Ionesco, and Samuel Beckett.  The Living Theatre performed at the Cherry Lane and in 1962, producers Richard Barr and Clinton Wilder introduced New York (and the U.S.) to a new dramatic genre with a program entitled Theatre of the Absurd at the Cherry Lane. 

By the late 20th century, however, the building was suffering from old age and lack of maintenance.  In serious danger of falling into ruin, the building was bought in 1996 by Angelina Fiordellisi, who began investing in structural improvements.  She went into debt and the playhouse ceased producing, but Fiordellisi kept the building standing.  (It served as a rental theater for independent productions and occasional rep company seasons.)  In 2011, Fiordellisi announced that the theater had retired its debt and would reopen again for productions.

Primary Stages was founded by Casey Childs, currently its executive producer (the current artistic director is Andrew Leynse) in 1984 to produce new plays and foster the development of playwrights, both established and rising.  In 2004, Primary Stages moved from its original 99-seat home, the 45th Street  Theatre (renamed the Davenport Theatre in 2014) on West 45th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues to the 195-seat Theater A at 59E59 Theaters; in 2014, the company moved its productions to the Duke on 42nd Street.  Its current home, beginning earlier this year, is the Cherry Lane, home now to Roads.  Primary Stages has presented over 125 productions in its 32 years, many of them premières.  In addition to Foote, the writers represented on the troupe’s stages have included A. R. Gurney (Indian Blood, 2006; Buffalo Gal, 2008), Willy Holtzman (Sabina, 2005; Something You Did, 2008), Julia Jordan (Boy, 2004), Romulus Linney (2: Goering at Nuremberg, 1995), Donald Margulies (The Model Apartment, 1995; Shipwrecked! An Entertainment, 2009), Christopher Durang (Adrift in Macao, 2007), Terrence McNally (The Stendhal Syndrome, 2004; Dedication or The Stuff of Dreams, 2005), John Henry Redwood (The Old Settler, 1998; No Niggers, No Jews, No Dogs, 2001), John Patrick Shanley (Missing/Kissing, 1996), Mac Wellman (The Hyacinth Macaw, 1994; Second-Hand Smoke, 1997), Lee Blessing (Going To St. Ives, 2005; A Body of Water, 2008), and David Ives (All in the Timing, 1993; Mere Mortals, 1997).  Aside from producing plays, Primary Stages also launched a teaching program, the Marvin and Anne Einhorn School of Performing Arts (ESPA), in 2007, and since 1995 has conducted the Dorothy Strelsin New American Writers Group, a residency program for emerging playwrights.  Primary Stages is also associated with Fordham University to offer a Master of Arts degree in playwriting.  In 2008, Primary Stages won the Lucille Lortel Award for Outstanding Body of Work; the company’s productions have garnered many additional awards and nominations.  (Of the plays listed above, I have seen a fair number; the reports for several have been posted on ROT.)

Before the revival of The Roads to Home this year, Primary Stages has presented Foote’s The Day Emily Married (2004), Dividing the Estate (2007), and Harrison, TX (three one-acts: Blind Date, The One-Armed Man, The Midnight Caller; 2012).  The company also presented When They Speak of Rita by Daisy B. Foote, the playwright’s second daughter (Hallie Foote’s sister), which Horton Foote directed in 2000. 

I’ve seen four previous Horton Foote plays: The Young Man from Atlanta on Broadway in March 1997; The Trip to Bountiful in 2005 (report posted on 25 May 2013); The Orphans’ Home Cycle, a nine-play cycle telling the story of Foote’s father’s life (25 and 28 February 2010); and The Old Friends (10 October 2013).  (There’s no report on Young Man.  The last three productions were all at the Signature Theatre Company.)  The playwright was born in 1916 in Wharton, Texas, the town in the southeast of the state he came to call Harrison in his plays.  (This year has been Foote’s centennial, the reason for the revival of Roads to Home—and some other events—at Primary Stages.)  He didn’t actually start out to be a writer; he caught the acting “call,” as he put it, as a child—at nine, he says, when he played Puck in a school production of Midsummer Night’s Dream—and decided he wouldn’t go to college “because I didn’t think that would be good for an actor.” 

The budding thespian performed in plays through high school, under the tutelage of the speech teacher who recognized his talent for theater, and after graduating at 16, worked for a year in his father’s haberdashery store and traveled weekly to Houston to continue his acting studies.  At 17, he took a bus to California to study at the Pasadena Playhouse.  From there, he went to New York City in the fall of 1935 and worked at the famous Provincetown Playhouse and attended the Tamara Daykarhonova School for the Stage where he “was re-trained by the Russians.”  He also joined with some other incipient actors and formed a group called the American Actors Company that worked above a garage, a precursor to Off-Off-Broadway. 

Agnes de Mille, already an established dancer and choreographer, came to the troupe to do a project that included sketches and improvs about the places each of the performers came from.  Naturally, Foote did his about Texas.  De Mille took him aside afterwards and told him, “I think there’s something going on here.  You should think about writing.”  So Foote immediately composed a full-length play, Texas Town, writing the lead role for himself, and the American Actors Company staged it.  On opening night, 29 April 1941, Brooks Atkinson, the New York Times reviewer and the dean of New York theater journalists, was in the house on West 16th Street and gave the play “a rave,” according to Foote (“it does considerable honor to a group of tenacious young actors”; “gives a real and languid impression of a town changing in its relation to the world”; “it is impossible not to believe absolutely in the reality of [Foote’s] characters”; “Mr. Foote and the American Actors Company have performed a feat of magic”).  Foote also reports that Atkinson liked all the acting (“most of the acting is interesting and thoughtful”) . . . except the author’s (“none of the parts is stock theatre, except perhaps the part [Foote] plays himself without much talent and with no originality”). 

The company disbanded that summer and Foote says that “the acting desire just left me.”  In exchange, “I became intensely fascinated on writing.”  Thus, a playwright was born, but he’s affirmed, “I think being trained as an actor was very helpful to me.”  He explains that otherwise, “to me it’s like writing for a symphony, if you don’t know the instruments.”  As his daughter Hallie affirms, "He writes wonderful parts for actors.”  (As an erstwhile actor, I’d agree—especially his women’s roles, which are, as an acting teacher of mine would say, “juicy.”  In addition, Foote occasionally directs, both his own plays and his daughter Daisy’s, and I can attest that knowing actors and acting is a marvelous asset for a director.)  The Roads to Home gives proof of Foote’s acumen as an actors’ writer for, even though it has deficiencies in its dramaturgy, the characters are the kind actors love to do.

In his early writing career, Foote gravitated to television, becoming one of the principal writers in TV’s early days in the live era.  He wrote for episodic television as well as the drama anthology series that were popular in the early 1950s.  What’s arguably his best-known play, The Trip to Bountiful, premièred on NBC television in 1953 before débuting on Broadway (with Lillian Gish and Eva Marie Saint appearing in both productions).  Foote continued to write for TV right up till the ’90s, winning an Emmy in 1997 for his adaptation of William Faulkner’s Old Man.  Meanwhile, he was writing for the stage (Only the Heart, 1944; Six O'Clock Theatre, 1948; The Chase, 1952).  His stage plays became popular fare in New York on Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Off-Off-Broadway, and in regional theaters across the country.  Foote also wrote for films, most notably the screenplay for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), winning him an Academy Award.  Other screenwriting includes Tender Mercies (Academy Award, 1983), Trip to Bountiful (Academy Award nomination, 1985), and Of Mice and Men(1992).  

In the mid-’60s, though, Foote’s writing, out of step with the headier (and often angrier) work of emerging writers like Arthur Kopit, Jack Gelber, Lorraine Hansberry, Adrienne Kennedy, Amiri Baraka, Sam Shepard, and Edward Albee, fell out of favor.  Then the Oscar recognitions of the ’80s raised his profile again and theater companies came calling.  Hallie Foote, the playwright’s literary executor, quips that “my father will be around forever.”  Next year alone, for instance, will see regional productions of The Trip to Bountiful by the Good Theater at the St. Lawrence Arts Center in Portland, Maine (29-30 April 2017), and at the Waterfront Playhouse in Key West (24 January-11 February 2017) and Dividing the Estateat Le Petit Théâtre Du Vieux Carré in New Orleans (24 March-2 April and 13-15 April 2017).  Hallie Foote says she’s discussed with Houston’s Alley Theatre a staging of The Orphans’ Home Cycle and the trilogy may also appear soon as a television mini-series.  In addition, there may be another major Broadway revival of a Foote play, following 2013’s Trip to Bountiful, in 2017 and a musical adaptation of one of his scripts, to be co-written by Daisy Foote, is in development.  (The actress declined to name either play.)  In 1996, Foote was inducted into the American Theater Hall of Fame and The Young Man from Atlanta won the 1995 Pulitzer Prize for Drama.  In 2006, the dramatist won a Drama Desk Award for Career Achievement and on 20 December 2000, Pres. Bill Clinton awarded him the National Medal of Arts. 

Foote died at 92 in 2009 in Hartford, Connecticut, where he was finishing the work on Orphans’ Home Cycle, which was to première at the Hartford Stage before coming to New York’s Signature Theatre Company.  The Trip to Bountiful received an all-star posthumous revival on Broadway, starring Cecly Tyson (who won a Tony for her performance) in 2013; it was filmed for television in 2014, garnering two Emmy nominations.  All four of Foote’s children have become theater professionals: Daughter Hallie and son Albert are actors, son Walter is a director, and daughter Daisy is a playwright.

Almost all Foote’s writing, whether for the stage or the screen, original or adapted, “evokes a lyrical sense of place and strength of character,” as interviewer Ramona Cearley put it.  Indeed, he’s affirmed, “I feel that place is very important in my work.”  But he rejects being labeled a “Southern writer” or even a “Texas writer.”  “I’m a Wharton writer,” he insists.  Foote paints on a small canvas, but he’s exceedingly detailed.  “I try to be as specific about this town [i.e., Wharton] as I can be without being parochial.”  His characters, especially the women, have the sort of eccentricities common in the fiction of Southern writers, but they’re far less Gothic.  They’re also deeper and more complex.  

At his best, as in Trip to Bountiful, the dramatist’s small-town milieu serves as a microcosm for the human condition.  Even when the plays don’t expand so universally, as in Roads to Home, his prose is so evocative and poetic (he is to white Southerners in that respect what August Wilson is to African Americans—he turns them into what playwright-director Emily Mann called “poets of everyday speech”) that you can become mesmerized by his speeches and dialogue.  (That’s heightened when an actor like Lois Smith or Foote’s daughter Hallie gets a hold of the part.  It’s symbiotic: Foote’s writing attracts actors and then the actors use his writing to develop fascinating characters.  He’s not exactly actor-proof, but he is actor-enabling.  Wilson’s like that, too.)

On a par with his evocation of place and character, Foote also acknowledges, “I’m essentially a story teller.”  A voracious reader as a boy, the authors he names as important to him are all story writers: Mark Twain, Willa Cather,Katherine Anne Porter, William Faulkner, William Maxwell, Eudora Welty, Peter Hillsman Taylor, Flannery O’Connor, and Reynolds Price.  Furthermore, in  the Foote and Brooks families, recounting family lore and relating the lives of kin was a common pastime.  As a child, while his younger brothers—the writer was the oldest of three boys—were outdoors running and playing, Horton would be sitting on the porch listening to his relatives telling their stories. 

The dramatist was also something of a hoarder, as Foote interviewer Sheila Benson observes: he prowled flea markets and auctions to collect bits of Americana, folk art, and family mementos, much the way he collected the histories of his relatives and his neighbors.  Both of these collections, Benson asserts, were assembled “with wit and sureness and a touch of the unexpected” and the stories have been recycled into his scripts just as the people in Harrison Foote knew or learned of became the characters in the plays.  This phenomenon is indisputably the case in The Roads to Home.  It’s a play, as I said, all about stories.

The first playlet, A Nightingale (Act One, Scene One of the Primary Stages revival),takes place in the kitchen of Jack and Mabel Votaugh’s Houston home.  It’s early April 1924 and Mabel’s next-door neighbor and best friend, Vonnie Hayhurst (Harriet Harris), pays a call.  Vonnie finds Mabel (Hallie Foote) preparing for the expected but uninvited daily visit of Annie Gayle Long (Rebecca Brooksher), a young acquaintance of Mabel’s from Harrison, where they both grew up.  As she prepares coffee for her vistors, Mable tells Vonnie, who’s just returned from a visit to her hometown of Monroe, Louisiana, stories and gossip about Harrison and, particularly, Annie, whose behavior since she witnessed the murder of her father by his closest friend on the main street of Harrison has become decidedly peculiar.  When Annie, who lives across Houston but likes to ride the streetcar, arrives, it’s clear she’s slipping inexorably into insanity.  (Her neurasthenia falls somewhere between Alma Winemiller and her mother in Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke.)  In the midst of other conversations, Annie breaks into song (“My Old Kentucky Home” seems lodged in her mind) or points her fingers like a pistol and shouts “Pow!  Pow!  Pow!” at odd moments.  The older ladies are a little taken aback by Annie’s eratic behavior, but not really put off by it—as if it were a version of normal conduct.  Annie’s husband (Dan Bittner), who repeatedly asserts that Annie’s behavior is directed at him, arrives to collect her, but she resists and after he gets her our of the house, she returns looking for her children whom she thinks she left behind at Mabel’s. 

In the second play, The Dearest of Friends (Act One, Scene Two), it’s six months later, and Mabel’s in her parlor while her husband, Jack (Devon Abner), dozes off in his chair—waking periodically to ask if it’s ten o’clock yet, so he can go to bed.  Vonnie rushes in—no one in Mabel’s neighborhood apparently bothers with locking doors—in an absolute tizzy and we soon learn the cause.  Having heard so many stories from Mabel about Harrison, Vonnie and her  husband, Eddie (Matt Sullivan), took a train trip there to see what her friend had been talking about all this time.  (Both Jack and Eddie work for the railroad, so they get passes.)  Eddie’s become involved with a Harrison woman he met on the train and wants a divorce. Mabel and her husband sympathize with Vonnie’s situation—a good deal more time is spent figuring out who the other woman is than solving Vonnie’s problem—but, when Eddie shows up, dressed in his robe and nightclothes, they don’t get themselves directly involved even though the crisis is unfolding in their home.  

Act Two of Roads to Home is devoted to the third playlet, Spring Dance,set in a garden outside an auditorium in Austin four years later.  Annie’s been confined to the State Lunatic Asylum in the Texas capital and, all dressed in semiformal evening finery (the men are in black tie), she and her fellow patients—two young men she knew as a girl in Harrison, Dave Dushon (Bittner) and Greene Hamilton (Sullivan), and a fourth resident, Cecil Henry (Abner)—are attending a dance going on just inside the terrace’s French doors.  Annie, who won’t dance because she doesn’t think it’s proper for a married woman, behaves with scrupulous politeness as befits the genteel lady she still sees herself as; her companion, Dave, is essentially catatonic as Annie chatters on about her family and her life in Harrision.  Greene, however, is dancing up a storm inside and periodically waltzes his way out of the auditorium; he doesn’t seem able to stop moving to the music even though he has no partner.  Greene tells Annie that both he and Dave will be going home to Harrison for a month’s visit the next day, but we shortly discover that neither he nor Annie have any grasp of the passage of time or any of the other ordinary markers of life—they can’t remember, for instance, how long they’ve been at the asylum, when they last had visits from their families, or when letters with news from home arrived and Annie keeps smelling chinaberry blossoms, a scent from her childhood in Harrison, even though there are none in the asylum garden.  Cecil, who’s not an acquaintance of the Harrison contingent, enters from the auditorium now and then to ask Annie to dance, though she refuses his invitations each time; he has no more hold in reality than the others as he’s sometimes married and sometimes not, sometimes a father and sometimes not.

The Roads to Home was disappointing despite a good production.  It’s all talk and, more than that, it’s two hours of storytelling.  There’s virtually no dialogue—a few sections of stichomythia—as each character has long passages of telling tales about their pasts.  Ben Brantley said this in his New York Times review, but it wasn’t clear to me how static and long-winded the performance is.  (The saving graces are that it’s Foote’s prose, which is still poetic and evocative, and the cast, which is excellent.  These aren’t enough to remedy the total lack of theatricality and action—the three narratives really ought to have been Tennessee Williams-type short stories—but they managed to prevent the evening from being unbearable.)  

Furthermore, these nearly-plotless little snapshots of a particular place, time, and selection of personalities don’t illuminate 21st-century America, much less the human universe.  As the Washington Post’s Michael Toscano aptly said of the play (in another, unrelated production): “‘The Roads to Home’ provides a pleasant journey, but eventually you can’t help asking where those roads lead.  They provide the theatrical equivalent of a scenic Sunday afternoon drive rather than taking you to any meaningful destination.”  As portrait miniatures, the three playlets aren’t unappealing or uninteresting, but revealing they’re not. 

They’re also not especially engaging since while I felt for the characters and their problems, I didn’t feel with them; I couldn’t identify with anyone on the stage.  Foote has asserted that he’s “just never had a desire to write about any place” other than Wharton/Harrison, although he admits to having “tried to write about New York, . . . and the work just doesn’t have the same ring of authenticity as when I write about” his hometown.  But “because the things that happen [in Wharton] can happen in a big city,” as the dramatist insists, and “emotional life doesn’t vary very much” from one place to the next, Foote’s best plays always rise to a level of universality.  The world of Roads didn’t expand beyond the time and place of its setting.  In a sense, the best Foote plays, like Bountiful, unfold in living color, but Roads is sepia-toned.  Since Roads has been staged twice before in New York, it’s not an unknown quantity.  With all the Foote plays available—he had a long career and was pretty prolific—I wonder why Primary Stages chose this one to revive for his centennial.

Though Roads isn’t Foote’s best work, the three playlets still present detailed and sensitive portraits of Southern women (as depicted in literature, if not in real life) and the genteel life of the playwright’s small-town milieu.  Like his best writing, the characters, especially the women in Roads are meticulously drawn, providing the excellent actresses meat enough to create deep characterizations.  The same is true of the settings: Foote’s plays evoke such a palpable sense of place and atmosphere that designers like Primary Stages’ Jeff Cowie (sets) and David C. Woolard (costumes) are inspired to devise a physical stage environment that breathes authenticity in minute detail. 

Though the one-acts are connected by recurring characters and snippets of situations—Annie, for instance, is clearly headed for insanity in Nightingale and then in Dearest of Friends, we hear that she’s been committed to the state hospital (Mabel even talks about writing to her) before we encounter her there in Spring Dance—the overall arc of Roads to Home is diffuse and makes no general point.  (The playlets are separated and announced by title slides projected on a black background like in a silent movie, a pastime which we learn is an important in the ladies’ lives.)  The closest Foote comes to a unifying theme is a look at people displaced by their economic, personal, or, in Annie’s case, psychological situations, trying to find their way back to the safety of home (i.e., Harrison or, for Vonnie, Monroe).  Harrison may be less than 60 miles from Houston, but the comfort of home is out of reach.  Furthermore, Foote is suggesting, home may not even be so safe anymore.  (In addition to the cautionary stories Mabel and Annie tell about Harrison—and some of Vonnie’s tales of Monroe are no more comforting—it’s notable that two of the men interned at the asylum with Annie are from Harrison and when Mabel visits the town, her marriage is destroyed.)  Even the individual one-acts have no resolutions—we never find out, for example, what happens to Vonnie and Eddie or what becomes of Annie—they just trail off when Foote runs out of story.  Or stories, since, as the playlets have no plots of their own, the fabric of each play is the tales the characters tell one another. 

Primary Stages gave The Roads to Home an attractive and well-mounted production at the Cherry Lane.  I’ve already mentioned briefly the set and costume designs, so let me expand on the physical production first.  The first two one-acts are the most closely connected and director Michael Wilson presented them as two scenes of the first act, so scenic designer Cowie integrates them by making the parlor set of Dearest of Friends the flipside of the kitchen set in Nightingale.  The back wall of the kitchen is indicated by a couple of hanging cabinets over the sink and stove, but there’s no actual wall; in fact, Mabel steps into her living room to make a phone call during Nightingale.  In Dearest of Friends, the reverse set-up is used and the scene change employs a revolving set to strike the kitchen and reveal the parlor, reinforcing the illusion that these are two neighboring rooms in the same house, both of which look well lived-in.  As I observed earlier, Cowie includes many small details in the set decoration and Wilson makes sure there are many homey hand props for the actors, especially the women, to handle, such as coffee cups and saucers, tea cakes, and bottles of Coke.  It’s a very everyday world.

David C. Woolard’s clothing is not only visually evocative of mid-’20s small-town Texas, but it conjures up an entire world.  (Houston, a large city today of nearly 2½ million people, is portrayed in Roadsas an oversized village; as I already noted, he characters in the play never bother to lock their doors.  Its population in 1920 was under 140,000 and, what’s more, the neighborhood where Mabel and Vonnie live is virtually an extension of Harrison.)  The house dresses Mabel and Vonnie wear in Act One suit this world and the two women like uniforms; there’s no doubt they live in these clothes.  The same is true of Annie’s dressier visiting outfit and the men’s work attire, whether Mr. Long’s business suit or Jack’s railroadman’s working duds.  Even the formal wear of Annie and her young men in Spring Dance seem somehow fitting as the dress of people of means and station in their world, even as they seem almost comically out of place at the mental hospital.  But that, of course, is part of Foote’s world, too.

Alongside the lighting of David Lander and the soundscape of John Gromada, it all brings to life the milieu of this group of people at a particular time in southeastern Texas.  If the chinaberry blossoms weren’t all in Annie’s head, I might have smelled them myself (if I knew what chinaberry blossoms smelled like, of course—but you know what I mean).  On top of this, the acting completes the illusion of stepping back almost a century into a small southwestern town; it’s like experiencing a holodeck program on Star Trek:TNG’s Enterprise.  What I don’t know for sure is whether the physical environment inspired the actors or whether they’d have managed the same feat even on a bare stage.  Given the stature of the cast, however, I’m gong with option 2 but with the caveat that, like all good actors, the set, costumes, lights, and sound fed their already activated imaginations.  Stanislavsky’d eat it up!

Since the plays are about the women, the three actresses have the spotlight throughout Roads to Home.  Bittner, Abner, and Sullivan all do creditable jobs with their various roles, but the men, especially the three husbands, pretty much function as catalysts, sounding boards, and rationales for the women to tell their stories.  All three actors do this solidly.  (It might help that in two of the couples, the actors are real-life significant others: Hallie Foote and Devon Abner, the Votaughs, are married, and Harriet Harris and Matt Sullivan, the Hayhursts, are partners.) 

Hallie Foote, often called the theater’s best interpreter of her father’s characters, is close to astounding in her portrayal of Mabel.  Knowing a little about how Horton Foote developed his characters from people he knew in Harrison, often members of his family, I assume Mabel was drawn from someone real, and it’s almost as if the actress knew her (or them) just as well.  (When I saw Hallie Foote in The Orphans’ Home Cycle 6½ years ago, she was playing women whose descendant she is and I said of her work that “she almost seems to be living the plays rather than acting in them.”)  If Primary Stages’ Roads were all about the acting alone, Hallie Foote’s personification of Mabel Votaugh would make the evening.  She doesn’t miss a note; her every gesture is unimpeachably right.  As a lesson in Stanislavskian acting technique, if you could bottle it and sell it, it’d be worth a million bucks!

Harris and Brooksher, as Vonnie and Annie, both inhabit vivid and astutely conceived characters.  Brooksher’s Annie can be annoying when she goes on apparently endlessly in her delusional world, but that’s more in the writing than the acting.  The actress manages very well to make Annie the subject of deserved concern and sympathy, both from her older friends on stage and from the audience.  (This, in turn, makes Bittner’s Mr. Long seem the more callous when he tries to coax her back home in Nightingale, but I believe that’s also deliberate on Foote’s part.)  Beneath the veneer of delusional confidence, Brooksher maintains a core of a little lost girl which is only revealed overtly in a few instances.  We see the persona she’s been brought up to show the world and which her husband prefers—but, as an acting teacher of mine would say, Brooksher’s “up to something.”  Harris’s Vonnie, who provides the small instances of comic relief in what’s an increasingly melancholic evening, is the character with the most dramatic arc in the play.  As Vonnie goes from sisterly neighbor and friend who helps Mabel cope with Annie’s going over the edge to the distraught wife of a philandering husband in a disintegrating marriage, Harris essentially sublimes from kindly concern in Nightingale to near hysteria in Dearest of Friends.  Though the shift occurs between Scene One and Scene Two and Foote doesn’t lay any groundwork for it, Harris makes the transition entirely believable—and justifiable. 

Wilson, by now a dab hand at Footian melodrama (he’s also directed both the 2013 Broadway revival of The Trip to Bountiful and its TV film adaptation the next year, garnering him a DGA best-director nomination; the Tony-nominated 2008 Broadway mounting of Dividing the Estate; and Off-Broadway productions of The Carpetbaggers and The Day Emily Married), wrings just about all the poignancy and drama out of the static script as he can.  With the help of the superb actors, whom Wilson has apparently encouraged to follow their unerring instincts, he’s managed to stage the three little character studies with sensitivity but without letting them sink into sentimentalism.  Foote himself warned, “I think sentimentality is an evasion of reality, it’s just not looking at the truth of the thing.”  Roads to Home doesn’t reveal much about our world today—though it may say some interesting things about people in general—but it sure as hell looks squarely and piercingly at the society Foote limns in the three playlets, and Wilson, with the inestimable collaboration of his cast and design team, has made that real even if it can’t sustain two hours of theatergoing.  I can’t see anything any director could do to make that happen.

The press coverage of Primary Stages’ revival of The Roads to Home was light, possibly because, despite the quality of its production, it’s the second revival in New York City of a minor Horton Foote work.  Show-Score surveyed 15 outlets for an average rating of 81, relatively high by my observation.  (Among the missing from my usual suspects are the New York Post, Daily News, Newsday, and am New Yorkamong the dailies; the websites NJ.com and NorthJersey.com, which cover respectively the Newark Star-Ledgerand the Bergen County Record; New York magazine from the weeklies; Variety of the theater and entertainment press; the cyber journal Huffington Post; and the theater websites Broadway Worldand both NY Theatre Guide and New York Theatre Guide.)  Show-Score reports that 100% of the reviews were positive; there wasn’t a single negative or mixed notice. 

Terry Teachout of the Wall Street Journal, observing that ordinary life is “hard to put on stage,” asserted, “It takes a special kind of writer to find compelling beauty in the ordinary, and Horton Foote did it better than anyone.”  Calling Wilson’s Roads “richly involving,” Teachout said it “serves as a reminder that you needn’t set off firecrackers to seize an audience’s attention.”  “It’s impossible to say enough good things about Mr. Wilson’s production,” continued the Journalist, praising the cast for being “wholly conversant with Foote’s idiom.”  The play “feels a bit thin here and there, relying as it does on the relaxed rhythms of casual conversation to make its dramatic effect,” complained Teachout, but in a well-mounted production like Primary Stages’, “you’ll be more than content to sit and listen—and marvel.” 

In the New York Times(which received Show-Score’s lowest rating, one of two 70’s in the website’s survey), Ben Brantley affirmed that “talking is close kin to breathing, and almost as essential to [the] survival” of the women of “this plaintive, meandering trilogy,” who “are all displaced persons of a sort.”  “Gabbiness,” explained the Timesman, is “an existential force . . . in Foote’s world.”  Acknowledging that the “loose-jointed triptych hardly ranks among Foote’s finest work,” Brantley said that Roads“lacks the seamlessness of Foote at his best” and the play’s dialogue, which Brantley complained “can seem like monologues,” “seems not woven but nailed together.”  Nonetheless, Brantley admitted that for him, it’s “a home-baked treat too delicious to miss.”  Despite Brooksher’s skill as an actress, though, her Annie can’t help but be “a pain in the ear,” and Brantley wrote, “The heart sinks a bit when you realize that the final play . . . is all about” her.  The Times review-writer concluded that “it’s the onrushing ordinariness of [Foote’s] plays that makes them so very poignant.”

The Village Voice’s Michael Feingold posited that Roads to Home“offers . . . a quintessence of [Foote’s] disorienting approach” to dramaturgy, which the Voice writer explained is that “the talk” of his apparently realistic circumstances “tends to be the opposite of dramatic.”  Feingold was referring to Foote’s use of storytelling, which the reviewer found “unlike anything else in dramatic literature.”  Though the Voice reviewer described the lives of Foote’s characters as “often bleak,” director Wilson “handles [Roads] with ease, adding in exactly enough bright color to cover the basic darkness.”  Feingold concluded: “The performers’ vivacity reinforces the paradox: Spacious, sunshiny, and seemingly ordinary, Foote’s Texas is as spiritually dark as any Beckettian landscape.”  The New Yorker called Hallie Foote a “highlight” of the Primary Stages’ Roads to Home, the first two parts of which “are pure, if slightly undercooked, Horton Foote” and the third playlet forms “a jarring coda.”  The “Goings On About Town” columnist summed up the production by averring that “Foote fans will be fascinated to see the playwright dip a toe in Tennessee Williams waters.”

In the Hollywood Reporter, Frank Scheck’s “Bottom Line” was; “Although not major Foote, these works offer myriad subtle pleasures.”  He stated that Foote’s art is “on terrific display in the Primary Stages revival of The Roads to Home,” in which the “playwright frequently leavens these tragic situations with droll humor.”  Scheck reported that “The Roads to Home is less concerned with plot, of which there isn’t much, than with subtle character revelations” and that Wilson’s “quiet direction . . . enhances the cozy intimacy, as do the ensemble’s excellent performances.”  Labeling the play “a minor effort,” the HRreviewer concluded, “But it offers enough subtle pleasures to infuse us with the warm feeling.”  Time Out New York’sDavid Cote observed that the ”drama unfolds though folksy banter and recollected histories” and found that Wilson’s “firm, translucent production hits the right notes of melancholy, dry humor and nostalgia.”

Dubbing Primary Stages’ Roads to Home“a fine revival,” Samuel L. Leiter described the play as “a chatty, thinly plotted, occasionally comic, but ultimately affecting domestic drama about average, not especially dramatic, people” on Theatre’s Leiter Side.  Leiter concluded, “Home may be where the heart is, but the effort to recapture it, if only in memory, is nothing short of heartbreaking in The Roads to Home.”  On Theater Pizzazz, Brian Scott Lipton found that Roads“is like a welcome helping of comfort food” for Foote fans, even though it “isn’t exactly quintessential Foote.”  Lipton explained, “The comedy is . . . broader than usual, and the tragedy a little deeper,” adding that the production “not just coheres, but tickles the funny bone and touches the heart,” which is “a testament to” the director “and the excellent ensemble.”  Despite its minor status among Foote’s works, Roads to Home, in the opinion of the TP reviewer, is “definitely a journey worth taking.”

Zachary Stewart of TheaterManialikened the play to a “sepia-toned portrait” of the milieu, given “sensitive direction” and “gorgeously designed and beautifully acted.”  Still, Stewart found the playlets “occasionally absurd sketches” which, nevertheless, “Wilson and his cast are able to find real emotional depth in.”  The reviewer, however, warned, “Theatergoers who live for sharp-tongued exchanges and explosive confrontations are likely to be underwhelmed,” though, “if you take the time to slow down and really listen, you’re likely to find a vibrant epic within the subtext.”  On CurtainUp,Simon Saltzman acknowledged that Roads“may not be in the top tier of [Foote’s] canon but is . . .  framed by a engaging serenity and a gentle touch of sadness.”  The Primary Stages revival has “a sublime cast” and “fine direction” by Wilson; the settings, costumes, and lighting are all “first rate.”  Characterizing the Primary Stages revival of Roads to Home as “sensitive, lovely, and oh-so-slightly-underpowered,” Matthew Murray described the play as “sepia-tinted nostalgia” on Talkin’ Broadway (Show-Score’s other 70 rating).  The play’s “as fiercely magical and fiendishly funny as it is chilling,” averred Murray.  The direction, said the TB review-writer, “is focused but soft” and Cowie’s set “occupies its own region of memory,” lighted  “tactically, knowingly” by Lander. 

Show-Score handed out three top ratings of 90 to the notices for The Roads to Home, none to sites I usually survey.  So, in the interest of completeness, I’ll include Lighting & Sound America in this round-up.  In his opening line, David Barbour asserted, “Sometimes I think we have it all wrong when we call Horton Foote a playwright; really, he’s a composer, wringing music both merry and melancholy from the everyday conversation of his characters.”  Calling the playlets “delicate materials,” Barbour found them “handled with . . . sensitivity and perception,” though he regretted the intermission between the first two one-acts and the last because it “threatens to shatter the carefully wrought atmosphere that Wilson and company has [sic] so deftly established.”  “In other respects,” the cyber reviewer said, “the production is beautifully judged,” praising each of the actors and all the design artists.  Barbour agreed that Roads“is a minor work, a chamber piece in three movements, but it is no less resonant,” concluding that “in [Foote’s] hands, the deeply ordinary seems extraordinary.  And when his characters talk—oh, the music they make!”


A Tribute to Edward Albee (1928-2016)

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[Edward Albee, one of America’s greatest modern playwrights, died 16 September 2016 at his home in Montauk, Long Island.  The winner of numerous awards and nominations, including three Pulitzer Prizes—for A Delicate Balance, 1967; Seascape, 1975;  and Three Tall Women, 1994—three Tonys—Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, 1963; The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?, 2002; and one for Lifetime Achievement, 2005—and the National Medal of Arts, 1996, Albee was 88.  The playwright was in the vanguard of Off-Broadway in the early 1960s, starting with his first produced play, The Zoo Story in 1960.  (See “Greenwich Village Theater in the 1960s,” posted on ROT on 12 and 15 December 2011.)

[Over my years of attending theater, I’ve seen a number of Albee plays—my first college directing project was his Sandbox in 1967—and I’ve seen what’s probably his most popular, well-known, and most-produced work, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, three times (not counting the movie).  One production was at Rutgers University that combined professional union actors with student performers in the summer of 1977 (when I was performing in another play in the summer rep), but the other two were Broadway productions.  The first was in June 1976 at the Music Box Theatre in a staging by the playwright himself, starring Colleen Dewhurst as Martha and Ben Gazzara as George.  I wasn’t writing reports of my theater experiences then, but I recall observing to myself after seeing this performance what a great play it is—not what a great production it was.  Albee directed the words, not the actors or the characters. 

[The third production of Virginia Woolf I saw was the national tour of the 2005 Broadway revival directed by Anthony Page with Katheen Turner as Martha and Bill Irwin as George.  I saw the show in Washington, D.C., at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in January 2007.  As a belated tribute to Edward Albee, here’s my report, written on 17 January 2007.]

WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF? (2007)

I left New York City for Washington on 22 December 2006, the Friday before my birthday, because I’ve been taking the “Kosher Bus” these days now that I don’t have a doggie to transport.  Vamoose, the bus company’s real name, now has Saturday service (through someone else they’ve contracted to operate on the Sabbath), but Friday is still the day they have the most runs scheduled, so it’s the most convenient if I don’t want to leave either early in the morning or late in the afternoon.  (The company’s run into some sort of problem with its regular stops in D.C.: they can’t stop at either the downtown or Tenleytown locations temporarily, so they’re now going to Bethesda and Arlington.  [This change turned out not to be temporary at all. ~Rick]  Though the Bethesda stop isn’t terribly out of the way, but it’s not as convenient as the Tenleytown location which is only a short, straight run from my mother’s apartment.  Too bad.)  In any case, I waited until as late as I could before the holidays because, first, I was planning to stay down south at least several days past the New Year (it turned out to be nearly a week later) and, second, I had a paper I wanted to submit for publication by a 5 January deadline and that meant I had to finish it before I left town and my computer.  [I had a desktop machine at that time and no laptop yet.]  (I had already abandoned another paper because I couldn’t manage two with nearly identical deadlines before I left town.)

The reason that I knew I’d be staying past New Years is that my mother and I had gotten tickets for the 4 January 2007 opening of the national tour of the 2005 Broadway production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? which was making its first stop at the Kennedy Center’s Eisenhower Theater.  As I had missed the performances here, I was looking forward to seeing Bill Irwin (who won the Tony) and Kathleen Turner (who was nominated—as was the production—but lost out to Cherry Jones in Doubt). 

My mother had arranged dinner on the 25th at one of the Washington area’s nicer restaurants, the Old Angler’s Inn (I’ve never known if it’s the inn or the angler which is old), in commemoration of the 21st anniversary of my 39th birthday (you do the math), and my cousin and her husband joined us.  Another cousin who lives in Baltimore had been invited, too, but she was unable to make it, so a few days later, Mom and I drove over to Charm City (I don’t know, either) to see an exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art, A View Toward Paris: The Lucas Collection of 19th-Century French Art, and got my cousin to meet us there.  The show had gotten an interesting review in the Washington Post and was going to close on the last day of the year, so we went over on Thursday, 28 December, on what turned out to be a beautiful afternoon. It wasn’t a great art exhibit, but it was more than pleasant, and had its virtues.  Besides, we had lunch in the museum restaurant and, since we were in Baltimore, I got to have crab cakes from an authentic Maryland kitchen!  Unless you’ve had crab cakes from within shouting distance of the Chesapeake, you haven’t lived!!  (If you’ve had them anywhere else, conversely, you have no idea what you’re missing.)

So on Thursday evening, 4 January, we went to the Kennedy Center for the performance of the national tour of Broadway’s Virginia Woolf.  We went toopening night (not usually my preference) because when Mother saw the announcement and called for tickets, the short run—it closes on 28 January—was almost already sold out and the opening-night seats were the best we could get.  Turner and Irwin are reprising their performances as the battling couple, and the actor playing Nick, David Furr, was the standby on Broadway and took over the role in the last month there.  I saw the 1976 Broadway revival of Virginia Woolf directed by Albee (with Colleen Dewhurst and Ben Gazzara), but except for a semi-pro production at Rutgers University the next year, I haven’t seen it since then—not even the movie. 

I can only assume that Irwin and Turner are recreating the performances they gave on Broadway, and I can see why it was so well received a year-and-a-half ago.  Turner is the queen bitch of all time—not a Joan Crawford-Bette Davis harridan, but a perfectly believable, if over-the-top, damaged and damaging woman.  Her husky voice—not unlike what I recall Dewhurst had, coincidentally—lends itself to the image of a hard-drinking, hard-smoking middle-aged woman—and I don’t know if Turner has gained weight for this role or is just suffering the common problem of many of us as we passed 35, the dreaded spread, but she looks like the earth-mother Martha claims to be.  But Irwin, taking a completely different tack from any I have ever seen or heard of (or could imagine) is astonishing. 

Of course, I know Irwin from his clown and mime work at the beginning of his career (truly remarkable work in its own right!) and I’ve seen him as he’s moved into straight dramatic work as well (though I missed him in Albee’s The Goat), but this, even though I had read the reviews in 2005, stunned me.  I knew this was a stretch for him, not just because the role and the play are such a challenge, but because he was doing George differently from previous interpretations (in the shadow, of course, of the iconic film performance of Richard Burton).  He’s diffident, small (as he is, of course, next to Turner anyway), stiff, even awkward.  He doesn’t try to match Martha’s vitriol and venom (until the end, when he explodes like a bottle of soda under pressure), he withdraws and retreats—though we eventually see that he’s been drawing Martha into a trap. 

Intellectually, this shouldn’t work.  Turner’s Martha should overwhelm Irwin’s George, smother him, make him a secondary player.  But either Irwin’s smarter than I think I am, or he just does it better than anyone should be able to—because he’s still Turner’s equal on stage.  And when that last scene comes, the one where he springs the trap and devastates Martha, revealing it all to Nick, Honey, and us (and remember, I knew what was coming), it’s a shock and shatters us all. 

It was stunning.  Literally.  I can only say that Irwin still performs magic, even when he’s not!  It remains to be seen if he can go on to more stage triumphs (and he has also been doing some directing, principally of Beckett plays), or if this blows his wad.  Even if it did, though, he earned all the accolades he got—though I’m betting he’s got more of this tucked away, given the chance to display it.  We’ll see, I guess. 

[This Broadway revival opened at the Longacre Theatre on 20 March 2005 and closed 5 September after 8 previews (starting on 12 March) and 177 performances.  It received three 2005 Drama Desk nominations (Outstanding Revival of a Play, Outstanding Actor in a Play –Irwin, Outstanding Actress in a Play – Turner) and six 2005 Tony nominations (Best Revival of a Play, Best Actress in a Play – Turner, Best Featured Actor in a Play – David Harbour as Nick, Best Featured Actress in a Play – Mireille Enos as Honey, Best Costume Design of a Play – Jane Greenwood; Irwin won the Tony for Best Actor in a Play).  The tour, from 7 January  to 20 May 2007, of which the Kennedy Center mounting was the first stop, went on to other cities: Los Angeles,  6 February-18 March; Chicago, 27 March -8 April; San Francisco, 11 April -12 May; Tucson, 15-20 May.

[I didn’t survey reviews in 2007 as I do now, so here are some of the pertinent comments from a few prominent publications.  In the Daily News of 21 March 2005, Howard Kissel, calling the New York production “a thrilling evening of theater,” wrote in “This Virginia is for drama lovers,” “The production, directed by Anthony Page, mines the riches of the play beautifully” and that together Irwin and Turner “convey all the savage eloquence of Albee's dialogue.  Every line is riveting.”  Clive Barnes described the performances as “[t]wo dying scorpions trapped at the bottom of an empty gin bottle”  in “a scorching, exhilarating revival” in “‘Woolf’ Has Bite” in the New York Post of 21 March and in “Marriage as Blood Sport: A No-Win Game,” Ben Brantley of the New York Times on the same date labeled the production “pulse-racing” and reported, “Mr. Page and his stars insist on grounding each linguistic reversal and rodomontade in in-the-moment reactions.”

[Of the Kennedy Center presentation, the Washington Post’s Peter Marks declared in “‘Virginia Woolf’: The Marriage From Hell With A Heavenly Cast” on 12 January 2007, “A rapturous daze is the condition you find yourself in “ after seeing this Virginia Woolf, which gets “superb treatment” from the company, staged “to stunning effect” by Page.  In his review, “With Turner and Irwin, ‘Woolf’ has sharp claws,” in the Baltimore Sun of14 January 2007, J. Wynn Rousuck , reporting that Virginia Woolf “has lost none of its sting” in the Washington performance, wrote that Albee’s “taut, tart, subversive play crackles with tension yet celebrates human spirit.”  The Washington staging garnered two 2008 Helen Hayes Award nominations, one for Outstanding Non-Resident Production and one for Bill Irwin for Outstanding Lead Actor, Non-Resident Production; Virginia Woolf won the second.



Mom

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My mother died at 92 about 18 months ago, almost 20 years after my father succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s Disease (see "Dad," 20 June 2010).  My Dad died almost exactly one month after my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, though he didn’t know that and Mom wasn’t in much of a disposition to celebrate.  Mom’s death came about seven months before what would have been their 70th anniversary. 

Officially, Mom died of pneumonia, sepsis, and something called metabolic encephalopathy, a catch-all term for general brain malfunction.  In truth, Mom died of dementia, from which she’d been suffering increasingly severely for about two years with milder symptoms extending back several years earlier.  By the time she went to the hospital for the last time, she’d become entirely non-verbal and I don’t know how much of what was going on around her she perceived.  In essence, my mother had become a living ghost, a vacant shell.  Even before that, she’d lost any pleasure she might derive from life because, I believe, she knew she was becoming separated from everyone around her.  She couldn’t keep up and didn’t understand why—or maybe she did and that contributed to her sense of separation. 

One by one, she stopped doing all the things she had enjoyed, even taking walks around the grounds of her assisted-living residence, Maplewood Park Place in Bethesda, Maryland, and though her neighbors were unfailingly solicitous and attentive, delivering invitations to dinner or coming by for visits, she began blowing them all off.  I couldn’t even get her to go down to the dining room with me; she preferred to eat in her apartment—when she ate at all.  Mom had been a wonderful cook all my life—my dad had taught himself to be a gourmet and Mom kept up with him in the kitchen as well as at the table.  She was known as a terrific hostess and good food was one her greatest pleasures—both partaking and serving.  She had stopped cooking a year or more before the end—what few meals we prepared at home, I made for her.  By the final months, food meant almost nothing to her—not even sustenance. 

I suppose this isn’t an uncommon tale.  As Bette Davis is supposed to have said, “Old age ain’t for sissies.”  Only the very luckiest among us escape its ravages.  But what for me has been the hardest blow is what precisely my mother—I—lost in her descent into mental oblivion.  My family had fun, from my youngest memories to my most recent, and Mom was a fundamental part of that—if not as the instigator, then as an avid participant.  My parents were polar opposites in many respects: Dad was an intellectual, a thinker, a raisonneur—Alzheimer’s destroyed an essential part of his persona, too—and Mom was a romantic, a sentimentalist.  Dad experienced the world through his mind; Mom navigated it through her emotions.  (I inherited some of both, which is a helluva conflict.  I thought it’d make me a better actor, though, but apparently it wasn’t enough.)  Together, however, they always knew how to make fun.  I’ve been missing that lately.  I mean, I’ve been thinking how much I’ll miss that from now on. 

It’s shortly before Thanksgiving as I write this, and my parents and I, and later just Mom and I, were always together on that day.  When my brother and I were little, it became a family tradition to spend Thanksgiving and sometimes Passover with my father’s family, rotating among our house in the Washington area, Aunt Kris and Uncle George’s home in Trenton, and the house of my dad and Kris’s baby sister, Mac, and my Uncle Herb in Haverhill, Massachusetts.  In the past couple of decades, it was our usual practice to spend Turkey Day with the family of Aunt Kris, who was one of Mom’s oldest friends, going back to the World War II years (Kris introduced Mom to my dad).  That visit was always a chance for them to be together and catch up and reminisce.  My folks, and later just my mom, would come to New York on Tuesday or Wednesday, we’d cross the river on Thursday to the house of either my aunt and uncle (who’d moved by this time to Princeton) or one of my three cousins for the holiday meal, and then my parents would spend the rest of the weekend with me in New York City.  Mom continued to follow this routine after Dad died, and last year was the first time I went over to Princeton alone.  This is one of the times when the now-missing piece of my life is perhaps most palpable.  (The other is my birthday, which falls on Christmas.)

Our family fun wasn’t all just brief incidents, an hour or a day of planned pleasure like a party or an outing.  Some were, of course—and some were pretty mundane, too, as you’ll see—but others were whole chunks of our joint life.  The biggest was the period we lived in Germany, a grand adventure that lasted from 1962 to 1967 about which I’ve written more than once on this blog (see, for example, “An American Teen In Germany,” 9 and 12 March 2013).  Dad initiated this, certainly after discussions with Mom, when he joined the Foreign Service in 1961, leaving his private-sector job as an executive at District Theatres Corporation in Washington.  I’d always known that Dad had been inspired to make this move by President John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address, particularly the famous plea to “ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”  What I hadn’t known until he told me many years later was that he and Mother had long harbored a dream that they could take the family to Europe to live for a time but hadn’t figured out how to accomplish that.  Now here was an opportunity for Dad both to answer JFK’s call and to fulfill his and Mom’s hope for the four of us. 

Early in Dad’s training he was informed that a Foreign Service Officer’s spouse was 50% of the job—and he imparted this bit of wisdom to all of us.  Thenceforth, Mom became “Mrs. Fifty Percent” among the three of us boys (one of several nicknames she acquired during our European sojourn)—and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the process of moving us abroad, supporting my father’s work in Germany, and making the whole undertaking a momentous experience for us all.  Whatever success my dad had as a diplomat in Germany was due in large measure to Mom’s entertaining and socializing talents.  Her graciousness as both a hostess and a guest ingratiated her—and thus, my dad and, by extension, the United States, which he represented—to all strata of the community around Koblenz, the small Rhineland city where my father was posted in 1962.  Her gameness to try to speak German, even haltingly, delighted our German hosts, and her willingness to go anywhere and try anything prompted the people among whom we were living to seek us out and welcome us into their homes.  (Socializing was part of my dad’s job and Mom hosted lunches and Kaffeeklatsches at home as well as going to Frauennachmittage at Koblenzers’ homes.  My folks also occasionally arranged what I’d have to call “play dates” for my brother and me with the sons of some of the people they were meeting.  Our hosts, both the parents and the boys, were always welcoming and sometimes an acquaintanceship grew out of it.)  They wanted to show off their town and their country, but Mom made it easy for them.

My brother and I made our first trip to Europe at Christmas vacation in 1962 and our parents surprised us with a trip to Paris for the holidays—and my 16th birthday.  We returned to Koblenz in the summer of 1963 to live and the Paris trip was only the first of many we’d make over the next five years, from day trips to sights near Koblenz and later Bonn or overnights in West Germany; to holiday trips to places like London (my 17th birthday), the Austrian Alps, and Copenhagen; and three-week driving tours of Italy and Spain.  In Italy, where we saw so many paintings and statues of Mary everywhere we went, usually named the Madonna of This or the Madonna of That, Mom obtained another of her family names: the Madonna of the Blue Shoes—or, often, “die Madonna von den blauen Schuhen”—because she bought a pair of teal-blue low heels for walking around the narrow and often cobbled streets.  (Dad, by the way, got a nickname in Spain—based on the official signature of the kings of Spain, “Yo, el Rey”—but it’s too silly to enshrine here.)  

One of the most fun places we went was Zermatt, Switzerland, for skiing at Christmastime.  We loved that so much—the little train up the mountain, the pension where we stayed (with the miniature chalet that was room of my brother and me and where we all gathered for our morning cafés complets), the view of the Matterhorn looming over the town, walking around all day in ski togs, and the way the village looked at night like a giant Christmas tree because of the lit-up chalets and hotels climbing up the mountainside—we went back year after year.

These trips were the products of joint conception and planning by both my parents, of course, but Mother was always right at the center of almost everything my family did.  Oh, sure, there were the usual father-son things—scouts and school stuff mostly—but most of what we did was a foursome.  After Dad’s death and my brother’s permanent move to the West Coast, Mom and I continued to do things together either in New York or Washington, and we traveled together at least once a year, including another Christmas/birthday trip to Quebec City in 2000, until Mom couldn’t manage it anymore.  Our last trip together was a six-day visit to Istanbul in May 2010 (on which I blogged on 24 June 2010).  Mother was 87 when we went to Istanbul, by far the oldest in our group, but despite being slowed some by age and a persistent heart problem, she still derived great pleasure from the sightseeing—which involved considerable walking and even a little climbing—and indulging in the foods and drinks of Turkey, just as we always had back in Western Europe more than 40 years earlier.  Only the flights and the airports were stressful, nearly ruining the experience altogether, and Mom declared as we trekked across Kennedy Airport on the return voyage, racing to make the connection back to D.C., “This is the last time I’m doing this.”  I don’t think she meant it quite the way it turned out, but it was indeed the last time she traveled farther than New York City. 

I said that Mom was an excellent cook, and planning meals and entertainments at home were an immense pleasure for her.  With deference to Perle Mesta, my mom was the ultimate “Hostess with the Mostest.”  Food and drink was a pretty important issue in our house: as I said, Dad had taught himself about good food, wine, and beer so Mom learned as well.  (Like people used to say of Ginger Rogers that she did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels, Mom did everything Dad did as far as food and drink were concerned, but she also learned to make it.) 

In addition, my brother was a picky eater all his life, and I was an adventurous one, an incipient foodie, I guess.  (I reported in “Pulling Wagons and Playing in Sand,” 31 August 2013, a post derived from some pre-school evaluations I found among Mom’s keepsakes, that I was deemed above average “in trying new foods” even at 4 years of age.)  So accommodating all our culinary needs and quirks was Mom’s challenge.  She would say that while it was tough to get my brother to try something new, she could get me to eat anything just by giving it a fancy-sounding name.  It must have worked because half the fun we had in Europe, and later when we traveled anywhere else, was trying all the local specialties from the kitchen, brewery, and distillery wherever we went. 

Many of the things we discovered that way became part of our own cuisine; Mother even learned to make her own taramasalata after our trip to Greece in the ’70s (when we also acquired a taste for ouzo).  She found a store in Washington that specialized in Mediterranean foods and tried several recipes to get the best results for our taste—until, violà, we had a new hors d’oeuvre for us and for guests.  I daresay that you could introduce Mom to almost any dish and she’d eventually figure out how to make it at home, as she did with venison in Germany, where game is readily available in restaurants and at butcher shops.  A Spanish housekeeper in Bonn also volunteered to teach her how to make paellafor which Mom had brought back paellapans from Spain.  (Mom never figured out how the Germans made those tiny, crispy fried onions that came with Leber und Zwiebel, though.)

Exciting meals at our family dinner table were only one thing Mom was great at.  She knew how to make terrific parties, too—both for us kids and for her and Dad’s grown-up friends.  Children’s parties, teen parties, adult parties, formal or casual—she was clever and innovative at all of them.  I remember one party for my friends and me when I was pretty young—middle school, as I recall (making it sometime in the late ’50s).  Mom came up with the idea to lay out a table with all the fixin’s for ice cream sundaes for our refreshment and we all made our own.  It was such a huge hit that Mom, who’d volunteered to chaperone one of my middle school hops, did the same thing there to even greater appreciation.

For Dad and their friends, Mom was no less inventive.  At one get-together, instead of the usual cocktails or even a bowl of spiked punch, Mom came up with the idea to scoop out a watermelon, make melon balls of the flesh, serve the punch in the hollowed-out rind, and freeze the melon balls to replace ice cubes.  I can still picture the mob of guests engulfing the table set up in the living room with the cups and the napkins and the booze-filled watermelon!  (My brother and I got to hang around parties like that sometimes.  We served as greeters, coat-checkers, and cocktail waiters until it was time for us to have our dinners and go to bed.)  Other parties were costume do’s and come-as-you-are’s.  (Dad went to one costume party dressed as a baby doll in a pink silk-like dress and bonnet, carrying a huge lollipop.  He was a big hit, of course, and that outfit hung around the house for years; I even wore it for something years later—but I don’t remember what for.  I also remember a couple who got the invitation for the come-as-you-are when they were in bed . . . so they arrived at the party dressed in pajama and nightgown with cardboard beds on their backs.)

I went to college at my dad’s alma mater, Washington and Lee University, so Mom and Dad were both avid W&L Parents during the years I was a student.  Dad was a popular visitor at my frat, of which he’d also been a member, because he recounted tales of the pre-World War II days, but Mother was a favorite in her own right . . . because she’d almost always arrive with a stash of “Judy K***** Brownies” which were coveted by my brothers.  (She also used to send care packages which included the brownies and since I got my mail at the frat house, everyone knew when a new batch had arrived.) 

At the end of my senior year, my apartment mate and I threw a big party for all our frat brothers, school friends, and professors.  (We had a rep for throwing really great parties—a knack I may have picked up from Mom.)  When I told my parents of our plans, Mom asked, “Would you like us to come down and cater it for you?”  My roommate and I readily agreed and on the day of the party, my folks arrived from Washington with a carload of hors d’oeuvres, party food, chafing dishes, platters and trays, and so on.  After we set up the apartment for the party, my folks disappeared upstairs, and I thought they’d just come down later and join the party.  What we hadn’t anticipated was that my folks also drove down with black slacks and a white jacket for Dad and a black dress and white apron for Mom and just before the guests arrived, they came downstairs dressed as a butler and a maid and proceeded to serve the party as if they were a waiter and waitress!  People who didn’t know my folks thought my roommate and I had sprung for professional help for the affair—as if we could have afforded that!  

After most of the guests had left and we began cleaning up, Mother suggested she could make a meal out of the leftovers (which included Swedish meatballs, a very popular hors d’oeuvre in those days), so we agreed to do that rather than go find dinner somewhere.  After Mom fixed up the leftovers and we were all sitting in the living room, eating off plates in our laps, Mother and Dad joined us.  One of the remaining guests who didn’t know my folks leaned over and whispered, “Why is the help eating with us?”  She still hadn’t tumbled to the fact that these were my parents!  We all cracked up and finally told her who the mystery couple were.  Our farewell party, which may have been the best-catered student party ever held in Lexington, Virginia, became the talk of the town until we graduated.  

(Speaking of “mystery couple”: back in the late ’50s, Dad had purchased a part-interest in a radio station in Little Rock.  It was transitioning to a top-40 rock ’n’ roll format and doing a lot of publicity, including PR stunts.  On one visit to Arkansas, Dad brought Mom along and the station manager recruited her to be the Mystery Shopper for a day.  Mom said she had a ball spending the day downtown in Little Rock as the radio broadcast her  whereabouts, until someone finally spotted her and identified her as the Mystery Shopper.  Mom said she was as thrilled to be discovered as the contest-winner was to find her!)

Later, there were also special and unique parties for Mother’s benefit that she didn’t plan—Dad wasn’t a slouch when it came to fun ideas.  For Mom’s 50th birthday in 1973 (while I was still in the army in Berlin), Dad, who by this time had become the volunteer development director of the private Museum of African Art on Capitol Hill, arranged a surprise party for her among the exhibits after hours.  Talk about your Night at the Museum . . .!  (I wrote an article about the MAA for ROT, published on 19 January 2015.)  Ten years later, when Dad had become a member of the advisory board of the Folger Theatre Group (forerunner to Washington’s current Shakespeare Theatre Company), he once again arranged for a special accommodation—this time for Mom’s 60th birthday (and I was present this time).  After the performance of John Dryden’s Marriage a la Mode that evening, the cast and production company, theater staff, and Dad’s invited guests were ushered into a long, oak-paneled Tudor hall (the Paster Reading Room, I believe) of the Folger Shakespeare Library, then the home of the theater company, for an elaborate buffet accompanied by music from a small ensemble. 

I even occasionally got into the act, on a much more modest scale.  For instance, at Christmas 1985, which was my 39th birthday, my parents drove up to New York and then we all drove over to New Hope, Pennsylvania, for the holiday.  We stayed in New Hope for several days and then drive down to Washington for New Year’s.  Now, my parents’ anniversary is 6 January, but I was in grad school at NYU in ’85-’86 and also teaching undergrad writing, and I had to get back to New York City before then.  So I worked out a little celebration on me in my absence.  I’d bought a bottle of Perrier-Jouët Champagne in New York and had lugged it across New Jersey and down to D.C. hidden in my suitcase, keeping it out of my parents’ sight for the week or so over Christmas.  In D.C., I went out one afternoon just before I left town without telling my ’rents where I was going and bought some fresh caviar.  Now, my folks lived in a townhouse in Georgetown then and there was a wet bar with a small refrigerator off the living room and family sitting room on the second floor.  I stashed the caviar and Champagne in the fridge and left my parents a card with instructions not to open it until the 6th.  Inside was the first of a series of clues leading to the “hidden treasure” where there was a final note instructing my mother and father to invite a couple of their choice to join them in their 40th anniversary celebration.

I said that seeking out interesting food was one of the enjoyments we shared, and one of the things we always did when I came for visits over the years, along with seeing shows and going to art exhibits, was try out new restaurants Mother would find and save for my trips to D.C.  I did the same for her visits to New York.  I still have dozens of reviews I clipped for her.  A particular favorite was trying out new places that offered mussels.  (These restaurants weren’t necessarily in Mom’s immediate neighborhood.  One place she wanted to try after reading about it was in Alexandria, Virginia, about 9 miles and a 30-minute drive south along the Potomac.)  Mom had a couple of spots in Washington we liked, such as a Belgian restaurant on MacArthur Boulevard that also served waffles at Sunday brunch, but we were always on the look-out for new ones.  Unfortunately, the last place where we tried, a new bistro that had mussels as a weekly special on Mondays, had opened in my Flatiron neighborhood in New York in 2006, but was a great disappointment (and ultimately closed in 2013).  There were other cuisines we liked, too, such as Greek and Indian, but mussels were a treat we savored especially.

After Mom became a widow, she got closer to several women around her age, most of them also widows.  They’d make a game of going out to eat, often connected with taking in a movie together as well.  Mom and her friends played several bridge games a month—not all the same foursomes.  Within each regular game, the practice was pretty much the same: they’d play for a few cents a point for each hand, but instead of the afternoon’s winner taking the pot at the end, it would be pooled.  When there was enough in the kitty, they’d find a film they all wanted to see, go to a late-afternoon showing, and then go to dinner somewhere interesting afterwards.  The bridge-winnings paid the tab for dinner for all four ladies—either at someplace new one of them wanted to try or a favorite spot they all liked.  (Not all the ladies were as adventurous as Mom, of course, so there were always plenty of restaurants Mom kept in reserve to try out when I came down.  Plus, we had our faves, too, of course.)

Unlike play-going, I seldom joined Mom and her friends for these dinner-and-a-movie jaunts—though Mom and I and often a friend of hers would take in flicks once or twice during my visits south.  (We went to movies in New York City, too, of course; my neighborhood has grown into a restaurant-theater-entertainment zone over the past couple of decades and we could walk to several moviehouses near Union Square.)  Mom liked movies in general, but she especially enjoyed old movies.  She was a devoted fan, for instance, of Turner Classic Movies, the cable channel; the week before we saw She Loves Me, the 1963 Jerry Bock-Sheldon Harnick-Joe Masteroff musical, at the Arena Stage, Mom and I sat and watched both the 1940 Jimmy Stewart-Margaret Sullavan movie Shop Around the Corner, on the source of which the musical’s based, and then the 1949 film musical adaptation, In the Good Old Summertime with Judy Garland and Van Johnson, on TCM.  Then on a visit to Washington in 1998, I took Mom to see the theatrical re-release of MGM’s Gone with the Wind, which had been digitally restored and its sound remastered so that it resembled the original print of almost 60 years earlier.  Part of the treat was that the theater where the restoration was playing in D.C. was the old Avalon on Wisconsin Avenue near Chevy Chase Circle, our neighborhood moviehouse when my brother and I were growing up in Chevy Chase and Barnaby Woods—just up Western Avenue from the circle.  It was sort of a double step back in time: a movie Mom first saw when she was 16 in a theater we all went to when she was still in her 30’s.

Something else Mother enjoyed was browsing in new or fun stores.  Not necessarily buying, mind you—she was not a shopaholic and shopping for necessities like food or household goods was an errand not a pastime.  (Dad liked to do this, too, but his browsing inclined to bookstores and hardware stores.  Given his proclivities, the books were an obvious choice, but his interest in tools wasn’t.  Dad was the least handy person I’ve known—even I’m better at home repair than he was.  He used to say of himself that even after changing a light bulb, he’d have parts left over!) 

In New York, I took Mom over to the Chelsea Market, which is directly west of my apartment, just so she could poke around in some of the kicky food-related outlets.  (We didn’t actually waste the visit on just sightseeing: one time we bought dinner in the large seafood store in the market, the Lobster Place, and on another trip, we compiled an Italian antipasto meal—Italian tapas, you might say—from Buon Italia to take home.)    More recently I took Mom to another new shopping experience, this time a different food market: Eataly, hyped as the largest Italian marketplace in the world.  Opened with a lot of press attention in 2010, Eataly happens to be located on the ground floor of 200 Fifth Avenue, across from Madison Square.  Not only is this just up the street from my home, but 200 Fifth, known as the Toy Center South, was the headquarters of my maternal grandfather’s doll company—Mother’s family business.  (The company’s gone now: it was sold it in the ’70s and the buyer eventually liquidated it.)  So I knew Mom would love to see the place: great food on display, right nearby, and at a family-connected address!  What’s the downside?  Not a thing.

Another store I thought Mom would get a kick out of because it was truly unique at the time, was Shanghai Tang, a flashy new department store from the People’s Republic of China.  It opened on 61st and Madison, to considerable hoopla, in 1997 and closed, after 19 months, in 1999.  I took Mom up to the East Side mid-town location soon after the November opening—maybe it was over the Thanksgiving weekend that year—as a detour on our way uptown to the Met, as I recall.  That visit was just for sightseeing, needless to say; not only wasn’t the merchandise much to Mother’s taste—the clothes were pretty gaudy—but they were outrageously priced.  But it was well worth a gander.

Mother loved going to Trader Joe’s, but for actual buying.  She introduced me to the store in the Washington area more than half a decade before the California chain opened its first outlet in New York City—in 2006 on East 14th Street in my own neighborhood.  Mom got such fun out of shopping at TJ’s that I gave her gift cards a couple of times as one of her birthday or holiday presents.  (A related treat I used to buy for Mom was a box or two of TJ’s Pfeffernüsse Christmas cookies.  We liked the kind with powdered sugar, not icing, which I used to be able to find in a few stores, but they all stopped carrying them.  When I discovered that the Trader Joe’s brand, only available between Thanksgiving and New Year, were the same spice cookies we loved in Germany all those years ago, I started bringing a box or two with me when I went to D.C. for my birthday.  TJ’s Pfeffernüssewere one of the last treats I bought for Mom, for the 2014 holiday, and but by then I don’t think she knew what they were anymore.)

As I said, Mom and I continued to travel together after our family dwindled down to just the two of us.  That was because we were each the best travel companions either of us knew.  We shared mostly the same tastes in not only food and restaurants, but what we were interested in seeing.  We liked almost everything—the traditional tourist sights, local cuisine, out-of-the-way curiosities, historical spots, cultural focal points, museums, shops, natural wonders; we were pretty much omnivorous when it came to sightseeing, and we could never be certain anyone else would indulge us in that pursuit.  (The same was true of restaurants, movies, and plays, which is why each of us often saved some of those kinds of things for a visit by the other.)  In addition to places like Istanbul; Taos, New Mexico (May 2002); the Inside Passage, Alaska (August 2003); San Antonio, Texas (April 2005); or San Juan and Ponce, Puerto Rico (January 2008), we did other kinds of trips as well. 

I took Mom for a long late-birthday/early-Mother’s Day weekend in May 2003 to Staunton, Virginia, to see the Shenandoah Shakespeare perform in their new reconstruction of the Blackfriars Theatre, Shakespeare’s indoor winter home (see “Blackfriars Playhouse in Virginia,” 18 November 2009, and “Shenandoah Shakespeare,” 21 November 2009).  At Mom’s behest, we took another long weekend in July 2004 to attend the Contemporary American Theatre Festival in Shepherdstown, West Virginia (“Contemporary American Theatre Festival (2004),” 8 July 2015), and we traveled together for a week in August 2006 to the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada (see “The 2006 Shaw Festival,” 8 and 11 December 2015, plus “Design for Living (Shaw Festival, 2006),” 29 March 2012, and “The Heiress (1976 & 2006),” 24 November 2012).  Other jaunts included Winterthur, the DuPont family estate museum near Wilmington, Delaware, combined with a visit to the Brandywine River Museum, the showcase for the art of the Wyeth family of painters in nearby Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, in April 2004 (“Winterthur & The Brandywine River Museum,” 15 June 2014), and, in August 2007, the Barnes Collection in Lower Merion, Pennsylvania.  The Blackfriars visit was my idea and I made all the arrangements, but the others were based on Mom’s suggestions and initial research, after which we made the plans together or divvied them up.

Of course, we traveled when my father was still alive and there were wonderful trips and outings then, too (Christmastime trips to New Orleans and Mexico, a Caribbean cruise, a stay in the Yucatán).   And Mother and Dad took many voyages together after Dad left the Foreign Service, both around the U.S. and abroad.  (Mom and Dad went on not a few art trips as members of the Smithsonian Associates and even organized a trip to “Shakespeare’s Italy” for the Folger Theatre Group.)  In fact, several of the trips Mom and I took after my father’s death were to revisit places he and Mom had gone and which she wanted me to see as well.  That was the impetus for the visits to both San Antonio and the high desert of New Mexico.  (The target for that last trip, which included stays in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, was Taos and the art community that’s developed there.  My own interest, though, also included the Taos Pueblo, about which I’d read extensively in the years before that visit and on which I blogged in “Taos & Taos Pueblo,” 24 and 27 May 2012.)  Sometimes travels combined both, such as a trip to Greece in fall 1973, while I was in the army in West Berlin, when I flew to Athens to join my folks.  We toured the peninsula together for a week, after which I returned to Germany and they boarded a Greek cruise ship for a journey around the Aegean.  On another occasion, my parents came to visit me in Berlin for several days and then continued on their own for a visit to Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union.

Some trips were just day-trips to sights near Washington.  For instance, even though I grew up in the Nation’s Capital, I’d never been to Theodore Roosevelt Island.  (The island wasn’t actually dedicated to TR until 1967, years after I no longer lived in D.C.)  So Mom and I drove over there one fall afternoon in the early 2000’s and walked around the little (less than 90 acres), forested island in the Potomac River near the Virginia bank with its Theodore Roosevelt memorial and views of the D.C. skyline across the river.  A favorite drive was farther down the George Washington Memorial Parkway to Alexandria to roam around the old city.  One place Mom liked to wander through was the Torpedo Factory, a local art center (converted from an actual torpedo factory) near the Potomac that opened in 1983.  Today, the Torpedo Factory Art Center is home to nearly 200 artists who create, exhibit, and sell their art in little shops and studios that are fun to poke around in.  Other times, we’d just go over for lunch in one of the many restaurants and taverns in Old Town (18th- and early 19th-century buildings) and then stroll along the old streets.  We were even known to go over in the evening for dinner at some restaurant Mom knew or had read about—including one that served goat on one day  month.  (Remember I said we were adventurous and curious eaters.  Mom had had goat before, but I never had.  It tastes like gamey lamb or mutton, by the way.)  

We used to do this back when Dad was still alive and I had a dog, whom we’d take with us on our strolls through Old Town Alexandria—much to his delight.  We occasionally varied our day-trips to Alexandria with visits to Leesburg, Virginia (about an hour west northwest of Washington), and Frederick, Maryland (1¼ hours northwest), both colonial-era towns of some historic note—but mostly just pleasant places to walk around on a nice day and have a meal in an old tavern.

Mother had other interests in addition to food and travel which I shared as well.  I guess it’s pretty obvious that she, too, loved theater—otherwise why make those trips to so may theater festivals?  (Mom and Dad had also traveled to the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford, Ontario.)  My own love of theater was certainly influenced by—if not entirely derived from—my folks’ interest.  Theater was one of the interests my mother and father had in common when they met.  (Mother told me more than once about the time her father wanted to take her to see Pal Joey, considered a risqué play in 1940-41 when Mom was 17 or 18.  The ticket broker with whom my grandfather did business refused to sell him a ticket for my future mom because he deemed her too young to see such a scandalous play!  Dad also told me often than one of his first dates with his eventual bride was to Oklahoma!, which was still running between their first meeting in January 1945 and their wedding a year later.) 

My folks took me to my first performances as a child in Washington, including Shakespeare plays and Gilbert and Sullivan operettas at first and then Broadway fare, in either post- or pre-New York tours.  (I’ve written about my early theater exposure in “A Broadway Baby,” 22 September 2010.)  We went to lots of shows together over the years and my parents subscribed to several theaters in D.C. along with concert and ballet series.  By the time my mother was a widow, she and I went to the theater often either when I came to Washington or she came to New York.  (In the days when I was trying to become an actor, my folks came up for every show I was in—even if I said I’d rather they’d skip this one or that one—including my grad school performances.  When I taught in middle school and high school, they even attended the school shows I directed.)  If Mom had a subscription show while I was visiting, she’d always get an extra ticket so I could join her and whichever friend with whom she regularly went to that theater. 

But one of our particular theater practices was at New Year.  Neither of us much liked New Year parties and the enforced merriment and often heavy drinking on which those gatherings usually centered.  So we looked for a play that was running on New Year’s Eve and went to the theater that evening, returning home in time to lay out a small celebration—occasionally a friend of Mom’s or two would join us—and uncork a good bottle of wine (we also weren’t fond of Champagne), and saw in the new year by watching the Times Square ball drop on TV.  If there wasn’t a suitable play on that night, we’d look for a good movie, but going to a show was our favorite activity for the evening of 31 December and we did that most New Year’s Eves.  It was a wonderful way to see in the new year.  (If you troll through my blog reports of shows I saw in Washington, you’ll find that a number of them were New Year’s Eve performances.)

I took Mother to several special stage shows when she visited me in New York, too.  In 1999, when she was coming up between her 7 April birthday and Mother’s Day on 9 May, I decided that she’d really enjoy seeing the wonderful puppets and masks of Julie Taymor’s stage adaptation of Disney’s The Lion King.  It’s not that we frequently went to family shows aimed at pre-teen audiences—neither of us had seen the animated film—but I knew a little about Taymor’s work (The Green Bird,Juan Darién) and I was sure Mom would appreciate the theatrical spectacle of the production irrespective of its origins.  I was dead-on right, and when Mom got back home, she couldn’t stop talking about this fantastic show and even took several of her friends to the National Museum of Women in the Arts to see Julie Taymor: Playing With Fire, a retrospective of her designs that opened at the Washington, D.C., museum in November 2000.  She spoke of these experiences for years to come, which gratified me immensely.  (As part of the Mother’s Day treat—we went to the show at the New Amsterdam Theatre on 42nd Street on the 9th—I took Mon for dinner at a new restaurant on Restaurant Row, 46th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues: the FireBird, a recreation of the splendors of a Romanov-era St. Petersburg mansion. The lavish restaurant débuted in 1996, but closed in 2014.) 

Later, when Mother’s mind began to deteriorate and she had trouble following complex stories or challenging productions—which I discovered in September 2014 when I took her to the Round House Theatre in Bethesda, Maryland, to see Sam Shepard’s Fool for Love and then, most pointedly, Belleville by Amy Herzog at Washington’s Studio Theatre, the last theater to which Mom subscribed.  (I had renewed her subscription to the Studio for 2014-15 over the summer without then realizing that by the fall, Mom wouldn’t be able to manage theater.)  At Belleville, I was sitting across the small thrust stage of the Studio’s Metheny Theatre from Mother, and she got agitated near the end of the performance and had to be calmed by her neighbors, who were kind strangers, until I got over to her.  That was the last show Mother attended in Washington, but I had taken her to two shows in New York that year: Disney’s Newsies in February and, our last theater outing, A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder in September, a week after Belleville.  I chose these plays because I didn’t think they’d be challenges for Mom—Newsies because it was an old-fashioned musical based on a children’s movie and Gentleman’s Guide because it was just for fun, all silly nonsense with no subtext.  Both were delightful and perfect shows for our needs and circumstances; I guessed right and Mom seemed to enjoy both performances.  I suspect, though, that her pleasure was more because I took her to the theater than because the shows themselves were especially meaningful to her.  That’s all right, though.  (I reported on all these later performances on ROT, though I didn’t discuss Mom’s difficulties.  Fool and Bellevillewere posted on 6 and 11 October 2014, respectively, and Newsies and Gentleman’s Guide on 26 February and 16 October 2014.)

Art shows were just as special to us as theater, as you may have gleaned.  My mother and I always tried to check out the local art museums when we visited new cities, and we often also made the rounds of the commercial galleries as well.  (More than once, my souvenir of a trip was a piece of art.)  We used to have a regular benchmark for art shows we especially liked: we’d judge the exhibit from the perspective of how many pieces we’d come back for on a “midnight shopping trip.”

One of the last large exhibits Mom and I saw before she had descended too far into dementia to enjoy going to a museum or gallery was Washington Art Mattersat the American University Museum at the Katzen Arts Center on Ward Circle, near where Mother had lived before moving to Maplewood.  We used to go to AU frequently when there was anything of interest because it was so close and we could essentially drop in on the spur of the moment, but Washington Art Matters (reported on ROTon 5 September 2013) was entirely focused on the art scene of my hometown from its inception after World War II to the 1980s and included works by a number of artists my parents had known (Lila Oliver Asher, a printmaker my mother had known since they were children; Sam Gilliam, a member of the Washington Color School of whose work my parents owned three pieces) or art they’d been familiar with for years (Jacob Kainen, Kenneth Noland, Morris Louis).  Mother was still capable of experiencing art this way, though when we weren’t focused on the exhibit, like at lunch beforehand or on the drive back to her Bethesda apartment, she slipped into a sort of netherworld where my father was still alive, along with Mom’s parents (who had died in the ’60s and ’70s). 

(In addition to the blog report on Washington Art Matters, I’ve reported on exhibits of many of the other artists mentioned above: “Morris Louis,” 15 February 2010, and “Picasso, Bearden, Gilliam, and Gauguin,” 26 June 2011, which also contains a passing mention of Noland.  I posted a profile on Rick On Theater of Lila Asher on 26 September 2014, prompted by a small show at Maplewood the previous year in which Asher’s prints were featured.) 

The last art showing to which I took Mother outside her building was The Washington School of Color at the Marin-Price Galleries in downtown Bethesda in 2014, nine months before she died.  The gallery’s proximity to Maplewood suggested that she could manage the outing and the subject of the art meant she might still get some pleasure from it, and she did (see my article posted on 21 September 2014).  She engaged the staffer on duty that August Monday afternoon in a conversation about Gres Gallery, the gallery of which my parents were part-owners in the late ’50s and early ’60s, and the art she collected with my father.  Mother used to know modern art, especially American painters and sculptors, pretty well for an amateur all of whose knowledge was accumulated by going to exhibits, reading reviews, and assembling a small collection (about 40 painting and sculptures). 

She and Dad got interested in modern art when Dad made the impulse-buy of shares in Gres in 1959 and they both threw themselves into the operation of the gallery—though Mother was the principal activist (Dad had a day job, of course).  Even I got into the act, going with Mother to the R Street gallery near DuPont Circle to help stuff envelopes or hang paintings.  (I was only 12 when all this started so I was too small actually to hang the often huge canvases, but I stood back and guided the women—it was the wives of the couples who did this work, plus Beati (Mrs. Hart) Perry, the managing partner—to get the frames straight and the heights right.)  Most excitingly, the partners shared entertainment duties so that the vernissages rotated among the six or so households, and Mom, as hostess-in-chief at our house, was in charge of this.  As always when my folks had parties, I assisted and since the décor had to include displaying some of the artist’s (or, sometimes, artists’) work in our home, once again I “directed” the set dressing.  So not only did I get to see “real” art at the gallery, courtesy of my Mom and Dad, but I got to have this art in my home, at least temporarily—it was like actually having taken one of those imaginary midnight shopping trips—and what’s more, I got to meet actual artists.  This whole venture was an art education for all of us and an adventure for me, and it lasted well beyond the demise of Gres Gallery to the end of my parents’ lives.

It also branched out.  Trips to China, Thailand, India, Nepal, and Japan spawned an attraction to Asian art (China: Dawn of a Golden Age, 200-750 A.D. at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art over the Thanksgiving weekend in 2004) and Dad’s stint as Director of Development for the private Museum of African Art on Capital Hill, precursor to the present Smithsonian Institution museum, generated an enduring affinity for sub-Saharan African art.  Visits out west and to Mexico and Central America resulted in an interest in Native American and pre-Columbian art, too.  (My folks’ art holdings included a bronze by Fritz Scholder, whose two-part retrospective, Fritz Scholder: Indian/Not Indian, we attended at the National Museum of the American Indian both in New York City and on the Mall in Washington in 2008; see my post on 30 March 2011.  Due to our pre-Columbian attraction, Mother and I took in TheAztec Empireat Manhattan’s Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum and The Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya at the National Galley of Art in Washington, both in 2004; see “Theater & Art,” 14 August 2014.)  But modern Western, especially American, art remained my parents’ main focus and Mother continued to explore this area after my father’s death, even though she stopped buying art then. 

The last exhibit to which Mother and I went was Futurism, 1909–1944: Reconstructing the Universe at the Guggenheim in June 2014.  I arranged for a wheelchair at the museum (which, you may know, is a giant inverted cone accessed by a spiraling ramp) and we took a cab directly from my corner to the Goog’s entrance so Mom wouldn’t have to take her walker and navigate the ramp on her own.  (I maneuvered the chair from the top level down to the lobby.)  Like attending Newsies and Gentleman’s Guide, I think what pleased Mom more than seeing the art, although Italian Futurism is fascinating and provocative (see “Italian Futurism,” 15 July 2014), was that I took her.  I didn’t fully recognize it yet, but Mom was already beginning to feel left out and lost and when I brought her to New York City for a visit and took her out to do things—eat at a restaurant, see sights like the High Line Park, take in an art show or a play, or even just go to a movie—she would tell all her neighbors for days afterward.  It was always “Rick took me to an art show” or “My son’s taking me to New York.” 

My parents and I had a few exciting experiences together.  (One or two were even a little frightening, like the time I almost didn’t get out of the Soviet Union in 1965 or the cruise in the Mediterranean in 1973 when my folks nearly got caught in the middle of the Yom Kippur War.)  But most of our times were uneventful as far as high drama is concerned.  But we had fun together.  A significant facet was lost when Dad died; he always supplied the historical, academic, or intellectual perspective to our experiences.  (I was always astonished how he could connect history—sometimes pretty ancient history, too—current politics, and local culture together to make a coherent narrative explaining why something is the way it is.  He’d have made a terrific teacher.)  Mom always went with her emotional response, and that continued while she could still sort out her perceptions.  Right up till then, we were still each other’s best travel, theater, museum-, and restaurant-going companions.  Even when each of us did those things on our own, we could share the experience with one another; I always knew Mom or Dad would understand it the way I did, see the same specialness, and vice versa.  That’s gone now.  We used to talk regularly a couple of times a week, and I’d tell Mom about the last play I saw and she’d tell me about a new restaurant she’d discovered.  I don’t know anyone else who’d be that interested.  Perhaps predictably, the thing I missed most palpably right after Mom died and I returned to New York, was the regular Sunday-morning telephone call, a ritual that went back to my college days.  It was a sort of echo of the pleasures we shared and can’t anymore.


One-Act Plays Festivals

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by Kirk Woodward

[Now comes my friend Kirk Woodward with a new contribution to the blog he urged me to start, lo these 7½ years ago.  This time, returning the broad topic of theater, Kirk’s looking at one-act plays and one-act festivals.  I know you’ll find several truths in his thesis and possibly some thoughts that had never occurred to you before.  As a playwright himself, Kirk has had years of experience writing—and submitting—short plays and in “One-Act Plays Festivals,” he shares some of what he’s learned from that experience as well as that of a long-time theatergoer and sometime theater reviewer.]

There’s a remarkable current theatrical phenomenon that I haven’t seen much published comment about – namely, the one-act play festival or competition.

One-act plays have a long theatrical history, as curtain-raisers, as short stand-alone entertainments, and as major dramatic works in their own right. Moliere (1622-1673) gained his early fame writing one act comedies like “The Flying Doctor” and “The Rehearsal at Versailles” that followed the tragedies he and others wrote. In the late Nineteenth Century, when full-length plays formed part of longer evenings’ entertainment, important writers like George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950), Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930), and Arthur Wing Pinero (1855-1934) wrote short plays to precede the main events.

Much of the early growth of American theater in the first half of the Twentieth Century can be found in the one-act plays that Eugene O’Neill, in particular, wrote for the Washington Square Players (1914-1918) and the Provincetown Players (1915-1929), with his “sea plays” generally regarded as among his best, and as outstanding examples of the form. The professional career of Tennessee Williams began when a collection of one-act plays he submitted to a Group Theatre competition was awarded a special cash prize.

So one-act plays are an enduring presence in theater. However, the classic one-acts are old news. The words “World Premiere,” “Original Work,” and “New Plays” are assumed to have strong appeal, and the one-act play festivals and competitions I’m talking about almost all feature new work. At a minimum, they will notfeature a play by, say, Eugene O’Neill.

The idea of the one-act play festival or competition got a major push when the Actors Theatre of Louisville (ATL) began its National Ten-Minute Play Contest in 1989. This gives me a certain sense of pride because I’m from Louisville, and because I was present at the first organizational meeting of that theater, in 1964.

ATL did not invent the one-act play festival or competition, any more than it invented the one-act play. Ensemble Studio Theatre (EST) in New York, for example, began a notable one-act play festival in 1986, three years before ATL, which continues to this day. However, EST accepts submissions up to forty pages long. (Generally speaking, a page of a script is assumed to equal a minute of stage time.)

The genius of ATL was to impose a limit in the length of one act plays to ten minutes. (Their specific requirement is for no more than ten pages of script, not counting the title page and notes.) I have not been able to determine whether the ten-minute limit was ATL’s invention – I’d guess it was not – but they also popularized it by publishing a series of collections of the one-act plays they’ve produced. These collections have wide popularity in the theater community.

With a ten minute play limit, a full evening of one-acts can contain eleven or twelve plays without much difficulty. (ATL has experimented with even shorter time lengths of submissions in recent years, including plays to be performed as phone conversations, and plays printed on T-shirts.)

In any case, the one-act play festival phenomenon has now reached astounding proportions. A Google search for “one-act play collections” reports about 9,730,000 results. About!
                                                                                                             
One of the first listings on a recent search was titled “One Act Plays For Every Stage – Read 2,100 One Act Plays Free.” That’s a lot of one-act plays on just one website. My brain can’t hold the idea of 2,100 one-act plays existing, much less the idea of reading all of them. I don’t know if I could read 2,100 of anything. And that was among the first search item that turned up.

A web search for “one-act play competitions” turns up a couple of million fewer hits. Among the notable long-lasting festivals in Manhattan are those of the Manhattan Repertory Theatre, the Strawberry One-Act Festival, and, as noted, Ensemble Studio Theatre’s series.

In a way the term “one-act play” is something of a misnomer. It might equally well be applied to full-length plays (one or one-and-a-half to two hours long or longer) performed without an intermission, like 2016’s The Humans. Shakespeare’s plays appear to have been originally performed this way, with no breaks in the action at all. (The first division of his plays into acts was by Nicholas Rowe (1674-1718) in his edition of the plays published in 1709. He created the scene divisions in the plays too.)

I admit that I have no name to substitute for the kind of play I’m talking about here. “Shortone-act play” is about as close as I can come, and it is implied in this article. Very often these plays are original – that is, they’ve never been produced before. Producers love to announce premieres. Clearly this policy wastes good plays – why shouldn’t they be produced more than once? But the label “new work” has some drawing power.

There are many reasons that short one-act play festivals and competitions are currently popular, reasons that apply to producers, to actors, potentially to audiences, and definitely to playwrights as well. There are downsides too, which I will mention.

For producers, one-act play festivals and competitions offer a conceivably enticing financial prospect. If a producer puts on a program of, say, seven one-act plays, each with an average cast of three, and if each of those people, plus the writer, brings in six family members, there is already a practically guaranteed audience of 168 people, and the producer hasn’t even printed a flier yet. (I have been in more than one production of a full length play that didn’t bring in that many people over an entire run.)

Of course success still may not be guaranteed, even in a theater with a small seating capacity. But there is another possible strategic move. Call your night (or nights, or weeks, or festivals) of one-act plays a competition, offer a cash prize of a reasonable amount, and make it clear that winning the competition will depend on audience voting.

Writers in particular will pack the house with “safe” voters. More audience! If you have a smallish sized theater, you may even sell out. Meanwhile your production costs are likely to be low, since multiple set changes between plays require that items like furniture be kept to a minimum.

So presenting a festival or competition of one-act plays is a sensible financial strategy, even if the words “An Evening of One-Acts” on the marquee is by itself no guarantee of success. (It may be, of course. The one-act play competition at Actors Theatre of Louisville, for example, is extremely popular on its own. However, that theater has worked hard to build a reputation as a quality production house.)

For actors, the advantage is a significant increase in the number of available roles. True, a big role in a one-act play probably won’t be the size of a big role in a full length play. On the other hand, it could be a meatier role. In any case, it’s work. Often one-act plays are rehearsed on independent schedules, one for each play, with the whole group brought together only at the last minute. This too is an advantage for actors, who need to schedule their time efficiently.

The advantage of one-act play festivals and competitions to audiences is more problematic. As I said, the festivals at Actors Theatre of Louisville are popular, but the quality of work at that theater is high, which is not the case of the material at every one-act play festival, even in Manhattan. The odds are against any new play’s succeeding; the odds of a dozen of them succeeding at once are low.

Of course, the risks involved in one-act plays are also smaller. Some, actually, are no more than skits, which I’d define as actors in short depictions of situations that require only surface characterization. Good skits aren’t easier to write than anything else, but at least they are compact, often funny, and quickly understood.

Generally, however, I doubt that much of the general play-going public is thinking right now, “I wish I could find a good evening of one-act plays.” I was once in a rock band where, after a particularly successful string of numbers, the lead singer announced, “Now we’re going to do some original material.” The crowd fell ominously silent and he had to add that he was joking. I’m not sure that the term “one-act play festival” doesn’t have something of the same effect.

However, as noted above, many of us will go to a play for the purpose of supporting a friend or relative who’s in it or wrote it, and an evening of one-act plays offers an opportunity to include a lot of those.

One-act play festivals and competitions are also attractive to playwrights. This is in fact an element in the popularity of one-act plays for both producers andplaywrights. Producers need plays to present, and playwrights write them. Producers love one-act plays because all they have to do is ask for them, and the plays come pouring in, because the playwright has a chance of getting a play produced.

What a wonder this is for a playwright, who lives a life of continual rejection. Of course there’s no guarantee a particular one-act play will be accepted for production. I have written, for example, a ten-minute play on a Christmas subject that I think is both offbeat and funny, and that has never gotten the slightest glimmer of interest from any festival of holiday plays (a sub-genre of the one-act play festival).

But the odds of having a play accepted by a one-act play festival or competition are at least greatly increased, because not only might one performance present between half a dozen and a dozen plays, but the festival might include dozens more presented on different nights, perhaps in a different order for each performance.

Also, because the producing organization actually wants to receive submissions of plays, instead of dreading to receive them (as is often the case), a playwright can have reasonable confidence that her play will really be read by somebody. (People who have not submitted plays to theaters and agents can’t begin to imagine how often plays are lost, ignored, or cursorily read.)

And it simply takes less time to write a short one-act play – say, a play ten minutes long – than it does to write a full-length play. If I have a good idea, I can write a good one-act play overnight. The demand for “original work” can easily be met.

But what if I don’t have a good idea? Shorter is not necessarily easier. In fact, shorter is much more difficult. If it weren’t, there’d be – I was going to say hundreds, but considering the Google search, I should probably say millions – of good or great one-act plays around. There aren’t.

The sentence, “I’m sorry I wrote such a long letter, but I didn’t have time to write a short one,” has been attributed to many people. Whoever said it, its point is correct. It’s easy to be verbose and extraordinarily hard to be succinct.

The solution, for many one-act plays I’ve seen, is to choose a subject with impact, use that as the subject of the one-act, and rely for success on the seriousness of the issue raised – say, because I’ve seen so many of these plays, cancer. Cancer is real, it’s terrible, it’s disastrous, it’s horrible. No question.

So write a play about someone with cancer. They die – tears. Or they live – cheers! Or they struggle – drama!

What can possibly be wrong with that? I have two answers, one more or less practical and one aesthetic. The practical objection is that what you’re doing in such a play is emotional manipulation. You’re taking a subject you know will succeed in stirring an audience’s feelings, and putting it up there in the knowledge that it’s precertified as intense, stirring drama.

Emotional manipulation is difficult to avoid, but we ought to try. It’s just too easy. Shakespeare figured that out a long time ago, and he does very little emotional manipulation. He has Hamlet say:

Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!

What's Hecuba 
to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? 

I understand that cancer, or any other strenuous or catastrophic event, may not be “nothing” to the writer – it may in fact be real and personal. But as artists we have responsibilities to our art, and one of them, I submit, is to cheat as little as possible, and to approach subjects creatively and imaginatively, rather than using them for their predetermined value in tears and fears.

Far too often, one-act plays take a huge problem, throw it at us knowing we already have feelings about it, and leave it at that. Easy to do – one-act plays aren’t very long. Suppose a play competition’s subject is “Dogs.” Then have a play where a child’s dog is run over. Why not? It happens in life, doesn’t it? It’s terrible, isn’t it? But it’s also emotional manipulation.

And as I said, there’s also an aesthetic reason why such an approach is dubious. Aristotle in the Poeticssays that tragedy – and I think this can be applied to other forms of drama as well – works when it is an “imitation of an action that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude.”

Although there’s plenty of argument about exactly what he means, I think it’s clear that he feels a play’s size should be proportional to its subject.

Few of us today would want to turn Aristotle’s observations (assuming they are his – some suspect the Poeticsis lecture notes) into rules, as happened in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

But the man has a point. A one-act play needs a one-act action– an action that fits the size of the play. A study of the best one-act plays points this out.

In a series of postings elsewhere on this blog, I describe several excellent examples of the genre by George Bernard Shaw, for example “The Glimpse of Reality” and “The Six of Calais.” [See the author’s series “Re-Reading Shaw,” 3 and 18 July, 8 and 23 August, and 2 September.] In both these plays Shaw does everything required by the size of his story – not less, and not more.

Contrast Shaw’s examples with a number of the one-act plays I’ve seen recently, whose subjects have included, among others, old age and dementia; cancer – there it is again;  severe mental illness; suicide; having to put animals to sleep; and my very least (but frequent) favorite, the Deceased Wife Play. Sometimes two or more of these are combined in one ten-minute episode. I suggest a firm rule: No more than one death per one-act play!

Such works make one-act plays on subjects like dating rituals seem like masterpieces. Perhaps that’s why there are so many one-act plays about dating rituals.

A friend remarked to me that many of these plays – both the tragic and the “relationship” one-acts – are “window” plays:  you look at them and you see a bit of life, as though you saw it through a window, not much changed from the way it happens in the world. My two responses are that looking through a window is not the purpose of art, and that if those things are what the window reveals, I don’t want to live in that neighborhood.

In saying all this I am also grateful for the many delightful one-act plays I’ve seen. They exist and I salute the people who write them. As a favorite example I cite “Words, Words, Words” by David Ives (1987). A riff on the idea that a million monkeys on a million typewriters will eventually write the plays of Shakespeare, it shows three monkeys (named Milton, Swift, and Kafka) banging away on the keys, comparing and criticizing their work, briefly coming close to an actual Shakespeare line, and illustrating in a charming way the difficulties of writing and the frustrations of creative work. It’s a play with both immediate and long-range implications, snugly embodied in the short play form. May its tribe increase.

Unquestionably, no one has the right to tell an artist what to create. Playwrights must write the plays that come to them. But I would love to be able to look at a sign that reads “AN EVENING OF ONE-ACT PLAYS” with anticipation rather than dread. Could evenings of one-act plays be more like festivals, and less like autopsies? May I suggest that as a goal?

[Over the time I’ve been posting play reports on ROT, I’ve included a number of one-act play evenings.  Some are not really very short plays, the way Kirk means, and several fit into the negative characterizations Kirk describes.

·   Horton Foote’s nine-play trilogy, The Orphans’ Home Cycle (reported on 25 and 28 February 2010), is an assemblage of one-act plays all telling the fictionalized story of Foote’s father’s life. 
·   Five By Tenn was a bill of one-acts by Tennessee Williams, first staged as the opening show of “Tennessee Williams Explored” (April-July 2004), the season-long celebration by Washington’s Kennedy Center of the great playwright; I posted my review of the evening, “Uninhabitable Country: Five By Tenn,” on 5 March 2011.        
·   Happy Hour, a world première staged by the Atlantic Theater Company, is a collection of three one-acts by Ethan Coen; I reported on the trilogy of bleak glimpses at human behavior with an ironic title on 29 December 2011. 
·   Early Plays, an adaptation of three one-acts from the Glencairn Plays by Eugene O’Neill, was presented at St. Ann’s Warehouse by the Wooster Group and the New York City Players.  My report was posted on 14 March 2013.
·   3 Kinds of Exile, a collection of three one-acts by John Guare connected by a common theme, was presented by the Atlantic Theater Company in June 2013.  I posted my report on 27 June 2013.
·   Harvey Fierstein’s Torch Song Trilogy is comprised of three connected one-acts, International Stud, Fugue in a Nursery, and Widows and Children First!, which premièred separately.  I saw the joint production at the Studio Theatre in Washington, D.C., in 2013 and posted my report on 5 October.
·   Lee Blessing’s Flag Day isa pair of one-acts, Black Sheep and Perilous Night, also originally presented individually, that I saw at the Contemporary American Theatre Festival in Sheperdstown, West Virginia, in 2004; I posted my report, “Contemporary American Theatre Festival (2004),” on 8 July 2014.
·   Summer Shorts is an annual two-part festival of one-act plays, often including work by well-known authors, presented in July and August by 59E59 Theatres.  I saw one evening of the festival in 2015 and published “Summer Shorts 2015, Series A,” on 12 August.
·   Desire is another collection of one-acts by Tennessee Williams, but these six plays are all adaptations of short stories, scripted by different playwrights.  It was a production of the Acting Company, which has made something of an industry of assembling this sort of evening (Chekhov stories, Shakespeare sonnets), in 2015 and my report appeared on 29 September.
·   Last May, I caught a presentation of three Samuel Beckett one-acts, Not I, Footfalls, and Rockaby, performed in a bravura production by Irish actress Lisa Dwan called “Beckett Trilogy.”  I posted my report on this experience on 1 May 2016.
·   In June, the Signature Theatre Company presented an evening of one-acts drawn from past seasons devoted to three playwrights: Edward Albee’s The Sandbox, María Irene Fornés’s Drowning, and Adrienne Kennedy’s Funnyhouse of a Negro.  I posted a report called “Signature Plays” on 3 June 2016.
·   My most recent one-act evening was Horton Foote’s The Roads to Home, produced by Primary Stages at the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village.  The three connected one-acts, A NightingaleThe Dearest of FriendsSpring Dance, is running though 27 November and my report was posted on 22 October. 

[Some of these playlets were composed to be performed together, so they’re not necessarily the kind of bill of one-acts that Kirk is writing about, but the list does give some idea of the popularity of the short play on today’s theater.]

Dispatches From Israel 10

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by Helen Kaye

[Here’s the latest installment of Helen’s “Dispatches from Israel.”  One review’s of a Hebrew translation of William Shakespeare’s Coriolanus; the other  covers a stage adaptation of a World War II novel.  Both productions were presented by the Habima Theater in Tel Aviv, the national theater of Israel.  Helen’s remarks are, as usual, pithy and astute, and the range of theater represented by the two productions demonstrates how broad the taste and interests of the Israeli theatergoers are.  Once again, I feel fortunate to be able to share Helen’s theatrical insights with ROT readers and to offer a viewpoint and a voice I wouldn’t otherwise be able to present.]

Alone in Berlin
By Shahar Pinkas
Based on the novel by Hans Fallada
Directed by Ilan Ronen
Habima, Tel Aviv; 11 September 2016

What if? Fraught words. What if the Treaty of Versailles in 1919 had not been so vengeful towards Germany? What if Adolf Hitler had been accepted to Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts? What if? We’ll never know because it was, and he wasn’t, which brings us to Habima’s very powerful, very moving, almost transcendent production of Alone in Berlin, Shahar Pinkas’ unsentimental adaptation of Hans Fallada’s best-seller novel.

The production (and of course the novel), expose the inexorable a-human tramp of history, expose in all its obscenity the pitiless human construct that was Nazi Germany.

Opposition to it was a deadly option that few dared. This is the story of two who did, based on true events, and told in narrative and dialogue.

Like the rest, working-class couple Otto and Anna Quangel (Norman Issa, Osnat Fishman) keep their heads down, do their duty, hail the Führer. Then, just after the fall of France, Otto and Anna receive the news of their son’s death in combat, and are devastated, but what now?

Then grief and fear-addled Frau Rosenthal (Shulamit Adar), their Jewish neighbor whom retired Judge Fromm (Michael Koresh) is bravely hiding in his apartment, jumps to her death from four floors up.

That does it. Otto and Anna start writing and distributing postcards encouraging Germans to resist Herr Hitler, but most of them end up in the hands of the Gestapo, quickly handed in by their finders, terrified lest they be implicated.

Gestapo Obergruppenfuhrer Prall (Uri Hochman) bullies and threatens with annihilation (as he can) Kommissar Escherich (Tomer Sharon) who bullies, threatens and annihilates (as he can) others, in particular petty thief Enno Kluge (Ami Smolarchik) in order to expedite and effect the capture of the unknown post-card senders.

The Quangels are caught, of course, tortured, given a travesty of a trial, and sentenced to murder.

Ilan Ronen, taking a leaf from the book of expressionist theater,presents the tale in a grave, often stately choreography of people, music, chairs, stairs and sliding panels against a grey backdrop, a breathtakingly ironic counterpoint to the story’s snarling edginess, leaving judgment to us. All honor to the exquisitely perceptive Mr. Ronen and his designers: Niv Manor (set & video), Ula Shevchov (costumes),  Ziv Voloshin (lights), and Miri Lazar (music ed. and movement).

What makes Mr. Issa and Ms. Fishman so extraordinary as Otto and Anna is that they never betray their characters, they’re never more than ordinary people caught up in a grotesque world, and they let us see that, that they’re afraid, alone, each of them together. Thus ‘alone in Berlin’.

Another extraordinary performance is that of Uri Hochman as predator Prall. His is a deliberate, disciplined, depersonalized viciousness, epitomizing the regime that has made him. He projects terror. We shudder.

Other notable performances – and there’s not one that’s less than very good - include Ms. Adar’s tremulous, dwindling Frau Rosenthal, Mr. Koresh’s decent, old-school Judge Fromm, and Mr. Smolarchik’s out-of-his-depth, increasingly desperate Enno Kluge.  As Escherich, Mr. Sharon veers in the blink of an eye from arrogance to cowering servility; his Escherich eats himself from within.

Totalitarian regimes breed hyenas and Pini Kidron’s obsequious, on-the-make perpetual loser Borkhausen is one such prowling scavenger whose character provides the little humor there is.

We here have gone from beleaguered little hero state to one reviled, even (and most monstrously) compared to Nazi Germany – does anyone remember the 1995 poster depicting the late Yitzhak Rabin as an SS officer? – but such is not the purpose of Alone in Berlin. No.

“Don’t think. Just obey!” snaps a Gestapo (either Prall or Escherich), and thatis the point this production makes. We cannot, may not, must not allow ourselves to “just obey”. To think, to think for ourselves is mandatory. If we want to survive as a nation it is.

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Coriolanus
By William Shakespeare
Translated by Dori Parnes
Directed by Irad Rubinstein
Habima, Tel Aviv; 13 April 2016

What drives Greek tragedy is the hubris, or overweening arrogance toward, and/or defiance of the gods, that inevitably leads to the hero’s destruction. So it is with Shakespeare’s Coriolanus. Add that to Irad Rubinstein’s Political Agenda driven interpretation of Coriolanus, already a very political play, its deliberately coarse language nimbly translated by Dori Parnes, and you get an interesting, but not always effective, production.

It’s playing in the little Bertonov theater; a nod to the “smoke-filled back rooms” of political tradition.

Front and center here is not Caius Martius’ aka Coriolanus’ (Gil Frank) neurotic arrogance –though on abundant display - but his relationship with his mother, the ambitious, domineering Volumnia played by Gila Almagor with a deliberate and vulgar gracelessness that is chillingly effective.

Did she live in the 1930s, Volumnia would have been one of those ghastly Hollywood mothers, intent on pushing their little darlings to stardom, as Coriolanus has been driven to excel since before his birth. Face to face with Mum, Coriolanus becomes a little boy again, pleading for Mama’s approval.

Also front and center is our own body politic, corrupt and self-serving, represented by Sicinia Micki Peleg Rothstein) and Brutus (Rotem Keynan), a couple of envious tribunes whose chief attribute is that they’re experts when it comes to mob manipulation, and to a lesser extent by Menenius (Uri Hochman), a veteran pol who’s also Coriolanus’ friend and backer, and whom Hochman portrays with genial ruthlessness.

It’s an involved story. Power is in the hands of a few – sound familiar? – and the populace is hungry, rebellious, and – sound familiar? – looking for someone to blame. It doesn’t help when Caius Martius (CM) tells them in no uncertain terms to mind their betters, of whom he’s one.

Meanwhile salvation appears as renewed conflict with the Volsci, traditional enemies to Rome. When it comes to guns or butter – sound familiar? – guns win hands down “Give me war over peace anytime,” happily says a Volsci soldier.

Volsci general Aufidius (Alex Krol) and CM are old and bitter enemies. They even dress a lot the same, unkempt and nearly bare-chested!

When CM batters the Volsci capital Coriolis into submission, he comes back to Rome an unwilling Hero, unwilling because battle, violence and blood are his natural habitat, and is persuaded to run for Consul. To get their votes, Coriolanus has to pander to the people – these scenes are dirty politics glorified, and are marvelous – which he performs with near open contempt.

Grabbing their opportunity the Tribunes get him expelled from Rome on a trumped up charge. Humiliated, furious, Coriolanus throws in his lot with Aufidius and they march on Rome. But when Mum begs him to spare his native city, Coriolanus buckles (as he always has), and for his betrayal, is promptly dispatched by Aufidius.

Gil Frank plays Coriolanus with demonic glee, an actor playing to the hilt a man who’s obliged to act out his mother’s vision of who he is, and for the most part it’s awesome. There’s a bit of unease in the scenes with Aufidius, but perhaps that’s because both actors’ characters are playacting and they’re not sure what ends where.

Shahar Raz and Ben Yusipovitch bounce energetically and well in and out of multiple roles.

This Coriolanus bounces in and out as well between amazingly good and somewhat tedious. But one item on Rubinstein’s agenda is crystal clear. Forget peace. Violence works.

[For readers new to ROT, Helen’s past contributions are well worth looking back at.  Previous “Dispatches,” numbers 1 through 9, have been posted  on 23 January 2013, 6 August 2013, 20 November 2013, 2 June 2015, 22 August 2015 (which also includes an article Helen wrote on the Israel Festival), 6 October 2015, 13 July 2016, and 2 October 2016.  (I also posted another of Helen’s JP reviews, Molière’s Tartuffe, on 2 November 2014 as a Comment to “Dispatches 3.”) ROTters might also enjoy looking back at ”Help! It’s August: Kid-Friendly Summer Festivals in Israel,” 12 September 2010; ”Acre (Acco) Festival, Israel,” 9 November 2012; “Berlin,” 22 July 2013; and “A Trip to Poland,” 7 August 2015.]


'The Front Page'

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What could possibly live up to the descriptors “one of the lustiest productions of the Broadway market” and “one of the most madcap farces of the period”?  That was John Gassner (1903-1967), drama critic, theater historian, and professor of criticism and dramaturgy.  How about “an evening with loud, rapid, coarse and unfailing entertainment” and “a steaming broth of excitement and comedy”?  That was Brooks Atkinson (1894-1984), venerable theater reviewer for the New York Times and the dean of the New York theater press corps.  They were both effusing over the original production of what Peter Marks of the Washington Post just called “the best play about newspapering ever written”: Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur’s 1928 perennial audience-pleaser, The Front Page—or, as Ben Brantley characterized it in his New York Timesreview, “just about everybody’s favorite play about journalism.”

I’d never actually seen The Front Page on stage until this month—though, of course, I’ve seen all of the films based on it many times.  So when I saw the announcement that a new revival of the classic comedy was going to play Broadway once again (the last time was 1986 when it received two Tony nominations), I gladly signed up.  The list of cast members clinched the deal for me.  Diana, my regular theater companion, and I got mezzanine seats for the evening performance Friday, 4 November, at the Broadhurst Theatre on West 44th Street, where the revival began previews on 20 September and opened on 20 October.  The limited-run production will close on 29 January 2017.

The Front Page has been presented in rep companies all around the country as well as in colleges and community theaters and it’s been presented four times on the Great White Way.  The début was on 14 August 1928 at the Times Square Theatre where it ran for 276 performances under the direction of playwright George S. Kaufman.  The show was produced by the great Jed Harris with Osgood Perkins as Walter Burns and Lee Tracy as Hildy Johnson; featured were Frances Fuller as Peggy Grant, Hildy’s fiancée, and Dorothy Stickney as Molly Malone, the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold.  (It wasn’t a cliché yet.)  Revivals came in 1946, directed by playwright MacArthur with Arnold Moss as Burns and Lew Parker as Hildy; 1969, directed by Harold J. Kennedy (who also played Bensinger of the Tribune) with Robert Ryan as Burns and Bert Convy as Hildy and featuring Helen Hayes—Mrs. Charles MacArthur—as Mrs. Grant, Hildy’s prospective mother-in-law; and 1986, directed by Jerry Zaks and starring John Lithgow as Burns and Richard Thomas as Hildy. 

The film adaptations of Front Page began with the 1931 straight adaptation helmed by Lewis Milestone with Adolphe Menjou as Burns and Pat O'Brien as Hildy.  In 1940, Columbia Pictures and filmmaker Howard Hawks (with Hecht’s complicity) made Hildy a female reporter played, by Rosalind Russell, working for shifty editor Burns, played by Cary Grant, turning the knock-about farce into a successful and popular romantic comedy.  In 1974; Universal Pictures and director Billy Wilder returned to the original gender line-up, but in color this time, and cast Walter Matthau as Burns and Jack Lemmon as Hildy, a paring that became irresistible after the success of the 1968 movie version of Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple.  (In addition to The Front Page, Matthau and Lemmon acted together in six film comedies plus JFK and The Grass Harp.) 

There were also three television versions of Front Page, one in 1945 on WNBT (now WNBC) in New York City, directed by Ed Sobol with Matt Crowley as Burns and Vinton Hayworth as Hildy; given the date of this production, I’m guessing it was a live broadcast of the play from which a kinescope was made.  In 1970, the Hughes TV Network (that would be Howard Hughes), a short-lived network, aired a TV movie  directed by Alan Handley with Robert Ryan as Burns and George Grizzard as Hildy.  There was also an early television series that ran on CBS from 1949 to 1950; the series was directed by Franklin Heller with  John Daly as Burns and Mark Roberts as Hildy. 

New York City-born Ben Hecht (1894-1964) began reporting for the ChicagoDaily News (represented in Front Page by Schwartz) in 1912 and then wrote for the Daily Journal (Murphy); in 1923, he started his own paper, the ChicagoLiterary Times.  He soon started writing short plays and even contributed a piece to the art-loving Washington Square Players (see “The Washington Square Players: Art for Art’s Sake” on ROT, 21 and 24 June 2012), The Hero of Santa Maria (1917).  In 1922 he had a full-length play, The Egotist, on stage in New York.  Hecht also collaborated with another former newspaperman, Gene Fowler (1890-1960), on The Great Magoo (1932).  Hecht was also a short-story writer and novelist who wrote, among other prose works, Erik Dorn (1921), A Jew in Love (1930), and A Guide to the Bedevilled (1944).  He also wrote a serious drama, To Quito and Back (1937), and was a prolific and well-regarded Hollywood screenwriter, perhaps best known for the motion pictures Twentieth Century (1934), The Scoundrel(1935; Academy Award for screenwriting, shared with MacArthur), Wuthering Heights (1939; Academy Award nomination for writing, with MacArthur), Gunga Din (1939), Spellbound (1945), Notorious (1946).  Hecht’s autobiography, A Child of the Century, was published in 1954.

Charles MacArthur (1895-1956), born in Scranton, Pennsylvania, was the nephew of playwright Edward Sheldon (1886-1946), the son of a stern evangelical clergyman, and the brother of John D. MacArthur (1897-1978), benefactor of the MacArthur Fellowships (the “genius grants”).  He’d been a student at a theological seminary for two years before leaving home to join William Randolph Hearst’s publishing empire to write for the ChicagoTribune (Bensinger) and the Herald-Examiner (Hildy).  Taking to journalism with exceptional verve, he became a successful feature writer, and he resumed his newspaper career after returning from service in the World War I.  His début in the theater was a collaboration with Edward Sheldon on Lulu Belle (1926).  Next he collaborated with Sidney Howard (1891-1939) on Salvation (1928).  MacArthur, who in 1928 married “the first lady of the American stage,” Helen Hayes (1900-1993), was also the adoptive father of actor James MacArthur (1937-2010), “Danno” on the original version of the TV series Hawaii Five-O (1968-80).  Like his frequent collaborator, MacArthur was also a screenwriter, penning scripts for The Sin of Madelon Claudet (1931), Rasputin and the Empress (1932; Academy Award nomination for writing), and (with Hecht) Wuthering Heights.  MacArthur assumed the editorship of the combined Theatre Arts and Stage magazines in 1948 and was inducted posthumously into the American Theater Hall of Fame in 1983.

The Hecht-MacArthur collaboration continued with Twentieth Century (1933)—which became the John Barrymore movie and a Broadway musical, On the Twentieth Century—and the circus musical spectacular, Jumbo (1935).  These were followed by Ladies and Gentleman (1939), and Swan Song (1946).  The two ex-newspapermen collaborated on screenplays for some of Hollywood’s most popular films from 1933 until their deaths (and beyond, if you include later adaptations and derivations such as Switching Channels, a 1988 reimagining of The Front Page for TV news.)

The Front Page is a sort of exposé of the freewheeling world of popular journalism of the day, which, of course, Hecht and MacArthur not only knew well from the inside but had been past masters at practicing.  Here’s how the pair had Hildy Johnson describe the profession in the play:

Journalists!  Peeking through keyholes!  Running after fire engines! like a lot of coach dogs!  Waking people up in the middle of the night to ask them what they think of Mussolini.  Stealing pictures off old ladies of their daughters that get raped in Oak Park.  A lot of lousy, daffy buttinskis, swelling around with holes in their pants, borrowing nickels from office boys!

The soon-to-be-former reporter characterizes newsmen as a “cross between a bootlegger and a whore,” and we eavesdrop as the members of the fourth estate would rather invent a news story than report one.  Audiences in 1928 would immediately have recognized the characters in the play—in fact, Chicagoans would have realized exactly at whom the authors were pointing their fingers as they were all but naming names.  Hecht and MacArthur “had axes to grind,” said director Jack O’Brien.  The director of the current revival continued that the former ink-stained wretches knew exactly whom their characters represented: “They are based on real characters from Chicago.”   According to Gassner, however, the play “was actually too carefree to provide any pertinent analysis or to make any show of indignation” regarding the journalistic practices then in common use. 

The play’s first act establishes the characters like the pilot of a sit-com.   (Of the journalists, only Walter Burns, the high-powered editor of the Herald-Examiner, isn’t seen until Act Two.   Most of the important characters are introduced in Act One—including, in this revival, the catalytic figure of Earl Williams, the escaped convict.)  Director O’Brien has rejiggered the script some (Jesse Green in New York magazine reported that the production script was “cobbled together from several versions”) so that, for one thing, the first act ends with the surprise appearance of escaped convict Williams, something that happens in the middle of Act Two in the published version.  (Some explosive language used plentifully in the 1928 text has also been excised.) 

All three acts of Front Page are set in the well-used Press Room of the Criminal Courts Building in Chicago, which looks down on the yard behind the Cook County Jail where a gallows is being tested for the early morning hanging of Earl Williams, convicted of shooting a black cop to death.  It’s late October 1928 and an election is looming for the Mayor of Chicago (Dann Florek) and the Sheriff of Cook County (John Goodman).  Reporters from most of the city’s dailies are killing time playing poker, cracking wise about the day’s events, and gossiping about the whereabouts and prospective marriage of their colleague Hildy Johnson (John Slattery).  Hildy, ace reporter for the Herald-Examiner and the gang’s undisputed star, is late and the scuttlebutt is that he’s quitting the news racket for marriage and a straight job. 

The reporters are waiting to witness the execution of Williams, a white man and supposed Communist revolutionary, and they’d just as soon Sheriff Hartman would move the time a few hours earlier so they can make the morning editions, but Hartman refuses to execute his prisoner before sunrise—lest no voters see him do his duty.  Hildy blows into the press room only to say good-bye, confirming the rumors of his marriage and departure.  (He’s going to New York to work in his fiancée’s uncle’s ad agency at the munificent salary of $150 a week, just over $2,000 today.  Reporters were paid half that.)  All of a sudden, the reporters hear a hubbub from the jail—Williams has escaped.  All the newsmen rush out for more information, but Hildy pauses to decide what to do, torn between his decision to leave this world for good and his instincts as a reporter.  As Hildy stands alone in the press room, Williams (John Magaro) crashes through the window.  He tells Hildy he’s not a Red—just an anarchist, and that he shot the policeman by accident.  The reporter realizes that Williams has been railroaded just to help the mayor and the sheriff win enough “colored” votes (Hecht and MacArthur used the ‘n’-word casually throughout the play, but O’Brien switched it out) to be re-elected.  With the hottest scoop of his life in his grasp—never mind his waiting fiancée and the New York Central to the Big Apple—Hildy hides Williams inside a roll-top desk that belongs to Bensinger (Jefferson Mays), the fussy reporter for the Tribune.  Now what Hildy has to do is get Williams out of the court building before rival papers or trigger-happy cops find him.  Out of options, Hildy calls Walter Burns (Nathan Lane), his editor at the Examiner, for help.

Burns, a devious and single-minded man who’ll do anything to prevent Hildy from leaving the paper, arrives on the scene and puts into action plans to get the whole desk out of the building.  Before he can accomplish that, however, everyone returns to the press room at once, putting the kibosh on Burns’s scheme and putting Williams, still hiding in the desk, in danger of being discovered.  Indeed, he is found out as guns are drawn and accusations echo through the room.  Just as Williams is about to be led off to face his execution, Irving Pincus (Robert Morse), a messenger from the governor, arrives from Springfield with a reprieve for the condemned man—which the mayor and the sheriff had earlier tried to suppress.  So Hildy smoothes over the ruffled feelings of his fiancée, Peggy Grant (Halley Feiffer), and her mother (Holland Taylor) and rushes to catch his train to New York.  As soon as the wedding party leaves, though, Burns is on the phone to his lackey at the Examinerordering him to wire the police chief at the first stop eastward on the New York Central line to arrest Hildy—for the theft of the engraved watch Burns had just given the reporter as a going-away gift!

The Front Page is long—two hours and 40 minutes with two intermissions (and that’s with cuts in the text); the final curtain came down just before 11 p.m.  Brantley’s review was right on in one respect at least: the play doesn’t take off until Nathan Lane’s Walter Burns makes his entrance in Act Two.  In fact, the plot doesn’t even get started until the last moment of Act One when Earl Williams makes his entrance into the court house press room through the window.  The whole first act is set-up—not even exposition (though there is some of that), but really character establishment.  As I noted, The Front Page works like a sit-com, with stock characters with clear traits that don’t develop or change interacting with one another and the situation in ways dictated by the character traits.  The plot is driven by the central, unexpected situation surprise—in Front Page, it’s the escape of Williams and then to up the ante, his appearance in the press room when only Hildy is there.  The humor derives from the way the established characters respond to the situation.  So the whole first act sets up the personalities and their interrelationships, and then the situation gets knotty.  The resolution is essentially an honest-to-God deus ex machina introduced as a way to end the plot because the organic ending, namely the execution of Williams, wouldn’t be comic.

If it weren’t for the witty and literate writing of Hecht and MacArthur, and a dollop of authenticity because they were both actual Chi-town newspapermen, Front Page wouldn’t be worth reviving.  This production enhances that by casting all the main roles with stage stars (Lane, Morse, Mays, Goodman) or top-flight stage pros (Slattery, Taylor, Florek, David Pittu).  In a way, this is the stage equivalent of one of those old Hollywood flicks with a cast of collected stars and well-known personalities (It’s aMad Mad Mad Mad World, for example, or What’s New Pussycat?).  When the mix works, it’s glorious; when it doesn’t, it’s chaos.  Front Page isn’t quite glorious, but it’s far from a mess—once the match is struck.  (Lane is inspired, however!  Everyone else steps up his or her game when he shows.)

The single set which confines the play is slightly tilted, as if designer Douglas W. Schmidt were hinting at Expressionism—suggesting that Chicago journalism is an off-kilter world.  The large center of the room, with the big table that serves as the desk for most of the press corps (except Bensinger, who has that roll-top), is quite straight—if shabby and grimy.  (Jennie, the requisite Irish charwoman played by Patricia Conolly, comes in daily to run a mop around the floor, but I got the distinct impression that the water in her bucket is none too clean to start with.)  Strewn with papers, pencils, notebooks, playing cards, poker chips, coffee cups, remains of carry-out meals—and the all-important seven 1920’s candlestick telephones, one for each paper—the table, a few chairs, and Bensinger’s prized desk—formerly the property of Mayor Fred A. Busse, 1886-1914, according to the script’s set description, whose 1907-11 administration was known for widespread corruption and the presence of organized crime in the city—are all that the room contains for amenities.  There’s a bathroom up left and across the stage right wall is a row of tall windows that look down onto the jail yard where Earl Williams’s gallows stands.  But above the back wall, beyond which is the building’s corridor and at the stage right end of which is the room’s entrance, the transom windows slope downward the the left, skewing the set’s perspective unnaturally.  The pictorial detail, however, is all early-20th-century Naturalism.  The room where the play’s ink-stained wretches live—they go home only rarely when there’s a story breaking—and work could serve as a metaphor for their profession: grubby and slightly bent. 

Brian MacDevitt’s lighting gives a semblance of film noir to the production, never getting much brighter than twilight (or, perhaps, dawn), and Ann Roth’s costumes capture the slovenly, down-at-heels garb of the newshounds, the dressier look of the pols, and the ’20s spiff of the upper-crust Grant ladies—often with a delightful little character fillip included (Mrs. Grant’s velvet admiral’s bicorne, for example).  (When Holland Taylor is carried out of the press room by two goons, stiff as a corpse, her patrician coif and traveling duds make an irresistible image of absurdity.)  Scott Lehrer’s soundscape provides the (constantly) ringing phones, police alarms, sirens, gunshots, along with snippets of period songs to set the atmosphere and milieu of the play.

Director Jack O’Brien (who also staged last year’s Broadway mounting of Terrence McNally’s It’s Only A Play with Lane and another all-star cast) makes effective, naturalistic stage pictures with the large cast (26 members), but is less successful with the depiction of the individual characters, especially the scrum of reporters.  Camera flashes separate each act with freezes in a way that recalls TV’s NCIS, but still works nicely here.  (It’s also reminiscent of the current Internet craze, the Mannequin Challenge, that started in October.)  O’Brien, whose had lots of experience with large-cast shows and musicals (The Coast of Utopia, Henry IV– both Tony-winners), doesn’t manage so well, either, with developing the nuances in the key characters like Hildy and Peggy, who remain kind of bland and pale, and without this the play has a hole in the middle. 

Nonetheless, the director keeps the play moving at an increasing pace, like a New York Central locomotive accelerating on its way from the Windy City to Gotham.  That first act is slow-moving—some of the deletions, though for efficiency’s as well as political correctness’s sake, may have simultaneously diluted the levity—and seemed nearly interminable (though it was really only about 45 or 50 minutes.  (The lack of definition among the reporters doesn’t help this problem.)  But once the plot is ignited with the escape of Earl Williams, the proceedings start to pick up speed and energy, and O’Brien adds coal to the engine with each plot twist—Williams’s coming through the press room window, Walter Burns’s arrival on the scene, the discovery of Williams’s in the desk, Pincus’s showing up suddenly—until the moment of Hildy and the Grants’ happy departure is almost an explosion.  Then, in a brief post-climax that drops the energy down to almost calm, Burns makes that underhanded phone call.

The cast of The Front Page is odd in one significant sense: it’s an ensemble for the most part—yes, Burns is a star part and Hildy should be, too, but overall, this play works as a group effort—but O’Brien’s ensemble is made up of stars and near-stars.  Generally, it works fine, with a few exceptions (which don’t scuttle the whole effort, fortunately).  As I observed, the gang of scribblers needs to have been differentiated more—all those terrific character actors never really get a chance to shine as actors or as comments on the journalism profession the way I think Hecht and MacArthur wanted them to.  They’re just sort of general hubbub; Jennie, the cleaning lady, and Woodenshoes (Micah Stock), the amateur psychology-wonk German cop, make more of an impression than the reporters do, and they’re little more than window-dressing.  I put the onus for this on O’Brien, but the result is that what ought to have been a mosaic of different personalities all clamoring for focus never really gelled.—and all those performers who usually have no trouble standing out—Mays, Pittu (Schwartz of the Daily News), Lewis J. Stadlen (Endicott of the Post), Christopher McDonald (Murphy of the Journal), Joey Slotnick (Wilson of the American), Dylan Baker (McCue of the City News Bureau), and Clarke Thorell (Kruger of the Journal of Commerce)—all get lost.

Dann Florek as the corrupt Mayor; Sherie Rene Scott as Mollie Malloy, the hooker with a thing for Earl Williams; John Magaro’s Williams; Conolly’s Jennie; and Stock’s Woodenshoes Eichhorn all fare better, given a moment or two to strut (although Stock has the strangest German accent I ever heard—Kate Wilson was the dialect coach), and Mays’s fussbudget Bensinger manage to take the stage once or twice.  The featured cast does best of all, not surprisingly, by virtue of the script.  Goodman’s Sheriff Hartman, not just dishonest but incompetent (Williams escapes using a gun Hartman gave him voluntarily!), plays the role as a kind if Southern dimwit (yeah, I dunno, either), but he’s pretty low-energy (if you’ll pardon the Trumpism).  I understand the actor has lost considerable weight recently; maybe his girth is like Samson’s hair—it gives him his strength.  Robert Morse (whom I saw back in about 1961 as J. Pierrepont Finch in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, the role that made him a star) is almost indemnified from being ill-used because of his positioning—he has two self-contained scenes where he gets to play the befuddled but incorruptible government functionary right at the center of the action—and he handles it with wit and style and conviction.  It’s a set piece and Morse, just as I’d have expected, knocks it out of the park. 

The women characters, though treated shabbily by Hecht and MacArthur—they present us with a washerwoman, a whore, a shrew, and a battleaxe, pretty much running the gamut of female stereotypes—get by as performances at the same level as the men.  Of the Grant women, Holland Taylor’s Mrs. Grant comes of best, though there’s a hitch in the character choice.  Taylor is among the strongest figures on the Front Page stage, with the most considered and complete character.  The actor pursues a strong action, unwaveringly and with conviction, even when it gets her into difficulties.  The problem is that instead of a ball-buster, which is closer to how she’s written, Taylor and O’Brien have turned Grant mère into a reasonable-but-confused matron.  The Front Page is a play of extremes, even stereotypical extremes, and two reasonable woman wheedling Hildy doesn’t make the mechanism go ‘round.  If Peggy’s an ingratiating inveigler, then the play gets more laughs if mama’s a bear.  It would also work better if Peggy is a sterner presence than Halley Feiffer is here.  What she’s doing is fine; but she needs to ratchet up the stakes: she’s after a man who’s addicted to newspapering—he mainlines printer’s ink.  It isn’t a vacation to Maui she’s taking Hildy away on, it’s a cold-turkey detox into a whole new life.  She’s got to fight, or Burns, the dope peddler, wins.

That brings me to John Slattery as the news junkie himself.  The Front Page is essentially a battle of wills between Walter Burns and Hildy Johnson.  Hildy wants to get out of the news racket, get married, and lead something of a normal life.  (Let’s not get into whether the really wants to or not.  Oh, and by the way: there’s a serendipitous jokelet at which some on the audience chuckled because Hildy’s going into advertising—and Slattery’s best known for starring in the AMC show Mad Men, a series about the ad biz.  Front Page costar Morse was also featured on that show.)  Burns doesn’t want to let his star reporter go and he’ll use any means to get what he wants.  Everyone else in the play is just an impediment to the two Examiner men’s goals, monkey wrenches for the works.  Hildy and Burns have to be equally matched, or the tug-o’-war doesn’t work right, and Slattery isn’t pulling his end of the rope hard enough.  Lane’s Walter Burns wipes up the floor with him.  It’s as if Slattery’s Hildy knows going in he doesn’t want to leave, so he just goes through the paces of pulling back against Burns.  It’s a half-hearted attempt, making this Front Page a one-sided fight.

If it weren’t for Nathan Lane, there’d be no contest at all.  Dramatically (and comedically) speaking, Lane is pulling his weight and Slattery’s.  So the play doesn’t get started until the plot gets underway with Williams’s escape, but the production doesn’t take off until Walter Burns gets on stage.  Lane doesn’t just light a spark, he ignites a firestorm.  He bounces around the set, he shouts, he cracks wise, he bullies, he barks orders, he bribes, he wheedles, he dissembles.  Theatrically, he’s a one-man band crossed with the Energizer bunny.  As far as I’m concerned, his performance is worth the price of admission all by itself.

The press coverage of The Front Page was extensive.  Show-Scoresurveyed 47 reviews (as of 15 November) for an average rating of 70.  55% of the reviews were positive, 17% were negative, and 28% were mixed.  The highest score in the sampling was a single 100 (Time Out New York) and there were two 95’s (Variety, Huffington Post); the lowest score was a 25 (BroadwaySelect), the lowest I’ve ever seen on the site, and there was also one 30 (WNYC).  (“First-nighters” were required to see the show on opening night in an apparent homage to traditional old-time theater journalism; reviewers from weeklies and others with later deadlines came to subsequent performances.  Some review-writers suspected director O’Brien and lead producer Scott Rudin might have had an ulterior motive for the move.)

In the Wall Street Journal, Terry Teachout described The Front Page as “a comic masterpiece in its own unromantic, hard-charging right,” having compared it in passing with His Girl Friday, but reported that “it’s a grievous disappointment to report that this much-anticipated revival is slack and lackluster, a case study in how to get a good play wrong.”  Despite “high quality” actors, this Front Page is “ineffective,” and Teachout blames director O’Brien.  “The pacing is on the slow side and some of the performances are surfacey and under-vitalized,” he wrote, and though certain actors—the Journal reviewer named Mays, Morse, and Stadlen—“blast the bull’s-eye right out of the target, the cast as a whole feels like a random collection of talented performers, not a true ensemble,” he criticized Goodman, “who . . . barely comes across at all,” and Slattery, whose “Hildy is a disaster, blandly likable but devoid of charisma.”  Slattery’s failure “to make much of an impression . . . necessarily puts a gaping hole in the center of the show.”  Teachout declared, “The biggest problem of all is that Mr. O’Brien has softened the tungsten-hard tone of” the play, which “is played for laughs, not truth, and that’s why it falls so flat.”  The Journalist complained of O’Brien’s sanitizing of the script, “regrettably exemplary of his toothless approach” and “an all-too-clear indication of his squirming discomfort with the thousand-proof ferocity of Hecht and MacArthur.”  Teachout ended by stating that Lane’s performance is “great.”  “Too great, really: No sooner does he make his first entrance midway through the second act than the energy level of the production skyrockets.  Suddenly you see what was missing up to that point, and realize why you’d come close to nodding off mere minutes before.” 

In the Daily News, Joe Dziemianowicz opened with: “Stop the presses: Nathan Lane saves the day—and the play—again.”  (There were a few invocations of the world of journalism in the reviews—but then, reviewers are also journalists.)  “Broadway’s famous comic ace is in his glory in ‘The Front Page,’” wrote the News reviewer.  “Like a shot of adrenaline laced with laughing gas, Lane jolts the lopsided and longwinded 1928 chestnut wide awake.”  Dziemianowicz continued, “The only thing wrong . . . is that he doesn’t arrive earlier,” because for the first two-thirds of the production, the actors “are mired in mostly expositional banter that goes in circles and stalls.”  Dziemianowicz concluded, “Director Jack O’Brien’s production is handsomely gritty and well-dressed, but only really catches fire in the third act.”  Matt Windman of am New York reported that the production “more often than not falls flat in spite of a boisterous atmosphere and heightened comedic tone.”  He dubbed Slattery “an ideal Hildy, with a cool and unfazed aura” and declared, “Lane steals the final third of the show with an over-the-top performance”; but he felt, “Goodman is loud, but strangely ineffective.”  O’Brien’s “lively and lavish production holds nothing back in terms of busy movement and broad comedy, but the three-act play does not hold up so well by today’s standards,” summed up Windman, who “often found myself admiring the production but unable to enjoy it.” 

Linda Winer’s “Bottom Line” in Long Island’s Newsday was “Respectfully nostalgic, talent-stuffed revival only sparks with Nathan Lane.”  Winer reported that “the much-anticipated, talent-stuffed revival of ‘The Front Page’ has its amusing moments” until Lane shows up about two hours into the production, but quipped that the play nevertheless “could have been subtitled ‘Waiting for Nathan.’”  But when Lane’s Walter Burns “finally comes onstage—menacing little mustache and flipper eyebrows ablaze—the writing actually seems funnier and the style feels fresher, less creaky.”  Director O’Brien “devises particular quirks for almost every character to stand out momentarily from the group”; however, “Lane’s electrification of the last third cannot help make the rest feel like vamping.”  The New York Post’s Johnny Oleksinski asserted, “Broadway’s terrific ‘The Front Page’ . . . perfectly captures the tabloid newspapers I know: scrappy, hilarious roller-coasters of emotion.” Oleksinski called The Front Page“swift-moving” and noted that the cast of “big-name actors” all displayed “brassy, spit-on-the-floor ’tude.”  The Post reviewer joked, “Watching this top-tier talent having a ball ribbing each other, cursing with abandon and competing to be the loudest in the room reminds me of The Post, where, as I write this, two of my colleagues are about to come to blows over where to buy the best bread,” adding that “you don’t have to work here or at the Chicago Tribune to get a kick out of ‘The Front Page’—not with Lane storming around the stage, screaming at anyone and anything he encounters.”  Oleksinski closes with the remark, “You may hate the media, but you gotta admit—we can be pretty entertaining.”

Calling The Front Page“talky, gleefully squawky,” Alexis Soloski of the U.S. edition of The Guardian declared, “If ever an actor was the theatrical equivalent of a banner headline, that actor is Nathan Lane.”  Lane’s arrival is “splashed across the stage like a 72-point font,” and “[h]is jubilant, giant performance injects a cantankerous vitality into Jack O’Brien’s otherwise pleasant and respectful revival.”  Of the “comedy as black as shoe polish,” Soloski complimented the set as “handsome,” the dialogue as “sharp-witted,” and the cast as “an assemblage of some of New York’s finest character actors . . .and big names.”  Of the staging, she wrote, “The style is vivid and almost expressionist in the way that conversations are layered over around each other.”  “Yet,” Soloski demurred, “the revival’s energy is something less than crackling and the enterprise might have seemed merely respectable were it not for the joyously disreputable Lane,” who “gives a performance that is both outsized and just the right size.”  Of both the play and the production, Max McGuinness observed in the U.S. edition of the Financial Times, “Things start slowly as the hacks and various hangers-on struggle to invest much life into their dated wisecracks.”  The review-writer advised O’Brien to “have shaved 10 or 15 minutes off the first act.”  McGuinness reported, “The pace quickens with the introduction of star reporter Hildy Johnson” and that Lane’s “arrival transforms what had been a humdrum affair into a farcical tour de force.”  The FT reviewer described Lane as “a theatrical centaur, [who] charges about with brawny comic energy, hauling the rest of the cast up to a higher plane of funniness.”

In the New York Times, Ben Brantley lamented that “though ‘The Front Page’ is all about the adrenaline rush that turns journalists into deadline junkies, it’s hard to work up the proper urgency about Jack O’Brien’s production.”  Still, said the Timesman, it’s “diverting.  Pretty darn good.  At moments, very funny indeed.”  The production, “filled to the gills with tabloid-worthy faces, . . . looks photo-op fabulous.”  Nonetheless, warned Brantley, “aside from those moments when Mr. Lane is all but setting fire to the stage . . ., it is not the stuff of banner headlines.”  He explained, “The show is pointedly and self-consciously funny, savoring its own raucous wit, which paradoxically means that it just isn’t as funny as it should be.”  Brantley surmised that this might be due to the “relentlessly socko cast” and their “grandstanding panache to solicit not only entrance but also regular exit applause.”  The Timesreviewer’s main complaint was: “What they only seldom achieve, though, is the sense of a professional tribe collectively hypnotized by their own high-octane mythology—moving, talking, clashing in a frenzied competitive march that holds them prisoners of its rat-a-tat rhythms. . . . . By the end of a perfect production, you should feel you’ve been mainlining black coffee for two-and-a-half hours.”  Each of the characters has his or her moment in O’Brien’s production, though “these moments rarely connect into a breathless chain of events,” reported Brantley, until Lane’s Burns show up.  “The bad news (for this production) is that [Burns] doesn’t make his entrance until the end of the second of the play’s three acts.”  The Timesman described Burns: “He’s a horrible man.  He also burns with a monomaniacal energy, channeled through Mr. Lane’s well-honed comic finesse, that absorbs your utter interest and makes him as ridiculously seductive as Greta Garbo.”  In the end, Brantley tellingly commented, “The combination of Mr. Lane’s all-consuming passion for the theater and Walter’s for getting the story makes the endangered profession of print journalism feel, for a flickering moment, like the most vital job on the planet”

In the New Jersey suburbs, Robert Feldberg of the Bergen County Record reported on NorthJersey.com that The Front Page“jog-trots along through its first act and most of the second, a fitfully amusing comedy” in which “the actors have only mixed results in finding the comic potential.“  The first act is “slow-developing,” the gang of reporters is “mostly indistinguishable,” and Slattery “is perfectly decent, but unexceptional.”  The reviewer continued, “And then Nathan Lane, portraying the crass, scheming, heartless newspaper editor Walter Burns, makes his initial appearance toward the end of the second act and everything changes in a flash,” explaining, “He provides a shot of theatrical adrenaline that propels the play through the third act.”  From the Newark Star-Ledger, Christopher Kelly reported on NJ.com that The Front Page“is definitely showing wear-and-tear.”  He observed that O’Brien “never does quite address the core issue of why bother to revive such an anachronism at all.  Still, you could do a lot worse than this epic cast,” continued Kelly.  “And when Lane finally enters the proceedings (albeit nearly two hours into the evening), he quickly reminds us why he is the foremost comic stage actor of his generation.”  The Star-Ledger reviewer found, though, that “O’Brien’s staging of the overlong first act [is] frustrating.  Clearly daunted by having to introduce and keep straight so many characters, this ‘Front Page’ proves way too slack.  Things improve considerably in the second act.”  Ultimately, “we’re left wondering why so much talent is given so little to do,” concluded Kelly, whose final assessment was that “whether you go for this ‘Front Page’ probably has much to do with your tolerance for the blockbuster approach to Broadway—whether you value flashy individual moments and big stars, or whether you prefer a more coherent and transporting experience.  Coherent this production is not, but that hasn’t yet (and probably won’t) stop it from being the most buzzed-about show of the fall.”

Michael Feingold labeled the world of The Front Page“comically warped and wincingly accurate” in the Village Voice; the “writing is constantly funny,” but the “gritty, fact-facing realism gives the humor a consistently bitter aftertaste, which the more extreme moments can turn to queasiness.”  The Broadway revival, said Feingold, “navigates somewhat nervously between the two elements.”  The actors seem “to have been directed to aim for the real,” reported the Voicereviewer, “conveying the sense that its comic zest has been dampened a little.”  Feingold lamented that “several performers cast in key roles who aren’t innately comedians . . . [fall] slightly short,” naming especially Slattery, then asserted, “And then there’s Lane,” for whom the director “apparently either shaped the scenes painstakingly with him or set him happily free to do as he likes.  All of which would count for little if Lane didn’t also have the authority, the charisma, and the comic skill to ping home every sly word and make every gag hit dead center, like a champion dart player.”  The Voice review-writer summed up, “That he makes it all look so easy is an extra scoop of ice cream on this exceptionally bittersweet confection.” 

In New Yorkmagazine, Jesse Green labeled the latest revival of The Front Page “a top-notch production” that “gets to a man’s heart through his ears.”  Likening the first act to “an orchestral tone poem,” Green asserted, “The slow build, like the play overall, is a masterpiece of construction, the kind that for a hundred reasons (including the cost of a 25-person cast) shouldn’t work today, but that under Jack O’Brien’s nervy direction undeniably does.”  The man from New York declared that “one of the very deep pleasures” of this Front Page is “to watch a large ensemble of character actors do what they’re so good at,” with a few unnamed exceptions, naming the members of the featured cast.  Saving lavish praise for Lane, Green observed, “So definitive and dominating is he that it’s tempting to leave the rest of the cast in his shadow.”  The reviewer continued, “Often thought of as a wit or a clown, Lane is really a time bomb onstage, with no fuse and an infinite payload.”  In the end, Green declared that “The Front Page is a classic not only for its playability but also for its timelessness.”  In the New Yorker, Hilton Als called the production an “outstanding revival” with “a surfeit of fantastic actors, who give the production everything they’ve got.”  Director O’Brien, who “utilizes the best of what Broadway has to offer—a big stage, a solid budget, slick production values—has not only created a milieu in which the performers can shine; he allows them the space to establish their characterizations” and the designers have “created a hyperstylized and yet still believable world.” 

David Rooney’s “Bottom Line” for his Hollywood Reporter review was “The headline is a long time coming but worth the wait” and he went on to call this Front Page Broadway production a “sturdy chestnut,” a “lavishly cast . . ., deluxe Broadway revival,” and “crackling entertainment.”  He warned about the “unhurried three-act construction and long wait for the main sparring partners to share scenes,” but affirmed that “it’s a marvel of theatrical craftsmanship.”  Still the HR reviewer (who, according to a note published with the review, “was prevented from attending a preview performance with a purchased ticket, and disinvited to opening night” because of an unspecified dispute with lead producer Rudin) found that “O’Brien sets up and lands punch lines with machine-tooled precision rather than coaxing the humor organically from the situations.  That also has the effect of softening the play’s delicious cynicism and undercutting its melodrama.”  Rooney also felt that Slattery is “miscast,” eschewing “the raw hunger of a competitive man addicted to the thrill of the scoop and the adrenaline rush of the deadline” for “Hildy’s Brylcreem-slick suavity.”  Even though some of the other “impressive” cast are “under-employed,” however, “the production delivers big time.”  Like most of his colleagues, the HR writer reported that “the play only really starts firing on all cylinders once Lane enters,” for “the galvanizing force of Lane’s performance erases any concerns about the production’s unevenness.”

In Entertainment Weekly, Chris Nashawaty quipped that the revival of The Front Page“makes the cardinal sin of burying the lead”: “the first act is both over-long and too broad.  It’s flat where it should be fizzy.”  Further, “Slattery feels a little too lightweight in the part.  He doesn’t convincingly give off the calculating smarts and socko charisma the character should.”  Nashawaty also laments that “it isn’t until halfway through the nearly three-hour running time when Nathan Lane . . . finally makes his entrance that the show catches fire.”  He praised the actor as “like a human defibrillator whose presence single-handedly puts the production back on course.”  The EW reviewer concluded that The Front Page is “smart, subversive, and seemingly timeless.  Too bad that this time around it’s also an ensemble comedy that feels like a one-man show.” 

David Cote of Time Out New York dubbed the production a “5,000-volt revival . . . whipped into a hellacious comic frenzy by one of the best acting ensembles you and I may ever see.”  Cote added that O’Brien’s “pedal-to-the-metal production is astonishingly true to the spirit and letter of the script,”  despite the director’s sanitization, and his “pacing is masterful.”  The acting “seals the deal,” affirmed the man from TONY, and “Lane and Slattery’s mutually abusive, rat-a-tat rapport is a thing of beauty.”  At bottom, Cote recommended that theatergoers “see this brutally brilliant masterpiece, and you’ll be inoculated against the viciousness of the world.”  With “a starry cast,”  director O’Brien presents “an impeccable revival” of The Front Page, affirmed Marilyn Stasio in Variety.  If the director missed any of the “variety of opportunities for farcical comedy,” Stasio “failed to catch it.”  The Varietyreviewer found, “The production is as close to perfection as it comes, peaking in sheer hilarity when [Lane] roars onstage.”  Declaring that “they don’t write ensemble plays like this anymore,” Stasio ended by asserting, “Count yourself lucky if you scored a seat.  You won’t forget it.”

In the cyber press, New York Theatre Guide’s Kathleen Campion reported that “The Front Page has a good deal of energy—the huge cast rockets around the one room set” and that “one-to-one exchanges between and among the three principals . . . are rich and pithy and often funny.”  She also complained, “They are also often so broad and predictable as to be eye-rolling.  I’m not sure they are enough to keep you riveted for three acts, especially because you have to wait till act two to lay eyes on Nathan Lane.”  Slattery and Nathan’s moments “are small diamonds in a rhinestone wash of a show . . . but somehow you just don’t buy him as the gritty, tough guy.”  Campion concluded, “The production feels long”; it has “many good moments, but you do have to pay the piper with your patience.”  On Theater Pizzazz, Sandi Durell reported that The Front Page, with “superb direction” by O’Brien, “has it all when it comes to political hacks and sleazy journalists . . . but misses greatly waiting till more than half the show is over before releasing the likes of Nathan Lane and his inimitable shtick.“  As Durell noted, Lane’s “performance is merciless and non-stop and every reason to see this farce.” 

On TheaterScene, Eugene Paul labeled the Broadway mounting of The Front Page a “lovingly painstaking revival,  crammed to the gills with famous star names doing star turns,  smashingly designed . . ., [and] dressed to achingly nostalgic perfection.”  Paul asserted, “In spite of what appears to be brash, slap dash writing tumbling out a cast of stock characters, there is a solid, well worked out frame to the play which drives story, the heart of a show, like a locomotive, and director O’Brien takes advantage of every bit.”  Elyse Sommer warned on CurtainUp that “the enjoyable presentation and excellent performances notwithstanding, once you get over admiring the set and the costumes and listen to some of the insults and phone calls flying around the room, the rest of the first act and part of the second are a too dragged out setup.”  The CU reviewer affirmed that “it’s not until Nathan Lane’s Editor Burns, smelling an unmissable scoop, finally plants himself center stage that this production bursts into full-blown laugh-aloud mode.” 

Marc Miller of NY Theatre Guide characterized this Front Page, a “rude, rough-and-tumble look at Chicago Jazz Age,” as a “starry, wall-shaking revival.”  Sensing “a certain audience restlessness during the first act,” Miller “was having a wonderful time” anticipating who would come through the press room door next.  “When Walter does finally show up,” reported the cyber reviewer, “. . . the energy, which was plenty vigorous to begin with, ramps up tenfold.”  Hecht and MacArthur, whom Miller proclaimed the “real heroes of the evening,” devised “a full plate, and this ‘Front Page’ serves it up piping hot.”  On Broadway World, Michael Dale labeled the production a “raucously good revival” in which “a terrific cast bangs out the gritty, wise-cracking dialogue . . . with the precision of freshly greased keys striking at the platen of a Royal typewriter.”  The BWWreviewer added, “Nathan Lane and John Slattery lead the way, but the twenty-five member ensemble . . . contribute solidly to a rousing production.”  Lane’s “flourishing comedic energy commands every moment for the rest of the evening.”  Dale summed up with: “O’Brien’s staging races to a frantic conclusion and one of the American theatre’s most glorious curtain lines.  This is satisfying old-school, muscular comedy done right.”

“The Internet may be adept at killing newspapers (or at least putting them on life support),” quipped Matthew Murray on Talkin’ Broadway,but there’s no way it can ever kill The Front Page.”  In his opinion, “It hardly matters that” the play “no longer has much relevance as either a social or a journalistic document; in its towering political shenanigans and its nonstop Gatling Gun dialogue . . ., it’s about as timeless and indestructible on the page as any play of the last 100 years can be.”  Nonetheless, Murray felt that of the large cast, “there is only one who scores an unconditional success, and a second who comes within spitting distance of it.”  The TB reviewer explained, “Everyone else works hard—frequently too hard.”  Murray is the odd man out among his critical colleagues in that the two praiseworthy performances he noted come from Slattery and Taylor, while he had strongly unfavorable things to say about all the other actors, including Lane, who’s “all wrong, lacking the naked drive and violent, skyrocketing ambition” of Murray’s ideal Burns.  Slattery, on the other hand, “is, above all else, resolutely real.”  The director “should have done more to elicit the life-threatening urgency” from the performances.  For a play like The Front Page to work, “you have to buy into what’s happening completely . . ., and only Slattery [is] immersed in this world.”  The TB writer lamented, “Wonderful as he is, though, Slattery alone is not enough to make this version of The Front Page banner headline news.” 

“That’s not the sound of a fleet of flivvers backfiring that you hear at the Broadhurst on West 44th Street these nights,” reported Steven Suskin in the Huffington Post.  “It’s laughter, cascading and echoing like bullets from tommy guns of the St. Valentine’s Day variety, circa 1928 Chicago.”  The Front Page is “as riproaring as ever,” wrote the HP reviewer, as the revival, “happily, fires on all cylinders.”  With lavish praise for the whole cast, Suskin added that O’Brien “does an impeccable job here” and that there’s “also a top-of-the-line physical production.”  The whole company does well “bringing today’s audiences a flavorfully-blustery, quaintly blasphemous comic feast,” concluded the HP writer.  TheaterMania’s Zachary Stewart dubbed the revival of The Front Page, a “lumbering and overloaded” play, a “hit-or-miss production” that “is at its funniest when that resonance shines through.”  But Stewart found that “the tone of the play is not always consistent.”  Though the cast is “[i]ndividually, . . . very funny . . . [i]t begins to feel like the night of a thousand shticks.”  O’Brien “fails to bring harmony to the proceedings” until “Lane enters with a show-stealing performance.”  TM’s review-writer predicted that “some viewers will be tempted to flee at the first intermission . . ., but they really shouldn’t:  The Front Page takes a long time to warm up, but once it does, it proves worth the wait.” 

On the TimeWarner Cable system’s news channel, NY1, Roma Torre called the Front Page revival an “over-caffeinated” and “terrific production,” but warned, “It takes a good hour before the plot . . . kicks in.”  Torre continued, however, that “fortunately, the character actors playing the newspapermen . . . are standouts—each one.   And if it seems that nothing’s happening for a good while, it’s a thrill just to watch these fine performers ply their craft.”  The NY1 reporter further remarked, “The show’s period perfect technical designs deserve a bow as well.”  She especially praised Goodman (“full of bluff and bluster”), Slattery (“displaying tremendous versatility”), and Lane (“bigger than life”).  Torre was particularly complimentary about the way O’Brien “masterfully directed the physical humor” and she concluded, “As for a headline . . . read all about it: ’Front Page’ is a winnah!”  WNYC radio’s Jennifer Vanasco, however, pondered, “Just why anyone thought it would be a good idea to bring ‘The Front Page’ back to Broadway in Fall 2016—an election year—isn’t clear to me.”  Aside from the cast—Lane, “who almost (but doesn’t quite) save the show,” and Slattery, “who, surprisingly, drags the play down”—and its subject, journalism, Vanasco found the total lack of 21st-century political correctness an offense.  “It feels a bit sleazy to watch this play now, a bit tone-deaf,” she stated, listing the inappropriate aspects of the play by today’s standards.  Lane’s performance is “almost funny enough to smooth over the show's unfortunate dialogue,” but he “just can’t do it alone.”  The WNYC reviewer declared, “For ‘The Front Page’ to work in our contemporary era, it needs a rewrite,” and suggested some changes O’Brien might have made to remedy the problems: “multi-racial casting.  A female reporter or mayor.  Some judicious chopping of terms like ‘bazooms.’”  (I don’t usually comment on reviewers notices in my play reports, but do I have to point out why this is so wrong?  Applying the standards of today to a work from almost 90 years ago?  It would be exactly like John Ashcroft draping the partially nude, Depression-era statues of Spirit of Justice and Majesty of Law in the Great Hall of the Department of Justice in 2002.)

Robert Kahn of WNBC, the network-owned television outlet in New York, characterized The Front Pageas a “frenetic comedy” and the Broadway revival as a “grand-looking new production.”  Kahn reported that “it takes a while for ‘The Front Page’ to hit its stride,” but “things really pick up” when Lane, “in classic form,” “make[s] his entrance.”  The TV reviewer added, “Like Lane, [Slattery’s] adept with the physical comedy, and seems to be having a great time,” but “Goodman doesn’t fare quite as well in a one-note role.”  He noted that The Front Page“shows its age,” but “the pros . . . know how to manage the material and deliver an ink-stained good time.”  (Having commented on the un-PC aspects of The Front Page, Kahn remarked, as if in response to WNYC’s Vanasco: “This is a period piece that hearkens back to a time when reporters carried flasks and an HR rep would be tossed out a window if she introduced a dialogue about harassment or proper workplace behavior.”)

Mark Kennedy of the Associated Press opened his review with a little parody: “This sap of a play is older than yesterday’s news.  But, I’ll level with you.  This is the God’s honest truth: A fellow named Nathan Lane somehow saves it.”  Calling the play “the most jaundiced view of journalism ever to grace a stage,” Kennedy reported, “The play has not aged well and may have you wondering why this 88-year-old needs another spin.  Then Lane shows up deep into Act 2 in the nick of time.”  The AP review-writer asserted, Lane’s “dry humor and gift for physical comedy have never been more urgently needed.”  The play “smells a little off and it’s hopelessly old-fashioned, like a weird uncle who shows up on holidays.”  Still, Kennedy acknowledged, “once in a while it’s sort of fun.”  The director “has not worked out all the kinks in a script that often sounds like a machine gun of words” and not all the actors handle the play’s style effectively, and “[w]ithout Lane, there’s little reason for this revival.”  Essentially, Kennedy asserted, Lane makes you forget all the deficiencies of the play and the production.  “You are watching a master at work and that’s the headline, period.”  

'"Master Harold" . . . and the boys'

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I’ve written a number of times that Athol Fugard taught the world more about conditions in apartheidSouth Africa with his plays than all the essayists, news reporters, and lecturers combined (see my posts “Degrading the Arts,” published on 13 August 2009; “The Relation of Theater to Other Disciplines,” 21 July 2011; “Culture War,” 6 February 2014).  A prime example of what I mean is Fugard’s fine 1982 composition “Master Harold” . . . and the boys, now in revival at the Signature Theatre under the playwright’s own direction.

The production is part of STC’s Legacy Program for the 2016-17 season, the first under Paige Evans’s artistic directorship.  (Evans took over this year from James Houghton, STC’s founder, when he retired in June.  Houghton died of stomach cancer in August at the age of 57.)  Fugard was the Residency One playwright at Signature for the 2011-12 season, the inaugural STC season at the Pershing Square Signature Center.  The Signature revival of Master Harold started performances on STC’s Irene Diamond Stage, the 294-seat proscenium house, on 18 October and opened on 7 November; it’s currently scheduled to close on 11 December, after two extensions.  (The show’s original closing was 27 November and it was extended once already through 4 December.)  My subscription partner. Diana, and I saw the 7:30 performance on the evening of Wednesday, 9 November.)

“Master Harold” . . . and the boys wasfirst staged at the Yale Repertory Theatre in New Haven, Connecticut, on 9-27 March 1982 by Fugard with Željko Ivanek as Hally, Zakes Mokae as Sam, and Danny Glover as Willie.  When the production moved to Broadway’s Lyceum Theatre, premièring on 4 May 1982 to 26 February 1983 (344 performances), Lonny Price replaced Ivanek as Hally.  The play was revived by the Excaliber Shakespeare Company in Chicago in 1997 and by the Steppenwolf Theatre Company in 2005.  Master Harold returned to Broadway for 49 performances in 2003, staged by Lonny Price with Glover switching to the role of Sam.

Originally banned from production in South Africa, the play premièred at Fugard’s Market Theatre in Johannesburg on 22 March 1983, once again directed by the author.  The production, whose opening night audience included such luminaries as Nobel Prize-winning novelist  Nadine Gordimer and Bishop Desmond Tutu, winner of the 1984 Nobel Peace Prize, left many in its audience in tears.  In 2012, Master Harold wasrevived in Fugard’s native land and again in 2013 in Afrikaans (translated by Idil Sheard as Master Harold en die Boys).  The Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada, staged the play in the summer of 2016.

In 1985, Showtime, the cable TV network, and the Public Broadcasting System televised an adaptation of the play by Fugard, directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg with Matthew Broderick as Hally, Zakes Mokae as Sam, and John Kani as Wiilie.  Lonny Price helmed a South African film production based on a screenplay by Nicky Rebello in  2010 starring Freddie Highmore as Hally and Ving Rhames as Sam; the film opened up the play considerably, adding many characters who never appear on stage, including Hally’s parents. 

Master Harold takes place in 1950, one year after the passage of the Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act in the Union of South Africa (the Republic was declared in 1961), and the year the Population Registration Act, the Group Areas Act, and the Suppression of Communism Act were passed, the first legal mechanisms formalizing what Prime Minister D. F. Malan, elected in 1948 by the white minority who alone were allowed to vote, called apartheid, the policy of “separateness,” that prevailed until 1994.  (In my report on Fugard’s Blood Knot, 28 February 2012, I included a brief history of apartheid.)  The play is set in Port Elizabeth, a coastal city 550 miles south of Johannesburg where three-year-old Harold Athol Lanigan Fugard moved with his family from his birthplace in Middleburg, 215 miles north. The play is largely autobiographical, down to the characters’ names: young Fugard was, indeed, called Hally as a boy and his family’s employees in the St. George’s Park Tea Room were Sam Semela and Willie Malopo, who became his friends and his teachers.  At the age of 17, Hally is seeing the world around him change just as he’s growing from a boy into a man, and he reflects the changes in his country; “Master Harold” . . . and the boys is both the story of Athol Fugard’s coming of age, and of South Africa’s as well: Hally is both the young playwright and his native land, both on the cusp of destiny. 

The characters and events of this play reflect the people and events of South Africa—but the play’s characters are also actual people from Fugard’s past dealing with circumstances that actually happened to them in their lives.  I’ll be addressing this more in a bit, but one of the things that I think makes Fugard such a marvelous playwright and makes his depictions of social and political themes (that is, apartheid and its repercussions) so engaging is that he makes them universal topics that speak to people far beyond South Africa, and he makes them personal—or personalized—issues rather than socio-political theses. As Nathaniel French, Signature Theatre Company literary associate, put it in an interview with the dramatist, “For more than 50 years, . . . Athol Fugard has challenged the world’s conscience with his incisive portraits of individuals grappling with the intimate repercussions of systemic injustice.”  This quality was first evident in 1961’s Blood Knot (revived at Signature in 2012) and continued throughout Fugard’s long career.  As with the characters in his other plays, Hally, Sam, and Willie aren’t metaphors or allegories, they’re real people—not least because they, in fact, are real people—who address real problems on a human and personal scale.  That’s why I say Fugard’s plays are more powerful as consciousness-raisers and instructors than reports and essays: he makes them touch us with his humanity.

“Master Harold” . . . and the boys shows how the institutionalized racism, bigotry, and hatred of apartheid (and, by extension, Jim Crow and its echoes) can become absorbed by those on both sides of the divide who live under it.  As “Hally” Fugard grew into a young man, the Union of South Africa began building its brutal racist regime of apartheid, the Afrikaans word for “apartness.”  Fugard absorbed the entitlement afforded him by his white skin.  His father, who was disabled by a childhood injury and needed crutches to get around, was also a drunk and it frequently fell to his young son, with Sam’s help, to retrieve him from the local saloon.  Though Fugard learned a love of music and stories from his father, the man was also a typical South African racist, the playwright has said; it was his mother who taught him a sense of justice.  Fugard also developed lifelong friendships with two of the black men who worked for his mother in the Jubilee Boarding House and later the St. George’s Park Tea Room, Sam Semela and Willie Malopo.  Sam, in fact, “was the father I wanted, a decent, good man, generous, full of laughter, caring . . .,” recalled the playwright.  “But how can a white boy in the apartheid years have a black man as a surrogate father?” he wondered.  On rainy days, when no one came to use the park, Sam and Fugard discussed literature, science, history, culture, philosophy, and the passage from childhood into manhood.  Once when Fugard was embarrassed by his father’s frequent public drunkenness, it was Sam who cheered him up by putting together a homemade kite and teaching the boy to fly it to provide him with an accomplishment of which he could be proud.  “I ended up sitting holding the string and admiring my kite, but Sam couldn’t sit down because, by a very brutal irony of South Africa, there was a sign: ‘Whites Only.’”  One afternoon, after the two argued, Fugard spat in Sam’s face.  In a moment, everything changed between them and that act haunted Fugard for decades. 

Thirty years later, the dramatist wrote “Master Harold” . . . and the boys out of that experience, incorporating in the drama all the confusion, helplessness, and misplaced anger Hally feels.  “That little schoolboy in the tearoom on that rainy afternoon when his company is the two black servants who work in the tearoom,” explained Fugard, “that whole setting comes directly from my youth.”  He’d been trying to compose a play about Sam and Willie, “two men [who] were so important in my life that I just felt a need to somehow celebrate them in a play.”  But the playwright “couldn’t find the element that created the drama, the tension and the demand for resolution that theatre usually involves.”  He started to think about writing Master Harold because it gave him “a chance to publicly reckon with one of the most disgraceful moments in my private life, which is when I spat in Sam’s face.”  “‘My God, you’ve got a lot to answer for, Master Harold,’” Fugard thought. “And suddenly I put Master Harold into the equation with Sam and Willie, and like Einstein I ended with E=MC2.”  But he “feels as if somebody else wrote that play, not myself,” and when literary associate French suggested he wrote Master Harold with Sam Semela, the dramatist responded enthusiastically, “That’s correct, that’s correct.  That’s really not a bad way of putting it!”

At the start of the play, it is, indeed, raining, and Willie is practicing ballroom steps for a major competition.  (The choreography is by Peter Pucci.)  In between chores to close up the tea room for the day, Sam, the more sophisticated of the men, is coaching him.  Uneducated, Sam is wise in the ways of the human soul—and smart enough to understand—and remember—just about anything Hally explains to him from his schoolbooks.  When 17-year-old Hally arrives after school, he sets about doing his homework and the bantering among the three begins.  Hally’s intelligent enough to see that something serious is about to happen to his world and he’s innately good enough to be concerned.  The young man learns that his mother has gone to the hospital where his sick father is interned and soon she calls to say she’ll be bringing him home that afternoon.  Hally has always had a conflicted and chilly relationship with his father.  Bitter and distraught, Hally, misdirecting his anger at his father, lashes out at Sam, who’s tried to help the young man accept his father even with his failings.  Hally tells a crude, racist joke and demands that Sam no longer call him “Hally” but “Master Harold.”  (Willie has always called the young man “Master Hally.”)  Sam warns the young man that this will be a step he can’t take back once made—it will alter everything.  Then Hally spits in Sam’s face and leaves the tea room.  As the play ends, Sam and Willie dance together to the music of the tea room’s juke box, hoping things are “going to be okay tomorrow.” 

(A word about that ballroom dancing which frames the play:  It became a popular and important outlet for creativity and pleasure for black South Africans even before apartheid was formalized.  Having caught on in the country among the European settlers as early as the 17th century, it began to be opened up to even working-class white South Africans by the 20th century, greatly inspired by U.S. culture, especially the movies of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.  Blacks, though, were still excluded, by both laws and by economics.  So black South Africans started their own dance events, including competitions, in the segregated townships in which they were required to live.  Dance parties and clubs were oases of pleasure and a kind of freedom of spirit that was denied them in their everyday lives, particularly once the racial laws establishing apartheid as the governing principle of the land were enacted.  As Fugard, a ballroom champion himself when he was a boy, explains the attraction: “It was just the music, the fact that you moved your body through space while beautiful music was filling your ears.“  In the play, when Hally asks, “For God’s sake, Sam, you’re not asking me to take ballroom dancing serious, are you?” Sam responds, “There’s no collisions out there, Hally.  Nobody trips or stumbles or bumps into anybody else.  That’s what that moment is all about.”  Soon, ballroom dancing became a distinctive part of the black culture of South Africa in a similar sense to township music, introduced to the U.S. with the success of Paul Simon’s 1986 fusion album, Graceland.)

Diana found “Master Harold” . . . and the boystalky, but I find it less a talk play than, say, Oslo or New Jerusalem (see my reports on 13 August 2016 and 20 April 2014, respectively).  There isn’t a lot of “action” in Master Harold, but there’s considerable “activity” (including the ballroom dancing).  The talk is largely conversation, not all lecture and point-making (though there’s some of that, too).  Further, Oslo and New Jerusalem are dissertations, one on Middle East politics and the other on philosophy (Spinozan) and theology; Master Harold disguises the political and social themes Fugard’s presenting as a relationship between Hally (who, beside being Fugard, is also the embodiment of the emerging South African nation) and Sam and Willie (the black South African people).  It’s actually quite interesting and even clever, from a dramaturgical point of view.  It must have been really startling in the 1980s, when apartheid was in full swing—especially in its South African première in ‘83.  (Frank Rich wrote in the New York Times: “Mr. Fugard’s drama—lyrical in design, shattering in impact—is likely to be an enduring part of the theater long after most of this Broadway season has turned to dust.”)

I think some of the appeal of Master Harold despite the lack of action—at least to me—is that apartheid, especially as Fugard presents it, in the guise of three ordinary people, is a more visceral topic than the excommunication of Baruch Spinoza in New Jerusalem or the development of the Oslo Accords (which ultimately failed).  As Newsday’s Linda Winer put it, “Fugard has taken people from very far away and made their lives so real that they resound beyond the impersonal facts of distant news stories.”  It’s a little like Arthur Miller presenting the McCarthy commie witch-hunts in the guise of the Salem witch trials in The Crucible by presenting real, ordinary people instead of historical bold-face names.  And just as the implications of McCarthyism and the threat of a HUAC continue to be relevant long after the 1950s, the effects of institutionalized racism and the essence of apartheidstill impact us today, even here in the Unites States and even after the official policy has been dismantled in South Africa. 

Unlike any of these other plays, though, Master Haroldat base is about the most supreme human characteristic.  As Fugard puts it: “You know, I spat in Sam’s face and Sam forgave me.”  Then he expands that point: “But I think, in essence, what Sam demonstrates—what Sam gives us hope for—is love.  How big love can be.”  That makes “Master Harold” . . . and the boys redemptive—and I think that’swhat makes the play irresistibly compelling.  Hally has committed a repulsive act; he seems to be taking on the racist characteristics of the South African nation as inexorably as the characters of Eugene Ionesco’s Rhinoceros turn into beasts.  But we know that in the real world, young Hally Fugard becomes adult Athol Fugard, a fighter for justice and equality—and that racist South Africa ultimately throws off its apartheid mantle and, its continuing hardships notwithstanding, constitutes a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to ease the transition with, if not exactly universal love, then at least tolerance and less bitterness and recrimination.  Sam’s “act of forgiveness,” which Fugard sees as “a lesson of which this world is still so in need,” may have made its impact at least a little.

The production of Master Harold, which runs an hour and 40 minutes without intermission, is excellent, and I found it a compelling play.  Diana and I both had some trouble with the very thick (though authentic-sounding) South African accents, however.  I think Fugard and dialect coach Barbara Rubin overdid it for an American audience.  Nonetheless, the performances are stellar.  The easy camaraderie between  Leon Addison Brown’s Sam  and Sahr Ngaujah’s Willie  set the tone of the production and its depiction of the three-character relationship.  Fugard has worked as director-playwright with both actors before, Brown in The Train Driver (2012 at Signature) and The Painted Rocks at Revolver Creek (2015 world première at STC), and Ngaujah in Painted Rocks.  (I saw both these productions—reports are on 20 September 2012 and 3 July 2015, respectively—though Ngaujah had left Painted Rocks due to injury by the time I saw it.  I did see Ngaujah in María Irene Fornés’s Drowning, part of the Signature Plays this past spring, reported in ROT on 3 June  2016, and he’s best known for his performance in the title role in Fela! on Broadway in 2009-11 for which he received a Theatre World Award as well as Drama Desk and Tony nominations.  Among Brown’s other credits are August Wilson’s Two Trains Running, 2006, and Horton Foote’s Orphans’ Home Cycle, 2010, both at STC; the report on OHC was posted on 25 and 28 February 2010, but there is no report on Two Trains because it predates ROT.)

Fugard says that he’s worked with some of the same actors multiple times because “we begin to understand each other more and I begin to understand how to challenge them. . . .  If I’ve got the actors that can rise to the challenge, I use them again and again.”  He spoke specifically of Brown, but the comfort these artists have developed from working together so many times is evident in the performances of Sam and Willie here.  (It certainly helps, of course, how lovingly the author portrayed the men in the script and no doubt he added to that background during the rehearsals.)  Sam is the more worldly of the men, and Brown demonstrates that in the older-brotherliness with which he treats Willie as he guides his coworker through his dance steps.  At the same time, Sam can be almost pupil-like with Hally when it comes to academic subjects even as he takes the part of surrogate father in matters of behavior and character.  When Hally becomes enraged with him for what ought to seem like a triviality—it isn’t to Hally, of course—Brown is downright gentle, almost zen-like (though neither he not Hally would have been likely to know that philosophy in 1950 South Africa, I wouldn’t imagine), seeing what’s coming.  Even after Hally spits in his face, Brown’s Sam holds firm but dignified, sympathetic but worried what Hally’s act might portend.

Willie, for all his callow boyishness, is still a complex man.  His insouciant manner at work and his preoccupation with dancing, which add some humor to the play, make him seem feckless, but we know that he has a violent streak, especially against women.  Ngaujah wisely doesn’t play this dark aspect of the character—it’s just there: we know it, Sam knows it, but Hally probably doesn’t.  If Sam and Willie are reflections of black South Africans under apartheid, this is the roiling dangerous element that’s building up.  Ngaujah threads this needle very neatly; though his Willie is the one who consistently plays the subordinate to Hally’s young master, he’s also the one who presents the potential, if unseen, threat. 

The newcomer to this ensemble is Noah Robbins, the 26-year-old actor from Potomac, Maryland, who made such an impression on reviewers and audiences alike for his portrayal of Eugene Jerome in the Broadway revival of Neil Simon’s Brighton Beach Memoirs in 2009.  A youthful-looking 19 then (the character is 15 in the play), just out of a Washington, D.C., prep school, Robbins has clearly deepened and broadened his capabilities.  (Coincidentally, his role in Brighton Beach was originally played by Matthew Broderick—who also played Hally in the TV movie version of Master Harold.)  His Hally is the epitome of a boy about to become a man, a little too smart for his britches but at the same time slightly awed by the maturity and wisdom of the older Sam.  I could feel the conflict between his innate character, the boy who loves and respects Sam and Willie and relies on Sam for life’s guidance he can’t get from his father, and the new-born young man of a new South Africa where he’s the designated master by virtue not of any superior accomplishments, but of his birth.  All gangly and willowy, Robbins can shift from adolescent braggadocio to mean-spirited haughtiness and back again without seeming to shift gears.  The balance is delicate, but the actor pulls it off cleanly.  (Hally is in danger of being perceived as a supremacist bully in the making, but the presence of Brown’s Sam helped me greatly to keep in perspective what I discerned was happening within the boy.  Knowing the developments beyond the confines of the tea room, though they’re not part of the play’s text, also informed my judgment.)  Robbins makes Hally’s sense guilt over the spitting incident, mixed with his remaining anger and confusion, palpable,

As director, Fugard fosters the interrelationships among the three characters and he clearly knows not only what he wants—he should, of course—but how to get it from the actors.  (This is where it becomes an advantage for a playwright to stage his own works, though I have often complained about this decision.  Fugard seems to be an exception—Horton Foote was another—to my caveat against playwright-directors.  There’s also a demonstration here of a director who’s worked with certain actors before gaining a benefit from that familiarity as well.)  Fugard is also able, because he understands this material—both the crafted play and the socio-historical grounding—so intimately, to avoid the blatant exposure of the action’s underpinnings and stage only the core truth.  He knows what to trust and what needs showing so that the performance becomes more natural and real and, as a consequence, more touching and revealing. 

Christopher H. Barreca’s tea room set is not quite cozy but also not cold or forbidding—like, perhaps, South Africa on the verge of a new regime which hasn’t quite taken permanent hold yet.  The torrential rain outside the big picture window, portentous as it is in its power to drive everyone away from the tea room, also adds an element of gloom inside the restaurant, isolating it from the rest of the world, a little like Edward Hopper’s 1942 Nighthawks, except with the dark street viewed from inside the lighted diner instead of the other way ’round.  Stephen Strawbridge’s lighting, of course, shares the credit for creating this image (along with whoever was responsible for the rain effects).  John Gromada’s sound design, principally the jukebox music to which Willie practices his ballroom dancing, and Susan Hilferty’s costumes add to the complete authenticity of the little tea room’s increasingly fraught atmosphere.

Show-Score tallied 23 notices (as of 20 November) for the Signature Theatre Company’s revival of Master Harold and reported that 100% were positive.  The average score was 86; the survey’s highest rating was 95 (there were 2, the websites The Clyde Fitch Report and Front Row Center; there was also nine 90’s); Show-Score’s lowest rating was a single 70 (WNBC-TV), with two 75’s.  (My round-up will cover 14 notices.) 

Declaring the revival of Master Harold at Signature a “sterling new production,” the New York Times’ Christopher Isherwood affirmed that “this quiet drama remains a powerful indictment of the apartheid system and the terrible human cost of the racism it codified and legalized.”  The play, one of Fugard’s “most celebrated and popular,” is “directed with care by” the author and “remains a powerful indictment of the apartheid system and the terrible human cost of the racism it codified and legalized.”  Matt Windman of am New Yorkdescribed Master Harold as “no doubt the finest play written by” Fugard and pronounced the Signature revival “excellent.”  “Intimate and tightly constructed, sharply political and emotionally bruising, autobiographical yet universal, despairing but with a glimmer of hope,” Windman characterized the play, and like several other reviewers found relevance in our current politics: “Following an election season where personal frustrations inspired disturbing manifestations of racial and ethnic prejudice, the play is quite pertinent today.  But even if that were not the case, it would still pack a strong punch simply because it is a masterful and accessible piece of writing.”  In Long Island’s Newsday, Linda Winer’s “Bottom Line” on Master Harold was: “Beautiful and upsetting Fugard revival,” which she described full of “youthful power.”  With “a magnificent cast,” the play unfolds through “leisurely storytelling, deceptively complex humanity and grounded simplicity.”

The “Goings On About Town” column of the New Yorker called Master Harold“a classic slow burn” in which the “atmosphere remains so light and casual for so long that considerable tension accrues around the question of how the interaction will inevitably explode.”  The New Yorker reviewer added, “It is depressing to recognize, in this moment of emboldened white nationalism, that the play is not as much a museum piece from the other side of the world as we might have fooled ourselves into believing it was exactly eight years ago.”  Jesse Green, while calling the Signature revival “powerful,” observed in New Yorkmagazine that the play “may seem like small potatoes compared with the repression, poverty, and denial of liberty that the apartheid system enforced on millions.”  He continued that one problem with the play is “that its first two-thirds are taken up with the slow, careful setting of what seems to be a purely domestic trap.”  Fugard “springs the trap” in the last third of the play when Hally gets the news of his father’s return and “what has sometimes seemed a bit desultory and kitchen-sinkish, with a lacy overlay of pretty imagery involving kites and quicksteps, becomes gripping and then devastating.”  But Green complained that the author’s work contains “a stolid resistance to theatricality in favor of moral seriousness” and that sometimes “you might wish for more imaginative direction.”  Nonetheless, concluded the man from New York, Master Harold’s “representation of a world in a tearoom is at least as astonishing an achievement as the inscribing of a bible on the head of a pin.  And more piercing, probably.”  (Like some others, Green appended a remark reminding us of Master Harold’s contemporary relevance, lamenting that “South Africa in 1950 . . . was not the only place or time on Earth when black lives didn’t seem to matter.”)

In the Hollywood Reporter, Frank Scheck reported in his “Bottom Line”: “This superbly staged and acted revival reveals that the apartheid-set drama has lost none of its power.”  Calling Master HaroldFugard’s “masterwork,” Scheck affirmed that it “may take place in South Africa during the early years of apartheid, but its depiction of the ways in which people are capable of hurting even those they love transcends the political landscape of bigotry and oppression that inspired it.”  A “deeply moving and powerful . . . play,” reported the HR reviewer, Master Harold“is now receiving an emotionally pitch-perfect revival.”  He noted, “Very little of dramatic importance occurs during much of the play's running time,” requiring “patience during its lengthy, meandering build-up, before reaching its emotionally devastating conclusion.”  Scheck concluded that “it's worth the time,” however, and seeing it under Fugard’s direction “represents a privilege not to be missed.”  David Cote of Time Out New York made a rather unusual comparison to demonstrate his assessment of the play:

Athol Fugard’s 1982 apartheid drama is a little like Mass for lazy Catholics:  Technically speaking, you only have to show up for Eucharist (the blessing of bread and wine) to stay saved.  In “Master Harold” . . . and the boys, that means perking up when teen Afrikaner Harold . . . turns on his friends (and de facto employees) Sam . . . and Willie . . ., lashing out at them with privileged contempt.  

The rest of the play, asserted the man from TONY, “is exposition, backstory and windup” despite “[r]ichly detailed acting and Fugard’s solid direction” which “make the journey . . . fairly engaging.”   

On TheaterMania, Zachary Stewart reported that Fugard’s revival of Master Harold“pulls out all the technical stops . . . while employing some top-notch actors to perform his drama of soft bigotry and the lost promise of change.”  He labeled the production “a beautifully rendered yet somewhat sleepy revival . . . which feels unfortunately diminished amid its own grandiosity.”  The author’s “steady direction” brings the play to an “emotional climax at a slow boil . .  but the necessarily nuanced performances occasionally drown in the cavernous Diamond Theater.”  The TMreview-writer concluded, “Still, those looking for a traditional and well-acted production of Fugard’s masterpiece won’t be disappointed.”  Ann Firestone Ungar of New York Theatre Guide pronounced the Signature revival of Master Harold“a mighty play given a mighty production.”  The playwright “has directed with perfect attention to detail” so that the “attention to realism . . . is gripping because of its truth.”  The NYTG reviewer recommended “without reservation” the “moving work of art,” which she dubbed “flawless.” 

“Master Harold” . . . and the boys“pulses with a terrible beauty,” declared Deirdre Donovan on CurtainUp.  Directing “impeccably,” Fugard lets “the Beckett-like simplicity of his play be its strong suit.”  The CU reviewer explained, “She trusts to its spare language, vividly-limned characters, and the tableaus of the racial hate.”  (Though Donovan had high praise for all three actors, she, too, had some problems with the South African dialects.)  Broadway World’s Michael Dale labeled the Signature revival of Fugard’s play “excellent” and reported, “There is little action in the play, but a lot of thought.”  Dale asserted, “In a sense, ‘MASTER HAROLD’ . . . AND THE BOYS becomes a sad twist on the typical coming-of-age story.” 

Matthew Murray warned on Talkin’ Broadway, “You might experience a bit of an initial shock at how shocking the Signature Theatre revival of ‘Master Harold’ . . . and the boys. . . is not.”  He explained:

After all, Athol Fugard’s play is known for eliciting gasps, recoils, and even jumps when it hits its climax.  And though this production, which the playwright has directed, is good at generating horrified silences gaping enough to swallow Manhattan whole, those more stunned and stunning reactions are not to be found. 

Murray contended, though, that “even if it’s lost some of its ability to surprise” due to changes in the world since its début, Fugard’s play “has not lost any of its power.”  Of his themes, Murray asserted, “Fugard attacks the topic so thoroughly and so bracingly that it remains astonishing that he does so with such sensitivity and beauty.“  On Theater Pizzazz, Martha Wade Steketee affirmed that Master Harold“feels devastatingly current and resonant in today’s America” even as Fugard “directs and conducts the breathtaking hairpin turns in the dialogue rhythms that lull us into revelations of internalized socialized roles, routines, and expectations in apartheid South Africa.”

Robert Kahn of WNBC-TV, the NBC network outlet in New York City, called Master Harold“still-resonant” and reported that Fugard directed “an elegant revival” at Signature.  With praise for the cast, especially Brown and Ngaujah, Kahn had some reservations about Robbins’s portrayal: “Hally is never very likable, coming off as a young Napoleon from the start. Because his Hally is such a brat, the play is denied a larger sense of any escalating ferocity within the boy.”  In sum, however, the WNBC reviewer said, “Fugard’s drama is slow to unreel, but builds to a confrontation audiences will find absorbing.”

[Athol Fugard’s Legacy production of “Master Harold” . . . and the boys at the Signature Theatre Company was one of the last decisions made by STC’s founding artistic director, James Houghton, who stepped down in June and died in August.  He had offered Fugard a “New York theatre home” at Signature where many of the South African’s plays have been presented over the seasons.  The dramatist confessed that “it is incredibly sad for me that Jim will not be in the audience in person to see [Master Harold] come alive on his stage.”  In the program for Master Harold, Fugard wrote:

When Jim Houghton approached me a year ago about including “Master Harold” . . . and the boys in the last season that he would program as Founding Artistic Diector of Signature Theatre, I immediately knew I wanted to do it.  Not only because I wanted to make his every wish come true, insofar as it was in my power, but also because it was yet another instance of Jim’s uncanny  ability to match the needs of his theatre with the needs of his playwrights.  I could not think of a better way to celebrate 50-odd years of playwriting.  Jim, this one’s for you.]

Ragamuffin Day

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[At the beginning of this month, I posted a tribute to my late mother, who died in May 2015 at 92.  (See “Mom,” 1 November.)  I wrote about some of the things we did together for fun, from my childhood when we still did things as a family to the more recent years when my mother and I were alone to amuse ourselves.  About a month ago, an article in theNew York Times reminded me of another connection to my mom—not something we had done together, but something we talked about.  The coincidence was a little too strong for me to overlook, so I’ve written about the connection and the historical background the Times article revealed.  You may find it interesting, especially if you have a link to New York City through someone in your past.]

Years ago, my mother told me about something she remembered from her childhood that she couldn’t explain.  Mom was a native New Yorker but moved to New Jersey with her family when she was very young—about 7, I think, which would make it around 1930.  But there was still a lot of family in New York City—my grandfather, for instance, had three sisters who all had daughters around my mother’s age with whom Mom was very close—so my grandparents and their two daughters used to drive into the city often for visits, family events, and holidays.

One of those holidays was Thanksgiving and my mother’s family drove in via lower Manhattan, presumably through the Holland Tunnel (the Lincoln didn’t open until Mom was 14).  Mom said she remembered seeing kids downtown—in the lower Village, it seemed—all dressed in costumes like Halloween, except on Thanksgiving, but she couldn’t remember what it was for.  I questioned her to be sure she wasn’t confusing two memories (we were talking about what may have been an 80-year-old memory from when she was very young).  She insisted she remembered just what she told me.

I had no idea what Mom could have been recalling.  Obviously, nothing like that has gone on since I’ve lived here.  I also had no idea how to look up something like that, but I wrote to the New York Times.  As some readers may know, the Sunday paper has a column called “F.Y.I.” (now published occasionally in the “Metropolitan” section, but which previously appeared weekly in that section’s predecessors) that fields questions from readers about the New York metro area just like this one.  Unfortunately, the Times never ran the query and I never followed up.

As it happens, when I was at the Cherry Lane Theatre in the Village with my friend Diana early last month, we walked over to Hudson Street-8th Avenue to catch a cab back up to my neighborhood where she left her car.  The location prompted me to tell her Mom’s story—but even though Diana’s a New Yorker, too, and older than I, she hadn’t ever heard of kids dressing up in costumes at Thanksgiving.

Well, I was reading the Times on Saturday night, 22 October, including the parts of the Sunday edition that come with the Saturday paper.  Among those was the “Metropolitan” section, which that week contained an “F.Y.I.” column, responding to the question:

Before Halloween trick-or-treating caught on, wasn’t there a different holiday in New York in which costumed children went around asking for treats?  

Lo and behold! the answer was all about Ragamuffin Day.  Observed on Thanksgiving Day, kids dressed as thieves, beggars, bums, and hobos and went door to door asking, “Anything for Thanksgiving?”  Neighbors handed out pennies and other swag.  In some communities, there were even ragamuffin parades, precursors of today’s Thanksgiving Day parades.  Ragamuffin Day was popular in New York City—a few other places also had it—from before the turn of the 20th century until about 1941, when Congress formally established Thanksgiving as the fourth Thursday in November and Halloween became a popular unofficial celebration of ghosts and goblins when kids got dressed up.  That’s the exact time-frame Mom was talking about in her recollection!

It’s terrific that entirely by accident—though synchronicity and serendipity played a part, I think—Mom’s vague memory that I could never confirm or even identify has been documented.  I did a quick search of the New York Times archive and there are plenty of old articles referencing ragamuffins and Google Images has photos from the 1900s through the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s of kids in costume for Ragamuffin Day. 

The story of Ragamuffin Day seems to be as follows (I’ve had to piece this account together from numerous sources and there are some, mostly inconsequential, discrepancies):

Thanksgiving had always been a traditional holiday, even during colonial times.  It’s basic purpose was the same as today: celebrate the harvest, honor the first settlers who braved harsh conditions and uncertainty, and make a gesture of gratitude and friendship to the American natives the Europeans displaced.  But it was observed on different days as local traditions arose and with many different rituals and practices—often a meal of some kind, but not always.  Customs ranged from elaborate feasts to displays of charity to religious observations to parades and pageants to games and athletic competitions (a forerunner, perhaps, of the football bowl games today’s celebrants like to watch).

In 1863, during the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln declared a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father” and set the day of observance as the last Thursday of November.  The proclamation, however, had the force of an executive order and had to be reissued by each succeeding president—who could, although any seldom did, change the particulars of the day or date of the observance.  Then in 1941, both houses of Congress passed a resolution setting the date for the official Thanksgiving Day as the fourth Thursday in November (which occasionally has five Thursdays) every year.

Though Halloween, or All Hallow’s Eve, was a Christian holiday since the Middle Ages (it may have been a Christianized pagan celebration that predates even that, but that origin’s disputed), it was not an important holiday in America until the mid-19th century when large numbers of Irish, who had been observing All Hallow’s Eve  for centuries, and Scottish immigrants arrived.  Other immigrant groups, such as Germans and later Africans, added their national traditions as well, making Halloween in the United States a uniquely American celebration.  Observance was confined to the immigrant community until the late 19th century, however, and wasn’t assimilated into the mainstream society until the 20th century.  By the first decade of the new century, Halloween had become a popular celebration among all strata of U.S. society across the whole country, irrespective of ethnicity or faith.  Civic organizations and schools even got into the act, transforming what had really been an ad hoc festival into an unofficial but universally sanctioned holiday.  By the 1920s and ’30s, Halloween parties for adults as well as children became fashionable and the religious, occult, and superstitious aspects of the holiday fell away, making it about secular fun, community, and enjoyment.  It was at this time, too, that the practice of trick-or-treating was revived—possibly transferred from the waning observance of Ragamuffin Day. 

According to one report, the ragamuffin tradition stemmed from the late 18th century, “when grown homeless men, during the holidays, would dress in women’s clothing and beg for food and money.”  Some believe that its origins are in the immigrant communities in the cities who brought their folk traditions to America with them but no longer had a celebration onto which to graft them.  So they borrowed Thanksgiving for their carnival masquerade.  The mummery became popular among the native-born who spread the practice throughout New York City.

From about 1870, however, children in New York City and some other cities and towns dressed up as “ragamuffins” (shabbily clothed, dirty children, according to the American Heritage Dictionary) in exaggerated rags and cast-offs too big for them (often their parents’ old duds), generally wearing masks or face-paint (charcoal or burnt cork was commonly used as “make-up”), and went from house to house asking, “Anything for Thanksgiving?”  On Friday, 1 December 1899, the day after Thanksgiving was celebrated in New York that year, a Times article reported:

The chief feature of the day was the street charivari, not only of the girls and boys, but of young men and women.  Thanksgiving masquerading has never been more universal.  Fantastically garbed youngsters and their elders were on every corner of the city.  Not a few of the maskers and mummers wore disguises that were recognized as typifying a well-known character or myth.  There were Fausts, Filipinos, Mephistos, Boers, Uncle Sams, John Bulls, Harlequins, bandits, sailors, soldiers in khaki suits, Deweys, and Columbines that well supported their roles.  The mummery, as a rule, was limited to boys in women’s skirts or in masks.  In the poorer quarters a smear of burnt cork and a dab of vermillion sufficed for babbling celebrants.  Some of the masqueraders were on bicycles. others on horseback, a few in vehicles.  All had a great time.  The good-humored crowd abroad was generous with pennies and nickels, and the candy stores did a land-office business.

(Note that November of 1899 was one, the last Thursday of which was the fifth one.  A charivari, or shivaree, is a “loud, cacophonous noise or hubbub,” according to Wiktionary.  The “vehicles” some maskers rode were probably horse-drawn carriages or carts, but the horseless carriage, though not yet common on the streets—and quite expensive—was invented more than 20 yeas earlier.  Columbine is a stock character in Renaissance Italian commedia dell’Arte and the English harlequinades or pantomimes, popular in the 19th and 20th centuries, derived from them.  She’s depicted as a lovely young woman, dressed as a serving girl, to whom Harlequin is romantically attracted.  Dewey seems to be the philosopher John Dewey, 1859-1952, though I don’t understand why New York ragamuffins would want to dress like him; somehow I doubt it’s a reference to Melvil Dewey, 1851-1931, the librarian who invented the Dewey Decimal System of cataloguing books; New York State Governor Thomas E. Dewey, 1902-71, wasn’t even born when the article above was written.  If anyone has a more likely idea, I’d love to hear it!  I can’t begin to guess why children would dress like Filipinos—except that the United States had annexed the archipelago the year before as booty from the Spanish-American War and then the hard-fought and bloody Philippine-American War, 1898-1902.  Why any of that history would inspire Ragamuffin Day costumes, I don’t see.)

One Virginia reporter in 1911 described the scene in the streets of New York:

On that one day at least the children literally take possession of the streets, ride all over the street cars, even on the fenders; impersonate Uncle Sam, George Washington and other characters that suit their fancy; dress in all sorts of costumes, that of the ragamuffin having the preference; mask, black their faces, parade, blow horns, ride sorry horses, prance astride of broomsticks and generally enjoy themselves to the limit of their temporary liberty.

It wasn’t uncommon for boys to dress in travesties of their mothers’ attire, as noted by John J. O’Leary (b. 1932) in Playing It Well (Trafford Publishing, 2011): “[W]e would dress up in . . . Mother’s old clothes, make up our faces with . . . Mother’s face powder, lipstick and rouge to go from door to door in the neighborhood.”  Even in her beloved 1943 novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith writes that her main character’s brother, Neely Nolan, dressed in

one of mama’s discarded dresses hacked off ankle length in the front to enable him to walk.  The uncut back made a dirty dragging train.  He stuffed wadded newspapers in the front to make an enormous bust.  His broken-out brass-tipped shoes stuck out in front of the dress.  Lest he freeze, he wore a ragged sweater over the ensemble.  With this costume, he wore the death mask and one of papa’s discarded derbies cocked on his head.  Only it was too big and wouldn’t cock and rested on his ears.

The treats that the ragamuffins (also known as Thanksgiving Maskers) collected were generally pennies, fruit, and candy.  In a 1909 sermon, the Rev. James M. Farrar, a minister and the former president of the General Synod of the Reformed Church in America, advised children on the best way to amass the most swag:

On Thanksgiving morning put on old, patched but warm shoes; old, ragged but warm clothes; paint your face or put on masks and then go out into the crisp morning for an hour[’]s fun.  Collect all the pennies the people will give; get dimes and dollars if you can.  Tell the people the money is for the poor.  Then scamper home.

(Reverend Farrar then counseled his young parishioners to bring the money to the church when they came for Thanksgiving services and put it in the offering plate.) 

Later, as the practice became more widespread and popular, the costumes became more diverse, beginning to resemble those worn later in the 20th century at Halloween, such as Indians, devils, Uncle Sams, harlequins, bandits, sailors, and characters from cartoons and popular children’s fiction such as Huck Finn, Tiger Lilly, and Long John Silver; eventually Disney characters and even objects and figures like alarm clocks and Michelangelo joined the throng.  During the Great Depression (approximately 1929-39), as you might imagine, Ragamuffin Day was especially popular—and the phenomenon drew to an end at about the same time that the economic crisis did.  By then, Thanksgiving Day had become formalized and circumspect and the ragamuffin parades had morphed into an organized and regulated Thanksgiving Day parade (the one in New York City sponsored by R. H. Macy & Co. began in 1924, the year the Herald Square store opened) and dressing up for Halloween and going trick-or-treating became the popular (and slightly anarchic) phenomenon we know today.  (In New York there’s also famously a less-regulated parade through Greenwich Village on Halloween night since 1974.)

It would have been during the Depression years, essentially between about 1930 and and the end of the practice in the early 1940s, when my mother and her family would have driven into Manhattan and up through the Village, Chelsea, and Hell’s Kitchen (now known as Clinton) to the Upper West Side, where Mom’s aunts and cousins all lived.  Given the popularity of Ragamuffin Day, it’s hardly surprising that an eight-, nine-, or ten-year-old girl would have noticed the clutches of children her own age costumed and engaging in what we now call “trick-or-treating” around their neighborhoods.  (Mom never said that she and her sister, four years younger, or the cousins who were Mom’s playmates had gone out on Thanksgiving dressed as ragamuffins.  She may therefore also have been a little envious.)

The practice was accepted by many, like Reverend Farrar (who actually encouraged it) and others were simply resigned to its continuation; but a few decades later, some New Yorkers began to call for ending the begging and mocking the poor.  In the words of A Tree Grows, “The street was jammed with masked and costumed children making a deafening din with their penny tin horns,” and storekeepers even sometimes locked their doors “to keep the noisy panhandlers out.”  The get-ups could be truly frightening (think Lon Chaney, Sr., in some of this horror roles) and the ragamuffins occasionally turned dangerous and even violent as rival gangs of ragamuffins pulled weapons on each other.  Bonfires were a common accompaniment to the revelry, too, and, one report noted, tragic results sometimes occurred when the billowing costume of a child dancing around the flames could catch fire. 

Eventually, newspapers, clergy, and city and school officials railed against the footloose ragamuffins and the begging and police cracked down on the rowdy maskers.  The raucous revelry clashed with the more solemn import that Thanksgiving had come to embody: the family gathering and celebration of the harvest bounty.  By about 1930, the New York Times reported, “The ragamuffin is vanishing,” but “persists somewhat . . . tenaciously” in “places where the subway lines end”—such as the south end of Hudson Street on the Lower West Side, where my mother appeared to remembered seeing the “gamins . . . in their mothers’ dresses and with their fathers’ suits hanging limply on them.”  The immense popularity of the Macy’s parade, which became a national event with the 1947 movie Miracle on 34th Street, and the rise in the observance of Halloween began to pare away at the practice of Ragamuffin Day.  The dampening effect of Prohibition, 1920-33, may also have had some bearing.  Alcohol consumption was an impetus to much of the revelry among the adults.  A cop, who seemed to bemoan the passing of the tradition, remarked that groups of men

used to get all dressed up and their girls did, too, and they’d have prizes for the best costumes and they’d come uptown for the parade, with horns and bells.  And they’d get free drinks in the saloons.  But now—without any be[e]r or anything—

The policeman let his sentence trail off, as if lamenting the loss.

By 1940, the Madison Square Boys Club, which since the 1930s had campaigned against Ragamuffin Day, held its own Thanksgiving parade with over 400 children marching and carrying a banner bearing the slogan “American boys do not beg.”  The last mention of a Thanksgiving Day ragamuffin parade in the Times was in 1956.  (That event was in the Bronx.  The Brooklyn neighborhood of Bay Ridge still holds a Ragamuffin Parade in late September or early October.)

After reading the New York Times’ “F.Y.I.” column in October, I compiled the facts presented here.  Once I had a viable key phase, it was easy to find loads of information.  I’d love to be able to call my mother and tell her I can now ID her memory and explain what she had seen back in the ’30s.  Unfortunately, the column came out three or four years too late.  Isn’t that remarkable—and yet a little sad?  Mom’s past caring now, of course; but I feel cheated out of a chance to give her this perfect little pleasure.  I know exactly how she’d have reacted, too.  I’ll have to be content with that.

'The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World'

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[I’ve always reserved the privilege of writing my play reports in a way that spotlights an aspect of the performance that caught my attention.  I don’t write reviews, in any case, so I’m not bound to a standard format or outline.  I haven’t exercised my self-proclaimed privilege often, but Suzan-Lori Parks’s The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World is an extraordinary occasion, reportorially speaking.  So what you’ll find below is not the kind of performance report I’ve been posting.  Furthermore, as lengthy as it is, I don’t come even close to saying all I would have liked about the play, the writer, or the production.  Nevertheless, I hope you’ll find my report useful, informative, and even revealing.  If you need a conventional evaluation, there are plenty of reviews on line—and I’ve surveyed a selection (some things don’t change).  Considering how fascinating academic writers have found Suzan-Lori Parks and her work, there are also quite a number of scholarly pieces, including both numerous essays and a few books, that analyze and purport to explain Last Black Man and other Parks plays.  (Some are even readable!)  ~Rick]

Last month, following an incident at the Richard Rodgers Theatre in which the cast of Hamiltonaddressed a statement to Vice President-Elect Mike Pence in the audience, President-Elect Donald Trump tweeted, “The Theater must always be a safe and special place.”  Well, special, yes—but safe?  Most theater people, including most veteran theatergoers, wouldn’t accept that.  Certainly playwright Suzan-Lori Parks wouldn’t, not for a New York second.  Her entire career is proof that she’s in it to challenge people’s complacencies, invade their comfort zones—and no better illustration of this fact is on display right now at the Pershing Square Signature Center’s Alice Griffin Jewel Box Theatre.  Believe you me, safety is the last thing Parks is there for.  “Since the early 1990s,” writes Jenna Clark Embrey, Signature Theatre Company’s literary manager, “Parks has incited a revolution in the American theatre with plays that remix history, truth, fantasy, and fables; the worlds that she creates are built on controlled chaos.”

Parks is this season’s Residency One playwright at STC.  This program affords each writer-in-residence multiple productions over a year’s period and the first of Parks’s plays for her Signature residency is her 1990 composition, The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World, an expressionistic, jazz-influenced stage poem that’s about the history of black America.  Or, more precisely, the eradication of African Americans and their history from the record.  In the words of Nicole Hodges Persley, a scholar of African-American theater, Parks’s history plays (please, don’t think Shakespeare), of which Last Black Man is one, “both exhilarate and confound audiences and critics.”  My companion, Diana, for example, dismissed the performance curtly as “a complete waste of time.”  She was almost angry and couldn’t understand why I found it intriguing.  (I’ll get to that later.)  As the playwright herself says: “Don’t go in there expecting to be served a meal from your mommy’s spoon.  We don’t do that in this show. . . .  Go in there expecting to see the stories come at you from all sides.  It is confusing, like the world is.” 

Parks wrote Last Black Man in 1989 (she says she started it in 1987 or ’88) and the New York Theatre Workshop held a reading of the script in its east Village home on 2 October directed by Beth A. Schachter.  The play premièred at BACA (Brooklyn Arts and Culture Association) Downtown on 13 September 1990 under Schachter’s direction and later was produced at the Yale Repertory Theatre’s WinterFest in New Haven, Connecticut, from 22 January to 7 March 1992, staged by Liz Diamond.  The current Signature revival is the first in New York City since the NYTW reading and the BACA début over a quarter of a century ago—and the first full, professional staging of the work in Manhattan.

Billed at STC as The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World AKA the Negro Book of the Dead, the revival, staged by Lileana Blain-Cruz (Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s War, Lincoln Center Theater; Lucas Hnath’s Red Speedo, NYTW; both 2016) in the 191-seat Griffin, started performances on 25 October and opened on 13 November; it’s currently scheduled to close on 18 December (after two extensions from 4 and 11 December).  Diana and I met at Signature’s Theatre Row home for the 7:30 performance on Wednesday evening, 16 November.  (I’d never seen that subtitle used for any publication or production of Last Black Man before, but Parks explained that it was added for the STC production because when she needed to clarify the title for the actors, she realized “that it needed an addition.”  In an e-mail, Signature’s associate artistic directoradded that Parks appended the subtitle in September and affirms “that the addition is now part of the complete title.”)

Last Black Man is non-linear in structure, and largely non-narrative.  (Parks’s earliest plays, which include 1987’s Betting on the Dust Commander, 1989’s Imperceptible Mutabilities in the Third Kingdom, and Last Black Man, are her most experimental and challenging in form.)  Like Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s 1798 poem, “Kubla Khan,” The Death of the Last Black Man, says Parks, came to her as a result of a dream.  Waking from a nap, the playwright

stared at the wall: still sort of dreaming.  Written up there between the window and the wall were the words, “This is the death of the last negro man in the whole entire world.”  Written up there in black vapor.  I said to myself, “You should write that down,” so I went over to my desk and wrote it down.  Those words and my reaction to them became a play.

But it’s more than just a dream.  This description is recounted in an essay called “Possession” (published in the same volume, The America Play and Other Works, in which The Death of the Last Black Man appears) and as an epigram to the piece, Parks provides a pair of definitions:

possession.  1. the action or fact of possessing, or the condition of being possessed.  2. the holding or having of something as one’s own, or being inhabited and controlled by a demon or spirit.  

The first meaning comes into play, but for now, it’s the second part of definition 2 that’s important.  Last Black Man is about reclaiming history and the figures—what Parks prefers to call the dramatis personæ—are from the past, from literature, from folk culture, from the Bible—and Parks seems to feel she’s been possessed by these spirits of African-American life, demanding that she tell their story.  “You should write it down because if you dont write it down then they will come along and tell the future that we did not exist,” says a figure called Yes and Greens Black-Eyed Peas Cornbread.  As Parks sees it:

A pay is a blueprint of an event: a way of creating and rewriting history through the medium of literature.  Since history is a recorded or remembered event, theatre, for me, is the perfect place to “make” history—that is, because so much of African-American history has been unrecorded, dismembered, washed out, one of my tasks as playwright is to—through literature and the special strange relationship between theatre and real-life—locate the ancestral burial ground, dig for bones, find bones, hear the bones sing, write it down.

Indeed, Parks did write it down.  What she sees herself doing in plays like Last Black Man is “re-membering,” which means both reclaiming lost history or putting African-Americans back into the historical record from which they’ve been erased and putting back together the black man who’s been systematically dismembered, both metaphorically and even actually. 

This is also where definition 1 above for ‘possession’ applies.  For most of African history in North America, the black man and woman has been a possession; a thing, an object that could be owned by someone else.  They were non-persons, and even after legal emancipation, hardly more than that.  Non-persons have no place in history.  They can’t make accomplishments or contributions.  They have no standing (the 1856-1857 Dred Scott case essentially declared that a slave had no right to bring suit in a U.S. court).  They leave no impression, even—or perhaps especially—when they die.  The question Parks asks is If a black man dies and no one bothers to record it, does his life make an impression on history?  The first half of definition 2 also returns to African Americans the right to their own possessions, including the power to create and own their own stories.  (Are we still in safe territory?)

This is the foundation of Parks’s themes.  With respect to form, the dramatist realizes “that my writing is very influenced by music; how much I employ its methods.”  Parks has explained, “When I wrote [Last Black Man] I was listening to a lot of Ornette Coleman [jazz composer-musician, 1930-2015], The Shape of Jazz to Come, which is a brilliant, brilliant album—and it very much has some jazz motifs in it.  So the play does as well.”  One of the play’s most prominent jazz techniques is “Repetition & Revision,” which Parks defines as “a concept integral to the Jazz esthetic in which the composer or performer will write or play a musical phrase once and again and again; etc.—with each revisit the phrase is slightly revised.”  The playwright continues:

“Rep & Rev” as I call it is a central element in my work; through its use I’m working to create a dramatic text that departs from the traditional linear narrative style to look and sound more like a musical score . . . [.]  How does this “Rep & Rev”—a literal incorporation of the past—impact on the creation of a theatrical experience?

Coleman, whose musicianship was, to say the least, unorthodox, unusual, and unstructured, was a controversial figure in jazz.  (He played a plastic saxophone in his early career!)  He’s considered one of the principal innovators of free jazz, a form of the music that essentially broke the rules of the genre and generally pushed the envelope.  (The term itself was invented by Coleman as the title of a 1960 album, and he never completely accepted it as a label for a type of jazz music, or that his own music should be called “free jazz.”)  My friend Kirk Woodward, who’s been a frequent guest-blogger on ROT, saw Coleman perform (he gets a mention in Kirk’s “Some Of That Jazz,” posted on 7 June 2015) and says of the sax-player that “he’s one of those pioneers that many people detested but then found he’d changed their way of experiencing an art forever.”  (Kirk has also blogged on Parks twice for ROT: “How America Eats: Food and Eating Habits in the Plays of Suzan-Lori Parks,” 5 October 2009—which includes references to Last Black Man—and “A Playwright of Importance,” 31 January 2011.)  Music critic Steve Huey said of the album to which Parks was listening when she wrote Last Black Man, 1959’s The Shape of Jazz to Come, that it “was a watershed event in the genesis of avant-garde jazz, profoundly steering its future course and throwing down a gauntlet that some still haven’t come to grips with.  The record shattered traditional concepts of harmony in jazz . . . .”  Huey wrote that “Coleman’s ideals of freedom in jazz made him a feared radical in some quarters.”  That’s a little like Parks’s position in theater—and, like Parks, Coleman was a Pulitzer Prize-winner (for music in 2007) and a MacArthur (“genius”) Fellow (1994). 

In plays like Last Black Man that are structured around Rep & Rev, explains Parks, “we are not moving from A à B but rather, for example, from A à à A à B à A.  Through such movement we refigure A.”  This effect is very audible in Blain-Cruz’s production.  Rep & Rev, however, has other applications in Last Black Man in addition to the lines the figures speak.  First, for example, the titular black man dies repeatedly and not always in the same way, so elements of Parks’s story are repeated and revised.  On the macro level, furthermore, the whole theme of The Death of the Last Black Manis a repetition and revision as the history—or non-history—of Africans in America is repeatedly rewritten until it’s eradicated.  Now it’s being revised again and restored.  So Rep & Rev isn’t just a playwriting technique in Last Black Man, it’s the structural foundation and the conceptual rationale. 

In combination with Rep & Rev, Parks also uses call and response, an element of both African and African-American public discourse and music.  This is defined as a “spontaneous verbal non-verbal interaction between speaker and listener in which all of the statements (‘calls’) are punctuated by expressions (‘responses’) from the listener.”  Along with African-American worship (grounded in African ceremonials), it is an integral element of jazz, blues, and hip hop, as well as political rallies and street demonstrations. 

On top of Parks’s musical structure and linguistic legerdemain, the writer roils the text with several other non-linear elements.  One of these is the temporality of Last Black Man. Time in the play doesn’t move in a straight line—in fact, it twists around and folds back on itself; the play takes place simultaneously in the distant past, the more recent past, today: “Yesterday today next summer tomorrow just uh moment uhgoh in 1317 . . . .”  Parks enhances the confusion of time by mixing up the verb tenses and even composing some forms that defy tense parsing altogether.  In addition, time isn’t the only aspect of Last Black Man  that’s obscured: the play’s location is indeterminate and undecipherable.  At times were in ancient Egypt, 1492, the ante-bellum South, Jim Crow America, more-or-less contemporary U.S. (circa 1990 or 2016, take your pick), outer space, and the hereafter.  If you try to sort this out rationally, it’ll make you crazy and the play will be totally meaningless.  If you accept that Last Black Man takes place in all times and all places at once and just go with that, it works a lot better.  But it’s hardly simple. . . or comfortable.

One of Parks’s influences and models was Ntozake Shange (b. 1948), from whom the younger writer learned to compose in a poetic medium.  (Parks had written songs before turning to playwriting.)  Shange called her 1976 play for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enufa “choreopoem,” and the same descriptor could be applied accurately to Last Black Man.  Another literary influence on Parks’s work was playwright Adrienne Kennedy (b. 1931) who showed her the power of writing in contemporary street vernacular—what Parks refers to as “hip-hop, Ebonics, jazz speak.”  (I saw Kennedy’s Funnyhouse of a Negro, another abstract performance piece that employs Rep & Rev, at STC last spring and reported on it in “Signature Plays” on 3 June.  I also saw a production of for colored girls directed by Shange in 1995, but it predates ROT and there is no report on it.) 

During the performance, I was very taken with Parks’s use of language, and the physical and verbal imagery she evoked—though some of that, of course, is also creditable to director Blain-Cruz, designers Riccardo Hernandez (set) and Montana Blanco (costumes), and choreographer Raja Feather Kelly.  In fact, Parks eschews stage directions and leaves the movements and placements of the actors “mostly to the director.”  Nonetheless, she takes responsibility for the physical life in her plays:

95 percent of the action, in all of my plays, is in the line of text.  So you don’t get a lot of parenthetical stage direction.  I’ve written, within the text, specific directions to them, to guide their breathing, to guide the way they walk, whether or not they walk, whether or not they walk with a limp, whatever.  They know what to do from what they say and how they say it.  The specifics of it are left up to the actor and the director.  The internals are in the line, the externals are left up to them. 

In the program for Last Black Man, Parks quotes another literary figure who had some impact on her art as well, a few lines from “Dolorous Echo,” a 1965 poem by Beat poet Bob Kaufman (1925-86): “When I die, / I won’t stay / Dead.,” which can be seen as a capsule statement of Last Black Man‘s theme.  Known in France, where his work is still popular, as the “black American Rimbaud,” Kaufman was also a surrealist inspired, like Parks, by jazz music.  So, at least on a superficial level, so far we have a play drawing on jazz—not to mention avant-garde jazz—African-American street speech, Beat poetry, call and response, history and culture as it’s been distorted by popular stereotyping, a temporal Möbius strip, an evanescent location, and stunning (literally) movement and visual imagery.  Oh, and all this is packed into a swift 75 minutes.  It’s certainly not easy going—and, I wouldn’t imagine, what someone looking for an evening’s entertainment would find “safe.”  As Tina Turner memorably proclaimed: “. . . we never ever do nothing niceand easy.  We always do it nice and rough.”

Suzan-Lori Parks was born in 1963 in Fort Knox, Kentucky (“where they keep the gold”), but as the daughter of a career military officer, “grew up all over,” including “quite a while” in Germany, where she went to local schools and became fluent in German.  “We were moving around every year.  So I’m from all over,” says Parks, but “I consider myself a Texan, because my mom’s a West Texan, and we spent a lot of time hanging out in far west Texas.”  After high school in Germany and, while her father was stationed at Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland, at a prep school near Baltimore, Parks attended Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts, one of of the Seven Sisters colleges (the women’s counterpart to the then largely all-male Ivy League), graduating Phi Beta Kappa with a B.A. in English and German literature in 1985.  Having at first been steered away from studying literature, Parks took up an interest in chemistry, but returned to the writing that had marked her earliest childhood focus, when she wrote poetry and songs.  At Mount Holyoke, the incipient playwright studied under novelist James Baldwin (1924-87) in his first writing course, and he encouraged her to consider writing for the stage. 

When the young writer started with Baldwin, she was writing novels, short stories, and songs, but when she read her stories aloud in class, she says, “I was very animated.  Like I would do what the stupid theatre people did, like ‘Laaa Laaaa Leyy!  And Read Alouddd!  And tell the characters and then paint the scene!  And do all this stuff!’”  So her teacher said to her, “‘Ms. Parks, have you ever thought about writing for the theatre?’  And gave me that look . . . [.]  I started writing for the theatre that day, that very day.”  After Mount Holyoke, the young writer studied acting for a year at the Drama Studio London in order to understand the stage better.  Since her stage début (The Sinner's Place, written at Mount Holyoke in 1984, while she was still a student), Parks (whose given name is spelled with a ‘z’ due to a misprint in an early show flyer—which she just kept) has so far written 18 plays (plus a revision of the book for George and Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward’s Porgy and Bess, but not counting all 365 plays of 2006-07’s 365 Days/365 Plays), two screenplays, a novel, and numerous essays; she has several projects in the works, according to her own account, including a series for Amazon and a musicalization of the 1972 Jamaican reggae film, The Harder They Come, for the stage.  She continues (since 2011) weekly to perform (and live-stream) Watch Me Work, a meditation on the artistic process and an actual work session during which Parks works on her latest project in the lobby of the Joseph Papp Public Theater before a live audience who get to ask questions during the last 15 minutes of the piece. 

In 2001, Parks received a MacArthur Fellowship (the “genius grant”) and the following year became the first African-American woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for her play Topdog/Underdog(Public Theater, 2001; Broadway, 2002).  Topdog/Underdog also won the 2002 Drama Desk Award and the 2002 Outer Critics Circle John Gassner Playwriting Award and was nominated for a best-play Tony; Parks was nominated for two additional Pulitzers: in 2000 for In the Blood and in 2015 for Father Comes Home from the Wars (Parts 1, 2, 3).  Off-Broadway, the playwright received a nomination for the 2015 Lucille Lortel Award for Outstanding Play for Father Comes Home and won the 1995-1996 OBIE Award for Playwriting for Venus.  (Venus, which I saw at the Public in 1996 before I wrote regular reports, will be seen at Signature in the spring of 2017.  I also saw the Broadway production of Topdog, but there’s no report on that, either.)  To date, the dramatist has garnered over a dozen awards, honors, and nominations during her career, including the Academy of Achievement Golden Plate Award (2007), the NAACP Theatre Award for Ray Charles Live! (2008), and the Edward M. Kennedy Prize for Drama Inspired by American History for Father Comes Home (2015).  Parks teaches playwriting at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in the Rita & Burton Goldberg Department of Dramatic Writing and is the first holder of the Master Writer Chair at the Public Theater in New York City. 

Parks loved to write even as a child, though she points out that no one in her family was a writer; her brother and sister would be playing outside, she recounts, while she’d be hanging out inside, “writing my novel.”  She says she doesn’t write so much because she has something she has to say (though from the evidence of her plays I’d dispute that as a categorical denial), but rather because the act of writing “is so . . . like it’s a funnel.  And it pulls my energy.”  When she’s inspired, she says to herself, “‘Wow, I just gahh, oh yo, I gotta write this!’  Because there’s a funnel of energy, a cone of energy that’s like pulling me toward it.” 

The Death of the Last Black Man, says Parks, is

about a man and his wife, and the man is dying. . . .  This man is dead and his wife is basically trying to find his final resting place.  There’s a reoccurring question in the play: “Where’s he gonna go now that he done dieded?”  And what they find at the end is that his final resting place is a play called The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World.  It’s like a funeral mass in a way.

This is where the lines from Kaufman’s poem apply (“When I die, / I won’t stay / Dead”).  The figure around whom the play revolves, Black Man With Watermelon, essentially the title character insofar as Last Black Man has one, suffers serial deaths throughout history; on stage he’s hanged/strangled and electrocuted.  The Black Woman With Fried Drumstick, the black man’s partner, describes his death(s):

Yesterday today next summer tomorrow just uh moment uhgoh in 1317 dieded thuh last black man in thuh whole entire world.  Uh!  Oh.  Don’t be uhlarmed.  Do not be afeared.  It was painless.  Uh painless passin.  He falls twenty-three floors to his death.

Just as the black man’s life has been erased from the public and historical record, his contributions discounted and ignored, his death(s) is (are) deemed inconsequential. 

But as far as the dramaturgy goes, the author suggests that we “think of jazz music first of all, think of like free jazz—it moves like that.  It’s not like a tidy, well-made play that we’re accustomed to seeing in traditional theatre.  Think of poet’s theatre, slam poetry, hiphop, like a poetry slam.”  The jazz medium “dovetails very much with current language today.  This street language, urban language, creative language that we use.”  It’s not just in the form, however, where Last Black Man resonates, but in its content as well—which is why I suspect that Parks is being modest when she says she doesn’t write because she has something to say.  (The writer’s said that she considers form and content the same thing.)  The playwright continues with her explanation of Last Black Man:

But it’s also dovetailing with some of the current events, the difficult current events that are going on in our country today.  They weren’t so apparent and on the surface back in 1990.  It was always there, but now it’s kind of on everybody’s Twitter feed. Revisiting this play now felt like, “Wow this is going to be cool, there’s more to this than I remember.  There’s a lot to this.”  It felt very current, it felt like I’d written it a couple of years ago.

Some of the lines in the play seemed so current, I wondered if Parks had done some revising for the Signature remount, but that’s apparently not the case:

Because there’s this part in the play, this thing where the man is talking about how he can’t breathe.  There’s a rope around his neck and he’s dying yet another death, and he says, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.”  And I’m just like, “oh, that sounds familiar . . . [.]”

The words “I can’t breathe” clearly echo the 2014 death of Eric Garner on Staten Island at the hands of New York City police who placed him in a choke hold.  No one who hears the lines today can miss the reference, even if Parks wrote them in 1989.  The appearance of Black Man With Watermelon with a noose around his neck, however, may be less obvious in its contemporary allusion. (Of course, the image of lynchings during the Jim Crow era, which is what Parks doubtlessly had in mind in 1989, is unambiguous.  To be sure this allusion is clear, set designer Hernandez dominated the sage with a huge tree branch running diagonally from the down right floor level to the up left fly space.  It’s virtually the only scenery in the Signature revival of Last Black Man.)   In 2007, there was a well-publicized incident on the campus of Columbia University in New York in which a noose was found hanging on the office doorknob of an African-American faculty member; and last year, a student hung a noose from a tree in front of the student center at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina.  The noose, like the burning cross and the Ku Klux Klan hood, remains a potent symbol of intimidation and subjugation of African Americans and a tool of rendering black Americans non-persons, and many other incidents in the past dozen years have made the news.

There are also frequent references to Black Man’s hands being bound, which call to mind not only the leather straps used to secure the hands of a condemned man in an electric chair, which figures prominently in Last Black Man, or the rope with which a black man’s hands were bound behind him when he was lynched, but also slave shackles and, with a current connection, police handcuffs—such as those which Freddie Gray was wearing while in custody when he died in the back of the police van in Baltimore last year.

Of course, the very theme of The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World, the repeated and serial deaths suffered by African Americans, their apparent expendability both in the historical record and in life itself, is one of the most current topics in our society right now.  It’s Sanford, Florida (the figure And Bigger And Bigger And Bigger, an incarnation of Bigger Thomas from Richard Wright’s Native Son—and Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son—but also a reflection of the white fear of the big, strong black “buck,” wears a black hoodie, a design element that points to the 21s century); Ferguson; Cleveland; Baltimore; Staten Island; and other cities where unarmed black people, including several women, were killed by police or other authorities—or in the case of Charlotte, a homegrown terrorist.  It’s  Back Lives Matter. 

Even a repeated line by Black Man With Watermelon has resonance that probably didn’t ring with an audience in 1990: “The black man moves his hands.”  What resonated now, at least for me, is the implication that this action is the excuse police officers have used for those shootings of unarmed black men: they were reaching for something presumed to be a gun.  It’s not what Parks intended the words to mean, but that’s what I heard. 

In a “Playwright Letter” published in Signature’s Study Guide for The Death of Last Black Man, Parks even asks, “Are there any things going on stage that reminded you of current events?”  Isn’t that what good plays, good art, does?  It refers to our lives today even if the play was written years, decades, even centuries ago.  I don’t think you can legitimately dismiss a play that can do that.  Not if you’re honest . . . and paying attention.  (Sorry, Diana.)  And I also don’t think you can take refuge in a theater where that kind of play is on stage.  That’s not a safe, comfortable, or unchallenging place.  And it never should be.  (Sorry, Donald.)

Actually, I’m not in the least sorry.  It’s what I love about theater and art.  It’s why I go to the theater and art museums, and read books and essays.  It’s why I have this blog.  And it’s why I’m a First Amendment absolutist.  But that’s an argument for another day.

The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World is a peculiar play, to say the least.  I can’t do a standard description and evaluation, so I’ll sketch it out very broadly and say only that I found it exhilarating as a theater piece.  (To quote the reviewer of another revival some years ago, “To call ‘Death’ a play is like calling a Jackson Pollock painting a landscape.”)  The stage of the little Griffin Theatre is raked and at preset, there’s no curtain.  As I noted earlier, the main set piece of Hernandez’s scenic design is the huge tree limb that bisects the stage.  A vintage wooden electric chair sits up left beneath the branch.  A hangman’s noose drops from the branch ominously.  Yi Zhao’s lighting is stark, as if the sun were directly overhead; nothing is obscured—or softened—by shadow. The floor of the sloped portion of the stage is covered with sand or loose dirt, like a huge sandbox or parched landscape—reminiscent, perhaps, of the Dust Bowl of the 1930s; below this is a narrow strip of level stage at the front of the playing area.  Two chairs are down front, slightly right of center; in the one farther right sits Black Man With Watermelon (Daniel J. Watts), dressed in coveralls like a sharecropper of the ’30s, barefoot and holding an immense green watermelon in his lap.  He looks dead.  In a rocking chair to his left sits Black Woman With Fried Drumstick (Roslyn Ruff), dressed in a work shift of the same period as her counterpart.  She wears a knotted kerchief on her head “Aunt Jemima” style.

The performance begins with what Parks labels in the script an Overture, like a symphony or musical theater, and all the figures of the play identify themselves themselves and preview a little of their signature lines we’ll be hearing more of later: Lots of Grease and Lots of Pork (Jamar Williams), Queen-Then-Pharaoh Hatshepsut (Amelia Workman), And Bigger and Bigger and Bigger (Reynaldo Piniella), Prunes and Prisms (Mirirai Sithole), Ham (Patrena Murray), Voice on Thuh Tee V (William DeMeritt), Old Man River Jordan (Julian Rozzell), Yes and Greens Black-Eyed Peas Cornbread (Nike Kadri), and Before Columbus (David Ryan Smith).  (Each of these figures, as suggested by their names, is an archetype of some aspect of lost black history, black stereotyping, and black pop-culture imagery and there’s so much to say about them that it just won’t fit here.)  They move in highly rhythmic choreography from Raja Feather Kelly, clothed in evocatively stylized costumes by Montana Blanco (one stand-out example: DeMeritt as “Broad Caster,” the TV news anchor, is dressed to look like Malcolm X) as they speak Parks’s idiosyncratic vernacular poetry based on stereotypical (and exaggerated) black English, a travesty of 19th- and early 20th-century minstrelsy.  The New York Times’ Ben Brantley wrote that Parks’s words “suggest tragedy told as a joke.”

It’s not visible (or audible) in the performance, but Last Black Man proceeds not by traditional scenes, but what Parks calls panels and choruses, each of which is a Rep & Rev of the one that went before.  Thus, the playwright deconstructs and then reconstructs the story of black people in America, showing both how they’ve been portrayed in popular culture and how absurd that portrayal has been.  Even as the panels repeat themselves in slightly altered ways, the figures, especially Black Man, resist the prescribed roles—Black Man refuses to stay dead, after all—and Parks resists a conclusive ending.  (Black Man’s repeated dying and returning surely suggests Jesus Christ, especially since Parks, who went to a Catholic prep school for high school, equates the play’s panels with the Stations of the Cross.)  The last line, “Hold it. Hold it.  Hold it.  Hold it.  Hold it.  Hold it.  Hold it,” plays as if all the figures don’t accept the final action—the death yet again of the last black man—and are about to rewind and go again.  Will it break the cycle and change this time?  Or will it play out yet again in the same way?  We don’t know. 

Even at only an hour and a quarter, Last Black Man is so dense and packed full of shiny moments of theater, meaning, symbolism, imagery, wisdom, and admonition that I can’t come near doing it justice in a blog report—even one that’s bound to go long.  I’ll add, too, that it stayed with me for weeks after I saw it, leaving me to go over it again and again in my mind and continue to try to sort it out long after I left the theater.  I can’t even do right by the excellent production here; the kaleidoscope of staging, performance, design, and language often left me in sensory overload—and I mean that in the best possible way.  (The best way to experience this play is to see it once and just let the presentation wash over you like some kind of hyper-aroma therapy, and then go back again, maybe a few days or a week later, and try to observe the details.)  So, in lieu of assessing the performances and the tech as I usually do, let me just capsulize: the acting ensemble was startling from first to last (Variety’s Frank Rizzo proclaimed the cast “charismatic”), Blain-Cruz guided them superbly and imaginatively at every turn, and the designers pulled out all the stops and made a visually dazzling show that paralleled both the acting and the writing.  What’s more, it all worked together like a perfect symbiosis.  The Death of the Last Black Man may not be a play in the conventional sense—but it damn sure is theater!

As of 30 November, Show-Score has surveyed 25 reviews for an average score of 75.  The tally included 76% positive notices (high score: 95 – websites Theatre is Easy and Front Row Center; four 90’s), 4% negative (low score: 35 - Hollywood Reporter), and 20% mixed.  (My round-up includes 19 reviews.)

Joe Dziemianowicz of New York’s Daily News characterized Signature’s Last Black Man as “bold and striking, but frustrating,” explaining, “One is left to grapple and wonder, What's going on?”  The Newsman added, “Then again, maybe that’s [Parks’s] point.”  In Long Island’s Newsday, Linda Winer’s “Bottom Line” was: “Tough, prescient Parks revival—historical pageant and poetry slam.”  On the evidence of Last Black Man, she called Parks “uncompromising, strenuous and stylistically daring,” adding, “She also was eerily prophetic.”  Dubbing the STC revival “expert,” thanks to director Blain-Cruz’s “self-mocking and serious production, as much of an ordeal as an enchantment.”

Calling the play “dark and forbidding,” the Times’ Brantley wrote that the STC revival of Parks’s “phantasmagorical theater piece” is “a sepulchral parade of images:  Saying that the play “sometimes feels like a senior semiotics project,” Brantley described it as a “combination of willful opacity and obvious symbolism” which “can feel tedious if you strain to make sense of it.”   His suggestion was to “give yourself over to the sensory flow of Ms. Blain-Cruz’s production” so that “the play acquires the eerie inevitability of a fever dream from which there is truly no waking.”  The Timesmanreported that Blain-Cruz’s staging is “hypnotic,” Blanco’s “bright, cartoonish” costumes “might have stepped out of a child’s illustrated history book from the mid-20th-century,” and Hernandez’s set is a “shadowland” lit by Zhao “with the dark starkness of a bad dream.”

The Death of the Last Black Man“feels like a bad dream,” declared Max McGuinness in the U.S. edition of the Financial Times.  “Frequently it’s difficult to make out quite what is going on,” McGuinness continued, but then added, “And yet certain grim themes come into sharper relief.”  “Under Lileana Blain-Cruz’s precise direction,” the FT reviewer reported, the actors “bring that dark vision to haunting life” with “exquisitely restrained movement.”  McGuinness suggested “a little more variety” in the cast’s delivery, and he found too much monologue over dialogue, “but all this is never less than engaging,” he concluded.  His final judgement was: “This revival offers a powerful tonic at a time when America’s divisions seem starker than ever.”  In the New Yorker, Hilton Als characterized Last Black Man as an “exceptional production” directed by a “great new talent.”

In the Village Voice, Miriam Felton-Dansky called STC’s Last Black Man “an exquisite production” of “a surreal, poetic meditation” in which “[h]istory repeats itself . . . directly—and more heartbreakingly.”  While Last Black Man “evoke[s] music and painting more than drama, the play riffs on language and remixes racial stereotypes with boldness and grace,” observed Felton-Dansky, “creating an experience that is both revelatory and irresistibly watchable.”  The Voice reviewer asserted of the content of the play, “These histories are bleak, but watching Parks's play is not” as Parks transforms “history into disturbing, evocative ritual.”  “Sometimes, with a good-enough playwright, it’s good to have no idea what’s going on,” observed Jesse Green at the top of his New York magazine review.  “That was the case for me with Suzan-Lori Parks’s The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World.”  He confirmed that the Signature revival is “a stupendous staging” which has been “superbly directed” by Blain-Cruz “and designed” by Hernandez, Blanco, and Zhao.  Green concluded that “it may not be pretty, or even coherent, but it’s beautiful.”

Surreal doesn’t begin to describe watching Suzan-Lori Parks’s postmodern vaudeville of African-American stereotypes the day after Trump was elected,” declared David Cote in Time Out New York.. The man from TONY called the play a “jazzy, poetic fever dream” which warps “temporality and dialect to create music and noise.”  Cote warned that Last Black Man, ”a jagged, angry, weird text,” “is not an easy play to dissect or digest,” but director Blain-Cruz “stages it in high style, with a skin-prickling soundscape by Palmer Hefferan . . . and a raft of brave in-your-face performances.”  Frank Scheck of the Hollywood Reporter lamented in his “Bottom Line,” “Despite an excellent production, this frustratingly oblique and elliptical play never comes into focus.”  He explained that he had resorted to consulting the text to “decipher” the play, but he acknowledged, “Sadly, even going to the printed page left me flummoxed.”  The HR reviewer proclaimed, “Dense, abstruse and elliptical, the piece is virtually incomprehensible,” though he allows that “theatergoers who prefer [Coleman’s style of free] jazz . . . may be more receptive to its challenges.”  The “endless repetition” of the language may provide “the linguistic equivalent of jazz improvisations,” however, “a little of it goes a long way” and the play’s “70 minutes . . . feels like an eternity.”  Scheck declared that “when the evening is over you’ll be longing for regression therapy,” adding as a final complaint, ‘The energetic dance sequences, choreographed by Raja Feather Kelly and frequently performed to deafening electronic music, don't help.”  Although the cast “go through their demanding physical and verbal paces with admirable energy” and the “production elements are also first-rate,”  Scheck’s final assessment was that though “the piece works on a certain visceral level, its failure to communicate its intellectual themes in remotely coherent fashion diminishes its intended power.”

In Variety,Rizzo characterized Last Black Man as a “symbol-laden, language-rich, ritualistic play” with “many powerful images” that generate a “dramatic and haunting effect in this handsomely staged, evocative revival” at STC.  With her “stylized, fragmented and elliptical” language, Parks “weaves a woozy spell.”  Rizzo warned, “Your response to the work might parallel how you feel about a free-form jazz session, one filled with meditative riffs and theatrical flourishes.”  Even Blain-Cruz’s “hypnotic” direction and the “talented” acting company, however, have trouble creating “an emotional bond [that] lasts longer than an impulse.”  When they do, though, such as in the play’s final scene, “it’s a heartbreaking revelation.”  In the end, the Variety review-writer warned that “‘Death of the Last Black Man’ may still be challenging for some audiences as they try to make connections,” though “others will find the experience resonating down to their bones, rich with meaning of their own making.” 

Charles Nechamkin of Stage Buddy contended that, like the other actors in Last Black Man, “Black Man With Watermelon . . . doesn’t seem to understand the part he’s been cast in.”  Nechamkin also determined that “the audience struggles to break through these stereotypes to the people underneath” (apparently the reviewer took a survey) and even claimed that Parks “struggles with us.”  The play’s dialogue, said our Stage Buddy, is “a jumble of words: lyrical, emotional, tautological,” yet he labeled the show “compelling.”  The Signature revival is an “energetic production,” but “it’s the relationship between Black Man With Watermelon and Black Woman With Fried Drumstick . . . that anchors us and gives us something human to hold onto.”  The “other characters . . . aren’t characters at all, they’re refrains.”  It’s as if, said Nechamkin, we’d “stumbled upon the funeral procession of a stranger”: “We’re overwhelmed by a vague but familiar sense of loss.”  The SBreviewer posited, “It makes for a challenging and abstruse piece of theater, one that may not be satisfying to those seeking a neat and moralizing social drama,”  adding that “even the most patient and open-minded audience member will come away with more questions than answers.”  Still, he concluded, “Even so, there’s something valuable and vital here.”

On New York Theatre Guide, Margret Echeverria decided that Last Black Man “is one of these pieces of art” that “turn themselves over and over living actively in our memories for a very long time to reveal new truths, new beauty, new troublesome anomalies.”  Echeverria admitted, however, that she may not be “qualified to write this review” because she’s white and feels ignorant about much of the history in Parks’s play.  So she proceeded to describe “what I experienced.”  (I’ve done that, too, under similar circumstances.)  She praised the performances lavishly and reported that Blain-Cruz “directs an ensemble that pulls our back off our seat cushion to listen and watch closely.”  In the end, Echeverria confessed, “I enjoyed the whole painful thing” and “I turn it over and over again in my memory discovering more truths.”  Matthew Murray of Talkin’ Broadway called the Signature production of Last Black Man “a credible but not quite electrifying” revival of a “fascinating but scattershot play.”  The TB review-writer described Hernandez’s set as “bleak,” Blanco’s costumes as running “a wide fantasy gamut.” Zhao’s lights as “piercing,” and Hefferan’s sound as “eerie, cathedral-like.”  Though Murray found Parks’s point “powerful,” he felt “a little of it does go a long way,” and as short as it is, Last Black Man  “feels overlong” to the reviewer.  Murray felt that “this isn't a play that much develops or focuses on finely honing its statements,” and that “the archetypal characters” are limited in their scope.  He also deemed “the performances . . . closer to library-tome dusty than . . . theatrically vivid.” 

Jonathan Mandell, calling Last Black Man “striking,” dubbed Parks’s play “surreal and cryptic” on New York Theatre.  The play “offers searing imagery mixed with repetitive auditory gibberish,” said Mandell, suggesting that “for most of us, I suspect, the appeal of ‘Last Black Man’ rests largely with the production values.”  In CurtainUp, Elyse Sommer declared that Last Black Man represents “Parks at her most inaccessible,” naming among its negatives, “the hard to get a handle on . . . narrative with at times undecipherable dialogue.”  The “ensemble is excellent,” the costumes are “witty,” and the set is “simple but effective.”  Though well produced, felt Sommer, Blain-Cruz’s “handsome, music-infused production isn’t enough to offset the inaccessibility of the experience.”  She found the repeated aspects of the production “all too often come across as just plain repetitious,” but the “vivacious performances and stagingkeep the audience engaged—even when more than a little confused.”  Describing the play as a “free-form dramatic riff,”  Michael Dale  asserted on Broadway World that Blain-Cruz’s “mock-celebratory pageant-like production is performed by a fine ensemble whose tongues are nimbly set within their cheeks.”  Dale suggested that “the exact intention of the piece may not be easy to grasp, but it's still to be admired as an uninhibited abstract collage.” 

David Roberts of Theatre Reviews Limited reported (rather floridly) that Last Black Man “captures the attention of the audience and holds captive its aching heart and sin-sick soul for a powerfully unforgettable seventy minutes of cathartic ghoulish disquietude.”  At STC, Blain-Cruz’s direction is “meticulous,” Hernandez’s set  is “looming,” Blanco’s costumes are “surreal” and “compress history and its archetypes into a collage of color and form,” and Zhao’s lighting is “imaginative” and “brings [the play] into an alarmingly sharp focus that sears the memory of the audience.”  On TheaterMania, Hayley Levitt warned that Last Black Man “is not the mindless escapism audiences are likely to be craving right now.”  Levitt continued, “Instead of letting you off the hook, it holds your feet right to the fire” and “if you’re up for a mental and emotional challenge, Parks’ poetic one-act is worth meditating on at this unsettled social and political juncture.”  The TM reviewer likens Parks’s poetic monologues to “a spoken-word symphony” and the physical environment is enhanced by Hernandez’s “sparse set” and projection designer Hannah Wasileski’s “haunting shadows.”  She warned theatergoers, however, that “Parks’ text is doubly abstract and is likely to lose you along the way.”  Levitt found, though, that the “tender relationship between Watts and Ruff’s characters [Black Man and Black Woman] is the only accessible element of the play and succeeds in bringing out the human emotion that the other noncharacters lack.” 

Proclaiming Last Black Man “eerily prescient,” Jennifer Vanasco of WNYC, a National Public Radio station in New York City, calls it a “fever dream of a play” which “has a timeless quality.”  The production is “more like a dance piece or a symphony than a traditional narrative story.”  The times have caught up with Last Black Man, Vanasco asserted, making it seem more relevant today than in 1990; the WNYC reviewer stated, “Few works have ever seemed more relevant in our political moment—or as worth seeing.”


A Note About 'Hamilton'

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by Kirk Woodward

[I’m envious that Kirk has seen Hamilton because I haven’t yet.  On the other hand, though, I'm mighty glad, his having seen the hottest ticket in town, that he’s elected o share some of his conclusions with ROT and its readers.  I would feel that way even if Kirk had merely written an ordinary report on the performance as he’s done before on occasion (see “An American in Paris (Part 2),” 13 November 2015, and “Something Rotten!1,” 11 May 2016—not that they’re really ordinary).  But Kirk has carved out a notion concerning the hip-hop musical which he says he hasn’t seen covered before and has devoted “A Note About Hamilton” to discussing a fascinating angle on the play and the production.  In addition to being an analysis of one aspect of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, “Note” serves as a suggestion for playwrights of both musicals and straight plays about freedom of expressive form.

[While reading his article, a certain parallel to Kirk’s idea occurred to me, and following his discussion, I’ll have a few thoughts to express myself.  If you can manage to wait till then, consider Kirk Woodward’s thoughtful examination of one element of Hamilton, albeit a central one, and see what you think.]

One cold day in November 2015 I walked from work to the box office of the Broadway musical Hamilton and asked for the next available tickets. I saw the show on that next available date, October 12, 2016.

Eleven months isn’t all that long a time to wait to see a musical as good as Hamilton. It doesn’t need any more praise from me; it’s gotten plenty already. It opened at the Richard Rodgers Theatre on Broadway on August 6, 2015, after an initial sold out run at the Joseph Papp Public Theater (January 20–May 3,  2015), and seems likely to run forever. It has won an astonishing number of prizes, including eleven Tony Awards.

So the show doesn’t need any help from me, but I do have one observation I haven’t seen made elsewhere, although, considering the amount written about the show, it probably has been made someplace. It’s difficult to describe, but I think it’s worthwhile to consider.

As everyone knows, Hamilton uses hip hop musical styles, including extensive sections of rap music, as it tells the story of the life of Alexander Hamilton (1755-1804), the nation’s first Secretary of the Treasury. It’s not the first show to employ hip hop music; notably, Lin-Manuel Miranda (b. 1980), the author and composer of the musical Hamilton, used rap extensively in his score for the musical In the Heights, which ran successfully on Broadway from 2008 to 2011.

Rap, Salsa, and similar forms of music are appropriate musical forms for In the Heights, which takes place in the largely Latino-populated Washington Heights area of Manhattan. However, hip hop music was unknown during the lifetime of Alexander Hamilton, and for quite a while afterward. Why is its use in Hamiltonso successful?

One answer involves a theatrical phenomenon seldom seen and highly prized: the show is embodied in an approach so surprising and yet so appropriate that it might be described as a new theatrical language.

Instances of this phenomenon are few and far between. The first of which I am aware is Peter Brook’s unforgettable production of William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1970) for the Royal Shakespeare Company. Brook used international circus techniques to embody the magical elements of the play. (An example, a video of a few moments that I’ve remembered since I originally saw the production, can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-XdfK0ntHwn.)

Brook did not just come up with a “concept” for his production of the play; he embodied the play in an entirely new “world” with its own “language.” Although Shakespeare could not possibly have had Brook’s idea in mind, Brook’s production seemed integral to the play, as though the story could hardly exist without it.

The same is true of Hamilton. One can imagine other plays about the first Treasury Secretary’s life. In the musical, however, hip hop sensibility and Hamilton’s sensibility seem to be one and the same. That unity of presentation seems to me to be the factor that links an “interpreted” work like Brook’s Midsummer Night’s Dream and an “original” work like Hamilton: both seem to spring from the very essences of the characters, instead of being imposed on them.

Directors often come up with “concepts” for their productions. Frequently these end up being nothing much more than new settings for the plays. That is not what happens in Hamilton, which creates a whole “world” in which its story exists.

The difference between a “concept production” and a “new theatrical language” can be seen in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that Jon Jory directed at Actors Theatre of Louisville (ATL) in 1971, shortly after Brook’s production opened.

Whereas Brook invented, in effect, an entirely new context for Shakespeare’s play through the use of international circus techniques, Jory set his production in a circus. This kind of “concept,” described by the critic Eric Bentley as a “Bright Idea,” imposes a setting on a play, and seldom feels organic. Examples abound in opera, with, for example, Wagner’s Ring Cycle playing host to Nazis, hippies, industrialists, and so on.

Jory’s “concept” was imposed on Shakespeare’s play instead of seeming to inhabit it, and the result was comic, as when, in the first act, the lion tamer of the circus pleaded with the ringmaster to put his daughter to death for falling in love with a roustabout – surely a first in circus history.

Jory is a fine director, but at least with that production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream he fell into a trap that regularly presents itself to directors in our time – to do something to, in effect, “make a play interesting,” as though that were necessary for a play that is interesting, or possible to do with a play that is not.

Still, extraordinary artists do extraordinary things in theater. Julie Taymor (b. 1952) has demonstrated in her production of The Lion King, which opened on Broadway in 1997, that she is one of them. So is Peter Brook, and so without a doubt, at least in the case of Hamilton, is Lin-Manuel Miranda, a fact that may go a long way toward explaining that musical’s popularity.

[With regard to Kirk’s point, I agree: I don’t recall having read anyone else who’s made this observation about Hamilton.  I want to make a comment on what I think he’s saying, however—in particular about Miranda’s using ”an approach so surprising . . . that it might be described as a new theatrical language.”  

[I ran an article on ROTcalled “Similes, Metaphors—And The Stage” (18 September 2009) which I followed with the republication of a New York Times article by Robert Brustein called “Reworking the Classics: Homage or Ego Trip?” (6 November 1988, sec. 2 [“Arts and Leisure”]: 5, 16; posted on ROT on 10 March 2011) on which my post was based.  What Kirk describes as Miranda’s “surprising approach” for Hamilton is encompassed by what I contend Brustein means by theatrical metaphor.  Note particularly Kirk’s paragraph about the “world” Peter Brook created for Midsummer Night’s Dream and Brustein’s definition of theatrical metaphor.  (Brustein even uses Brook’s Midsummer as a prime example of metaphorical theater.)  “Poetic metaphor,” writes Brustein, “attempts to penetrate the mystery of a play in order to devise a poetic stage equivalent” through which to generate “provocative theatrical images . . . that are suggestive of the play rather than specific, reverberant rather than concrete.”

[Kirk’s dismissal of other “concepts” is what Brustein defines as “prosaic simile” productions (and what a teacher of mine at Rutgers disparaged as “Hamlet on roller skates.”)  Brustein asserts that simile directors “assume that because a play’s action is like something from a later period, its environment can be changed accordingly.”  Their “innovations are basically analogical—provid­ing at best a platform for ideas, at worst an occasion for pranks.”  Kirk’s subsequent comparison of “concept” and “new language” seems exactly parallel to Brustein’s distinction between “simile” and “metaphor”: Brustein writes that “simile productions are rarely as powerful as those that try to capture the imaginative life of a classic through radical leaps into its hidden, sometimes invisible, depths.”  (Kirk’s description of Jon Jory’s Midsummer at ATL reminds me of an ArturoUi directed by Carl Weber I saw at Washington, D.C.’s Arena Stage in 1974 that was also set in a circus.   I distinctly recall Givola—played by Stanley Anderson—in a swing.)

[Now, both Brustein’s and my articles are about adaptations and interpretations of classical plays, not original works, but I think the concept’s the same.  The difference between Miranda and the examples Kirk cites is that Brook and Jory were all (re)interpreting someone else’s existing work while Miranda’s creating his own with the “new language” built in.  Julie Taymor’s Lion King is a hybrid: she reinvented the Disney cartoon, but her stage version’s original; she even “reinvented” (that is, “Africanized”) the music.  Kirk’s view of Hamilton is an extension of Robert Brustein’s view of reinterpretations of classics: it’s an application of the same principle to original work.  If Tennessee Williams is right to call on playwrights to incorporate all the levers of playmaking into their scripts—this is his “plastic theater” concept, on which I blogged in “‘The Sculptural Drama’: Tennessee Williams’s Plastic Theater,” 9 May 2012—then Lin-Manuel Miranda’s on the same theatrical track as Peter Brook and the metaphorical auteur director—Brustein named other great examples: Vsevolod Meyerhold, Bertolt Brecht (also himself a playwright), Ingmar Bergman, Liviu Ciulei. Lucian Pintilie, and Andrei Serban (I would add filmmaker Akira Kurosawa on the basis of his Shakespearean adaptations Throne of Blood [Macbeth]and Ran [King Lear])—who, he explains, “‘authors’ the production much as the au­thor writes the text.”  Miranda—and others who may follow his example—simply integrated his stylistic metaphor, in this instance, the hip-hop medium for telling Alexander Hamilton’s story—into his dramaturgy, just as Williams proposed, instead of turning the task over to a director.] 

Visual & Spatial Structure In Theater And Dance

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[About five years ago, I posted a two-part article called “Theatrical Structure” (15 and 18 February 2011) which was my attempt to introduce and explain the analytical system of Michael Kirby (1931-97), a professor of mine at NYU who was a Structuralist.  He published “Manifesto of Structuralism” in The Drama Review in 1975 and taught a course in the Department of Performance Studies called Theatrical Structure, which I took.  My 2011 post is a description of Michael's analytical method, using Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead as a model.  In “Theatrical Structure,” I posit that Kirby’s Structural Theory is useful, both in analysis and in creation, to playwrights—Michael wrote Structuralist plays; I even did a staged reading of one—directors, designers, and teachers of theater and drama, not to mention practitioners of other disciplines such as dance,opera, vaudeville, and, even, circus.  As an illustration of the system’s applicability, below are two articles I wrote for Michael 33 years ago, one examining structure of a dance performance and the other looking at the performance structure (as distinguished from literary structure) of a play.  (For detailed explanations of some structural terminology, it’s easiest to refer to the 2011 post which includes definitions of all the structural devices Michael identified.)]

STRUCTURE IN DANCE: SIN CHA HONG’S LAUGHING STONE
7 December 1983

In The Art of Making Dances, Doris Humphrey identifies the ingredients of dance as a design in space, dynamics or energy flow, a rhythm, and a motivation. To make a dance from these elements, she says, “the creator must then know how to put the parts together . . . .”  The “technique for sewing them together” is the structure of the dance, and it’s what we see as spectators that unifies the performance in our minds so that we recognize it as a whole dance, and not a series of “broken fragments.”

So much for theory.  On the stage at La MaMa E.T.C. in the East Village, the performance of Sin Cha Hong’s Laughing Stone troupe in Here/Now (viewed Friday night, 2 December 1983) frequently proved structurally ambiguous.  This was most true if one attempted, as I did, to identify structural connections among the three pieces—“Two-in-One,” “Tripterous,” and the title piece, “Here/Now”—all of which were choreographed by Miss Hong.  Whereas individual dances evidenced several strong structural elements, those common to all three dances were few in number and minimal in effect.

Formally, the three pieces all seemed to fall into what Miss Humphrey calls “the ‘broken’ form, deliberately illogical, in which lack of continuity in idea is the point.”  She further describes this dance form as one in which “all the movement is disconnected from its natural sources.  Small parts of the body, such as hands and feet, move independently of the trunk and of each other.”  The result of this is to make structural analysis very difficult because the movements, gestures, and designs incorporated in the dances are purposely disorienting—even anti-structural.  Structure, nonetheless, exists, though perhaps in a vaguer manifestation than in more regular or classical choreography.

The areas of design, rhythm, and dynamics formed the structural common ground in the program.  Those few elements which connected the three separate pieces into a somewhat unified whole—identifying them as part of one choreographer’s oeuvre—occurred in these fields.

Though there were incidents of Contrasting rhythms, the dominant tempo of all Miss Hong’s pieces was slow—almost excruciatingly so.  Occasionally this alternated with a rapid, jiggling rhythm and, more frequently, near or absolute stillness—but the dancers always returned to a slow-motion walking rhythm in which the dynamics were smooth, rounded, often circular.  In fact, Miss Hong’s uses of sharp angles in gesture or movement were rare and stood out in Contrast when they occurred.

Circularity in one form or another was by far the most common technique in the design of the program.  Though the La MaMa performing space is rectangular—almost square—Miss Hong’s pieces were frequently lit by round pools of light from overhead spots.  (Lighting was by Blu, the professional name of William Lambert.)  One such pool was a perfect light circle in the center of the stage within which, in one significant example, Miss Hong performed her entire solo piece, “Here/Now,” which itself was circular in movement design.  Even though the light circle spread out ambiguously during the dance, Miss Hong never strayed beyond that circle’s original boundaries.

This light circle also occurred, less markedly and more briefly, in “Tripterous” and “Two-in-One.”  Even David Simons, the composer-musician for “Tripterous,” seated on his square rug down right, was lit by a perfect circle of light.

But circularity was also apparent in movement design as well.  I have already mentioned that Miss Hong moved in a circle in her solo, rotating as if around a fulcrum in the center of the light spot.  In “Tripterous,” the four dancers (Monique Ernst, Nadine Helstroffer, Phyllis Jacobs, and Margueritte Johnson) frequently formed a large circle, and individual circles occurred as performers in the three pieces danced in small circles or curled their bodies, carrying the smooth, curved dynamics to the extreme.

Lighting also played another structural part in unifying the performance.  All three numbers began and ended with the same lighting sequence.  The dancers entered in darkness and took positions to be “discovered” as the lights faded up slowly.  Movement started long before the lights were fully up, and stopped before the final slow fade-out was complete.  At the end of the piece the performers exited in darkness as they had entered.  (The only exception to this routine was the entrance of the performers in “Tripterous,” which was dimly lit, presumably to allow Mr. Simons to enter down left and cross to his rug down right without stepping on his instruments in the dark.) 

Aside from the rhythmical Continuity (i.e., exaggerated slowness), the most noticeable stylistic repetition in the program was the total lack of expression on the dancers’ faces.  Except in one phrase of “Tripterous” in which the quartet sat in a circle and laughed, their faces were mask-like and immobile.  Even in “Two-in-One” where the two dancers (Jacobs and Karen Cahoon) faced one another and interacted physically, there was no “eye contact” as we know it in theater—the pair’s facial expressions did not change in reaction to this interaction.  There was, therefore, no suggestion of emotional or psychological interaction and, consequently, no discernible Action, Aristotelian or Stanislavskian, indicated in the pieces.  Structurally, however, this absence was itself a Thematic and unifying device.

A Pattern of pairing was another unifying element in Miss Hong’s work at La MaMa.  An alteration of an action and its opposite recurred a number of times in the performance.  This was least obvious in the solo piece, where it only showed up as stretching upwards and then contracting back down again and as regularly reversing the direction of rotation.  In the other two pieces, however, there were many variations of this action-reaction routine: separation-coming together, stretching-collapsing and, most basic perhaps, movement-stillness.  (This last occurred as a true regular Pattern in “Two-in-One,” where the periods of movement and stillness each measured approximately 12 to 15 seconds during one segment.)  In addition to these paired physical Actions, there was an auditory pairing that occurred in all three pieces when the voices in “Two-in-One,” the music in “Tripterous” and the sound effects in “Here/Now” alternated with silent passages.

The last element I found among all three pieces was less dynamic than the others, but no less common.  In many of Miss Hong’s motionless passages (and a few of her very slow ones), each performer balanced on some part of her body—a knee, one leg, her toes, her buttocks, her head (in a three-point head-stand).  In her final solo piece, since Miss Hong never rose higher than to her knees, there were only a few instances of balancing, but in the first two pieces, as with the action-reaction pairing, balancing occurred often and in a variety of forms.

Overall, then, what sewed Sin Cha Hong’s program together structurally was to be found for the most part in the areas of spatial design, rhythm, and dynamics.  The program Here/Now was primarily circular, slow-paced, curved and smooth.  In the individual pieces there were other structural devices, such as Contrasting rhythms, Parallelism, Echo, and Expectancy, but they did not recur in all three dances or work structurally to unite them across the entire performance into a whole. 

*  *  *  *
VISUAL AND SPATIAL STRUCTURE IN THE MAIDS
23 November 1983
  
“Structure” is defined as “the arrangement or interrelation of all the parts of a whole.”  Performance structure, by extension, is the arrangement or interrelation of the parts of a theatrical production as perceived by the spectator.  If we restrict our perception to the visual or spatial structure of the piece, then the parts in whose arrangement and interrelation we are interested become limited to the nonverbal elements of the performance, specifically the stage setting, the costume and props, and the gestures and movements of the actors.  The arrangements and interrelations that are visually structural are those that, in the spectator’s mind, create a connection across not only time, but space, uniting two distinct points on the stage as well as two isolated moments in time.

In the White Light Productions presentation of Jean Genet’s The Maids at the New Vic Theatre on Second Avenue in the East Village (viewed Friday night, 18 November 1983), a number of visual connections were obvious from the moment we entered the auditorium.  The set (by Mike Vesea) was stylistically unified by both its color Theme—entirely black with white trim—and construction medium—wire mesh throughout, including walls, furniture and two hanging “mirrors.”  The Thematic color combination was repeated again in the costume (uncredited) of the maids Claire (Mim Solberg) and Solange (Shelley Volk).

Within the dichromatic set, movement, gesture, and pose created several striking connections.  (The staging was by Peter Scangarello.)  A physical Parallelism connected two areas of the stage when Claire was seated at the secretary down right using Madame’s cosmetics to apply her toilette, while Solange knelt up center left, behind the mesh “wall” that divided the set into two rooms, ritually lighting a pair of candles on either side of a statue of the Virgin Mary.  The two women moved their heads in unison: as Claire examined her face both right and left in the mirror, behind her, Solange lit the candles first right then left, turning her head in each direction as she did so.  The two women put on half-masks simultaneously, and as Claire rose from her seat, Solange raised her head from its bowed position.  Both actresses froze at that moment and held their poses for several seconds.

In more isolated instances, three repeated Actions connected moments across time.  The least frequent of these was a repeated gesture, or posture—standing, usually center stage, with arms stretched out to the sides.  Claire struck this pose early in the play, first when she demanded Madame’s dress from Solange, and shortly afterwards, standing down center in an attitude of ecstasy, stating that she was being carried away “By the devil!  He’s carrying me away in his fragrant arms.  He’s lifting me up, I leave the ground, I’m off . . .”  Much later in the play, after Madame (George Sutton) had returned and left, Claire, again as “Madame,” uses this stance when she was waiting for Solange to bring her her tea: “Madame must have her tea.”  Finally, in her closing monologue, Solange repeated the gesture, this time far up right at the window in the adjoining room.

The second visual Theme was a frequent juxtaposition of the women on stage in which one stood down center with the other (and, in one case two others) kneeling in front of her.  During Claire’s first masquerade as Madame, Solange, while dressing her sister in Madame’s purple gown, knelt to arrange the fall of the dress.  Later, after Solange had assumed the dominant role in the masquerade, she grabbed Claire around the neck and forced her sister to kneel in front of her.

During the second masquerade, Solange, using a wire whip, again forced Claire to her knees before her—this time onto all fours.  But the most striking variation of this repetition occurred while the maids were undressing Madame.  Both servants ended on their knees down center facing Madame standing up stage of them. 

The third and most pervasive blocking Theme in the production was the use of the two hanging wire mesh “mirrors.”  All of the characters spoke into the mirrors frequently, using them as a means of communication in three different ways.  In the two most direct ways in which the mirrors were used, characters talked to themselves or referred to someone not on stage.  In the most dynamic use of the mirrors, one character talked to another who was on stage by addressing her reflection in the mirror.  However it was used, the repeated business of talking into the mirror was common throughout the production, starting with Claire’s opening lines to Solange: “Those gloves!  Those eternal gloves!”  There were some dozen or more instances following this opening moment, involving all three characters in all three uses at one time or another.  Here is a sample of the more outstanding moments where the technique was used:
  
 CLAIRE (to Solange behind her): Am I to be at your mercy for having denounced Monsieur to the police, for having sold him? . . .

 CLAIRE (to Solange behind her): I see the marks of a slap, but now I’m more beautiful than ever! . . .  Danger is my halo, Claire, and you, you dwell in darkness . . . .

SOLANGE (referring to Madame who is not present): . . . . Look, just look how she suffers.  How she suffers in Beauty.  Grief transforms her, doesn’t I?  Beautifies her? . . .

CLAIRE (to Solange behind her): . . . . I’m capable of anything, you know.

MADAME (referring to Monsieur): . . . . I’d follow him from place to place, from prison to prison, on foot if need be, as far as the penal colony.

MADAME (to herself): . . . . And what about you, you fool, will you be beautiful enough to receive him?  No wrinkles, eh? . . .

MADAME (to Claire behind her): You’re trying to kill me with your tea and your flowers and your suggestions . . . .

CLAIRE (to Solange behind her): I said the insults!  Let them come, let them unfurl, let them drown me, for, as you well know, I loathe servants . . . .

SOLANGE (referring to Madame who has left):  . . . . What?  Oh, Madame needn’t feel sorry for me.  I’m Madame’s equal and I hold my head up high    . . . .

CLAIRE (to Solange behind her): You’re talking too much, my child.  Far too much.  Shut the window.  Draw the curtains.  Very good, Claire!

As we saw a clear example of visual Parallelism in the opening moment, the closing moment contained an instance of another visual structure.  Combining Memory and Expectancy, it harked back to the opening ritual Solange performed before the dialogue even started.  At the beginning of the second masquerade sequence, Solange knelt again at her “altar” and lit her candles.  This was immediately reminiscent of the opening sequence (Memory structure) and also led us to expect her to mask herself as she had done at the beginning in order to play “Claire” to Claire’s “Madame” (Expectancy structure).  In fact, Solange did not remask, but the Expectation was nonetheless strong, and, because she held the mask in her hand for several minutes after Claire’s masked re-entrance, we kept waiting for her to put it on and enter the game as she did in the first scene.

Though there appeared to be some significance to the use of color (the flowers, the purple gown, Solange’s red slip, and Madame’s brown suit and fur cape), it seemed more connected to the meaning than the structure of the production.  And though the masks themselves were indicative of Levels in the performance, that seemed to belong more to the realm of verbal structure than to the purely visual.  The masks in this case merely aided in distinguishing the Levels in acting style, but did not create those Levels themselves by visual means.  Aside from the two salient examples of nonthematic structure, the major structural dynamics in the production, then, were those of repeated gesture, pose and blocking, which, in the three types mentioned, gave a unified—or structured—style to the performance.

Berlin Memoir, Part 1

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[Back in 2005, after watching a TV broadcast of The Big Lift (Twentieth Century Fox, 1950), a movie about the Berlin Airlift (July 1948-September 1949),  I started a long e-mail narrative for my friend Kirk about my time as a Military Intelligence officer in West Berlin.  It began when I described some moments in the movie, shot on location in Berlin, that were very evocative of my life in Germany either in the early 1960s when I was a teenager (see my earlier memoir “An American Teen In Germany,” 9 and 12 March 2013) or my army years in Berlin in the early ’70s.  For some reason, Kirk shared my comments with his mother and she came back with some questions.  Answering them set me off between 13 and 17 December 2005 on a five-e-mail tear of reminiscences and anecdotes about my 2½ years at the forward outpost of the Cold War.  A little editing and reorganizing, and those messages turned into the stream-of-consciousness memoir that starts below.

[I’ve published sections of this narrative before on ROT, but I’ve found that excising those sections, which weren’t all contiguous in this text (I cherry-picked to create those other posts), is too difficult, so I’m going to allow myself to repeat some of what I’ve already posted on the blog.  I hope you’ll forgive me for my indulgence.  (For those ROTters who haven’t read the older Berlin stories, this complete telling will seem entirely new.  Aren’t you fortunate!)  Because of the length of this memoir, I’ll be publishing it in sections over some time.  I haven’t worked out a schedule for the eight sections, but I’ll be posting them about two or three weeks apart, possibly longer.]

I lived in Germany twice.  First, from 1962 to ’67, while my father was with the U.S. Information Agency there.  (Known abroad as the U.S. Information Service, USIA was the cultural propaganda agency of the foreign service.  There’s a brief history of USIA/USIS in part one of “An American Teen in Germany.”)  Then I was stationed in West Berlin from 1971 to ’74 while I was in the army.

After I graduated from high school in Switzerland, I returned to the States for college.  I took ROTC in college so I was commissioned a second lieutenant when I graduated, and I started active duty at Ft. Knox, Kentucky, on 5 December 1969.  I spent the next 18 months in one Army school or another.  My one and only duty station was West Berlin where I was a Military Intelligence officer from 29 July 1971 to 15 February 1974, when I left to get out of the service.  I was a counterintel agent at Berlin Station, the MI unit attached to Berlin Brigade; we were a unit of the 66th MI Group of the U.S. Army, Europe, whose HQ was in Munich. 

I firmly believe that my particular language studies and skills helped land me in Berlin instead of somewhere else, such as Vietnam.  First, language skills is one of the assets MI looked for, so it helped qualify me for my choice of branch assignment when I was commissioned.  Second, one of the courses I took in college was linguistics, the analytic study of language.  One of the things I learned in linguistics is how to piece together a grammar from fragments of the spoken language.  We did this as exercises several times in class, and it was part of the mid-term and final exams.  When I got to Ft. Knox, one of the battery of tests we all had to take was the ALAT, the Army Language Aptitude Test.  Lo and behold, the test was exactly that—a language whose grammar we had to glean from sentences, phrases, and words provided.  I maxed the test which meant I could choose any language training I wanted (except French and German, since I already offered the Army those) and I was assured of getting it. 

There was one slot available in a Russian course, and I grabbed it.  (If I hadn’t chosen a language, the Army, in its wisdom, was going to choose one for me.  They weren’t going to ignore my test score.  They would have sent me to Vietnamese classes, and that led to only one assignment.)  I spent almost a year at the Defense Language Institute, West Coast (DLIWC), at the Presidio of Monterey, California, studying Russian six hours a day from March 1970 to February ’71.  (Now that’sa cushy assignment!  A year in one of the most beautiful spots in the country with six hours’ of duty a day doing something that for me was not only easy, but fun!  Oh, please, don’t throw me into that briar patch!

Near the end of the Russian course, I took the language proficiency tests for German and French as well as Russian so they were all on my record.  (I had even gotten released from afternoon classes in my Russian course for the last few weeks so I could join a German class to brush up.)  Now, the fact is that Russian language was an asset in Vietnam—particularly for an MI officer—because of the Soviet presence there.  And French was an asset because many older Vietnamese still spoke French as a second language rather than English because Indo-China had been French colonies.  But German was the key—there’s only one obvious place in the whole world where we had troops where French, German, and Russian were all important skills: not just Germany, but specifically Berlin—a German city occupied by the four World War II allies: the American and the Brits (who speak English), the French, and the Soviets (who speak Russian).  Eh, voilà!

My fluency in German was the third reason my language studies helped me.  Since I had also lived in Germany for several years and knew the culture as well as the language, the Army wisely sent me to Berlin instead of Saigon.  (The common wisdom among GI’s was that 90% of all soldiers were malassigned.  Not me—I was just where I should have been!)  The one unpredictable element left was what would happen after 18 months, which was the standard tour for an officer in Berlin when I arrived.  (Ordinarily, if it hadn’t been for the war in Southeast Asia, Berlin was a three-year tour.)  After that, it was home leave and shipment to Vietnam.  I was counting on making myself so indispensable in Berlin that they’d keep me there rather than waste me in Southeast Asia.  I never had to test that plan, though: the Paris cease-fire was signed in January 1973.  But if I hadn’t been in Berlin to begin with, I can bet on where I’d have ended up.  I have no doubt that my acuity in French and German plus my study of Russian were the principal reasons I was in Berlin.

I watched an old flick I taped off TV one night in 2005.  It wasn’t a terribly remarkable movie as far as cinema goes, but it had some startling, small moments of reflected reality.  Not Realism—reality.  The movie was The Big Liftwith Montgomery Clift, released in 1950 about the 1948-49 Berlin Airlift.  It was shot in 1949 on location in Berlin (using both local German actors for the German roles and actual military personnel for all the Army and Air Force characters except Clift and Paul Douglas).  Most of the little things that hit me were about life in post-war Germany and occupied Berlin.  As odd as it may seem from a chronological perspective, life in Germany was not very different in the early ’60s when I was there as a kid than it was right after the war.  Less rubble, more prosperity (the Wirtschaftswunder, or Economic Miracle, was just beginning), but otherwise, it was still “post-war.”  (Of course, it was also the Federal Republic by then—no longer Allied occupied territory.)  Berlin, even in the ’70s, when I was there ten years further on, was still occupied and, except for new uniforms (and still less rubble), plus the addition of the Wall, things were much the same in many ways as they were right after the war ended.  It was a time warp, in both instances. 

For instance, one character in the film says he checked someone, a German citizen, out in “the Document Center” and found a record of her from the war years.  The Berlin Document Center was, in fact, the records repository of the Third Reich’s official files, and it was in the American Sector of Berlin so we ran it as a resource.  It was one of the agencies my MI unit always checked when we did background investigations of a German native who was old enough to have lived in the Third Reich.  (Mind you, this was all the official records, so a file might reveal only that someone was an old-age pensioner, had been a dues-paying member of the musicians guild, or had held a job as a schoolteacher in Frankfurt.  Only occasionally did a file check of the BDC reveal a criminal record or service in the SS or something nefarious.) 

Anyway, it’s just a passing mention of something actual, like the brief description the pilot of Clift’s plane gives of flying into Tempelhof AFB on their first flight in from Frankfurt.  The Soviets controlled the airspace over what was then their occupation zone of Germany (later the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany) and restricted Allied flights to a very narrow corridor.  Plus, Tempelhof was actually in downtown Berlin—you landed over city buildings, and the movie shows this, both from the air as the pilots approach, and from the city as planes land or take off practically outside apartment windows. 

(Tempelhof Airport, part of which was civilian and part a U.S. Air Force Base, was closed in 2008.  In my day, however, only specially certified pilots were allowed to fly in and out of Berlin.  One of these was the newly-appointed CO of Tempelhof, Col. Gail Halvorsen.  In 1948-49, Halvorsen had become a hero to the children of Berlin—by the ’70s, the adults running the city.  He became known as the Candy Bomber because he dropped Hershey bars from his plane whenever he flew over the city on his landing approach.  I knew Colonel Halvorsen—his daughter was a member of our theater group, which met at Tempelhof—and once when I took an Air Force hop into Berlin from Ramstein AFB, he piloted the plane.  My little brush with actual history.) 

What most often caught me in The Big Lift were the little bits of German culture and custom that are incorporated in the movie.  In one scene, set in the apartment of one of the German characters, a group of people are sitting and standing around late in the evening, drinking and noshing—a kind of impromptu celebration.  A neighbor comes in, a woman who lives in another apartment in the building.  She’s just arriving from work, and stops in to say hello.  When she arrives, she makes the rounds of all the guests, stopping at each person and shaking his or her hand and saying “Guten Abend.”  When she reaches the last person, she says she’s tired and off home to bed and immediately reverses her route, shaking all the same hands in reverse order, saying “Gute Nacht” as she works her way back out the door.  That’s soGerman—the formal, hand-shaking greeting of each and every person present, even though you don’t plan to stay, and then doing the exact same thing to say good night.  In Germany, at least back when I was living there—they may have caught the American casualness disease since my day—you couldn’t just stick your head in the door, wave, and say to everyone at once, “Hi.  And good night,” and then leave.  It couldn’t have been realer if it had been a documentary!  And there were other, briefer bits, too—like the vendor in the U-Bahn (subway) who sells loose cigarettes.  You could still buy individual cigarettes in much of Europe when I was in school there—a pack was relatively pricey even in the ’60s.

There was one other real note the movie struck—more in line with my old job in Berlin, like the reference to the BDC.  While he’s visiting a woman he had met, Clift meets a neighbor who stops in at the woman’s apartment.  They introduce themselves to one another and chit-chat briefly, then the man takes a seat by the window and takes out a pad and makes notes as planes land at the airport.  (I told you, the planes flew right by the windows!)  Clift asks the man what he’s doing.  “I’m a Russian spy,” he answers matter-of-factly.  Clift is taken aback slightly, as you might expect.  He asks if the man’s not afraid that Clift might report him.  “The Americans know I do this,” he states.  “And the Russians know that the Americans know.” 

He also explains that because the Russians don’t believe the newspaper announcements of the airlift’s progress—since the Soviets lie, they assume everyone else does, too—they insist on getting their own statistics.  Since the official reports are accurate—the U.S. wants everyone to know what they’re doing; it’s good propaganda—he tells Clift that he leaves out one or two flights, just so the Russians feel they’re getting “real” figures.  Later in the movie, he has stepped out of the living room briefly just as a plane comes in to land.  He sticks his head around the corner, then smiles at Clift and says, “That one was just American propaganda!”

Anyway, the man tells Clift that the Russians are spying on the Americans with 20,000 agents in Berlin, and the Americans are spying on the Russians, only with just 10,000 agents.  Both sides know that the other side is spying, and that each side also knows that the other side knows.  It’s all very absurd—but not inaccurate.  When I was in Berlin in the ’70s, not only were the Soviets (and the East Germans, of course) spying on us and we on them, but, of course, the French and British were also spying on the Soviets and vice versa.  But the Allies were spying on each other as well.  And there were spies in Berlin from Bulgaria, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and other Soviet Bloc countries (often as surrogates for the KGB or the GRU, the military intelligence organization), all spying on everyone else—including each other.  There were even Chinese spies operating in Berlin—a country with no obvious need to be in Berlin—as well as Israelis and others.   The Cold War was mighty crowded in Berlin!  The divided city was espionage-central in that era—the counterpart of, say, Lisbon in WWII.  It was like living in Casablanca

With the possible exception of Saigon, Cold War Berlin may have had more spies per capita than any other place on Earth (though the movie’s figures were greatly inflated, of course).  It certainly had spies from more countries and agencies than anywhere else.  (I’m sure there’s a comedy of errors in this somewhere!)  The first day I reported to our offices, which were in the HQ compound on Clayallee in the Dahlem section of the borough of Zehlendorf, which also housed both the Berlin Brigade command (one-star general), the military governor’s office (two-star general), and the Minister’s office—the highest-ranking diplomatic officer in Berlin, just below an ambassador—I noticed two black Russian sedans, Volgas or Moskviches, parked, one by each exit from the compound.  Aside from being black, the Soviet vehicles were very recognizable, looking as they did like something left over from the early ’50s.  I asked about them, and Lt. Chuck Lurey, my sponsor, the officer who was assigned to help me get acclimated, told me that they were almost always there, just watching, taking notes and probably photos—and that within an hour of my arrival, they knew my name, rank, and assignment.   By the same token, I later got info copies of the transcripts of the wiretaps from Potsdam, the Soviet military HQ in East Germany. 

MI personnel wore civilian clothes on duty and were all addressed as “Mr.” or “Miss” outside the office.  When we had to wear fatigues—for the firing range, say, or during an alert—we wore no branch or rank insignia, only the U.S. device.  We weren’t clandestine, but low-profile.  Our home addresses and phone numbers were unlisted in both the Berlin city and the Berlin Brigade directories, and our cars were all registered in Munich, not Berlin.  (In accordance with the Occupation Agreement among the four wartime allies, each power had free access to all sectors of Berlin.  Both official and unofficial personnel were permitted to travel throughout the city; the Western allies even encouraged this—with certain exceptions, as you’ll hear.) 

My musings on The Big Lift set me off remembering.  As you might imagine, my quarter-decade (sounds more impressive than two-and-a-half years) in Berlin included several unique events.  Being in MI only exacerbated that fact.  (It didn’t escape our attention that MIcould also stand for Mission: Impossible.  Our official title OTJ was Special Agent—so we used to hum Johnny Rivers’s 1965 hit “Secret Agent Man” at each other when we crossed paths out in the world.  I often felt like Agent 86—would you believe . . . ?)

Speaking of Get Smart: Would you believe we had a real-life Cone of Silence?  Of course, it wasn’t really a cone, and it didn’t descend from the ceiling over our Chief’s desk—but otherwise, it was the very same idea.  It was, to put it simply, a room suspended inside another room.  (I don’t know the technology—such as what did the suspending.  Probably classified.)  Over my years in Berlin, I had a couple of occasions when I had to brief the Berlin Brigade CO, the brigadier general who commanded the enhanced brigade stationed in the city.  (As I mentioned, there was also a major general who was the military governor, the U.S. Commander, Berlin, or USCOB.  I had to brief him, too, on occasion.) 

The Occupation Agreement limited the U.S. to one brigade of troops in Berlin, so we just created a brigade two or three times the size of an ordinary unit (1,500-3,200 soldiers)—a couple of extra infantry companies in each battalion and a couple of extra tank companies in the armor battalion (up to 6,000 troops)—which is why the CO was a brigadier general instead of just a colonel.  Aside from BB, there were other troops, like our unit, which were stationed in Berlin, plus the Air Force.  There may have been as many as 10,000 U.S. soldiers, airmen, and DAC’s (Department of the Army Civilians) in Berlin in my day, plus State Department personnel, agencies like the FBI and CIA, and employees of the EES (the European Exchange System, the operator of PX’s in USAREUR and BX’s in USAFE), and dependent schools, and so on.  Of those, maybe 2,000 were engaged in some kind of intelligence work.  

(I said earlier that there was a U.S. Mission in Berlin, our diplomatic office in the politically sensitive city.  I had little contact with the minister, but in early summer 1972, about a year after I arrived, President Nixon appointed a new ambassador to the Federal Republic.  He was Martin J. Hillenbrand who, from 1963 to ’67 had been Deputy Chief of Mission at the embassy in Bonn—my father’s boss.  The ambassador maintained an office at the Berlin mission and one afternoon when he was in the city, I paid Hillenbrand a visit there to say hello and reintroduce myself to him after a decade.)

Anyway, the first time I had to go to a briefing for the BB commander—I don’t remember which incident this was, but I can guess—it was in the secure room.  (It had a name, of course, but I can’t remember it.)  Someone described the room to me beforehand, so I sort of knew what it was, but as soon as I got there—you actually go through two doors, one for each “room”—all I could think of was the Cone of Silence.  It was all I could do to keep from cracking up during the briefing while I was waiting my turn.  You must picture this: I was the only lieutenant in the room, and if not the only junior officer, one of just one or two at most.  The rest were majors and up, including at least one bird colonel (more of him later), and, of course, the general.  I was also the only one who saw any humor in this proceeding.  Making reference to the Cone of Silence would not have been appreciated. 

By the way, at the start of The Big Lift, there’s a voice-over that explains how the Soviets started the blockade.  The VO describes how the crossing points (the famous Checkpoint Charlie, for instance) were all closed, the trains halted at the border of the Soviet Zone, and the Autobahns connecting Berlin to the Allied zones were closed to Allied traffic.  The airlift defeated this action and the Soviets never tried it again—but they did keep up the same tactics on a sporadic and short-term basis.  Every few months, they’d stop the supply trains from West Germany (formally, the Federal Republic of Germany, or FROG to the military; GI’s in Berlin called it The Zone, left over from the days of the Occupation) and keep them on a siding for hours, maybe a day.  On another occasion, they’d stop all the traffic on the Autobahn—official Allied traffic was restricted to one designated route through East Germany between Berlin and Helmstedt on the border—and back cars and trucks up at one or another of the checkpoints. 

Another thing the Soviets loved to do on the Autobahn was to make us deal with the East German guards instead of the Soviet ones.  They knew we weren’t supposed to do that before the U.S. recognized the German Democratic Republic (GDR or DDR) in September 1974—we were supposed to demand to see a Soviet official.  They knew there wasn’t anything we could really do out on the highway, though.  When they did that, we’d have to report the incident when we got to our destination, either in Berlin or Helmstedt.  (In the military, the GDR was officially called the Soviet Zone of Occupied Germany, or SZOG, before recognition.)  There were also occasional “incidents” at Checkpoints Alpha, Bravo, or Charlie, engineered as an excuse to close them for several hours.  (These were not the same as real incidents that also occurred at the checkpoints or elsewhere along the Wall every few weeks.  People were still trying to escape from the East even as late as the ’70s.  Every month or so, there were shots fired at one of the checkpoints; then everyone would scramble.)

Helmstedt, by the way, was a peculiar place in those days.  It was just a small university town—a large village, really, of about 28,000 inhabitants in the ’70s (fewer now)—but it happened to be situated right at the spot on the Autobahn designated as the official crossing point, Checkpoint Alpha, from West Germany into East Germany.  (Ordinary civilians could cross over at any number of border crossings, but official Allied personnel, both civilian and military, had to use this route.  Checkpoint Bravo was the other end of the highway where it crossed from East Germany into West Berlin, 110 miles from Helmstedt.  Charlie, of course, was the crossing point at Friedrichstrasse between the Berlins.)  As a result of its location, Helmstedt was the site not only of a large MP unit, a satellite of the Berlin Provost Marshall’s Office, but of a huge “listening post” run by the ASA—the Army Security Agency, the division of the army responsible for signals intelligence, or SIGINT, and electronic intelligence, or ELINT—otherwise known as electronic eavesdropping.  I was engaged in what was known as HUMINT, or human intelligence. 

Several of the enlisted GI’s from my Russian class in Monterey were stationed in Helmstedt.  They spent 24/7 eavesdropping in eight-hour shifts through immense antennas and other electronic listening gear on Russian and East German transmissions and telephone communications.  There were enough microwave transmitters and receivers on top of the compound to cook a large herd of cattle into roast beef!  But except for the ASA and the MP’s, the town was just this sleepy little village.  (I visited one of my former Russkie classmates, who had become a friend even though he was an EM.)  That’s probably all it is now.  It’s not even a border town anymore!

That route between the Zone and West Berlin was actually a series of three Autobahns, and it was very possible to go astray at the two interchanges and wander off into East Germany.  That, of course, was a major no-no.  Every week or so there’d be some problem with a GI getting lost on the road or having some other trouble with the East Germans or the Soviets on that highway and one of us would have to interview the guy, find out if there was any real security breach, and scare the hell out of him so he didn’t do it again.  The same was true for GI’s who went over to East Berlin and got into one kind of difficulty or another.  The Soviets loved to approach GI’s in the S-Bahn stations (the Berlin subway which was controlled by the East Germans; we had the U-Bahn system, and both traveled under the Wall) and try to get ID cards or some other low-level document.  (The S-Bahn, for Strassenbahn, was a sort of commuter rail system; the U-Bahn, for Untergrundbahn, was the ordinary subway system.  Both systems predated the war and, therefore, the Wall, and traversed the entire city.  The Occupation Agreement gave the Soviets control over the S-Bahn and the western allies control of the U-Bahn, hence the Cold War dichotomy.)

Since any contact by a GI with an East German or Soviet agent had to be reported, we were constantly interviewing soldiers who’d been approached.  Most soldiers stationed in Berlin knew better and walked away, then reported the incident when they got back to the West—but every now and then, when some unit in the Zone would send a busload of GI’s to Berlin for a “Berlin Orientation Tour,” there’d be some screw-up because they were never properly briefed before they were let loose in the city.  No one told them, for instance, that the S-Bahn was East German and that the big station, Friedrichstrasse, was under East Berlin and loaded with East German and Soviet agents just waiting to compromise them.  Their purpose wasn’t really to gain anything valuable—just to cause trouble.  The poor GI’s were usually scared shitless, often even before we talked to them.  (It was our job, aside from determining that there wasn’t any serious security problem, to scare them some more.  These talks were called SAEDA briefings—Subversion and Espionage Directed Against the Army; they were pretty much pro forma.)

I remember one interview very specifically because it involved a teenager, a high school boy whose dad was a GI in Berlin.  He’d driven into the Zone with a teacher—I forget why now, some perfectly innocent field trip—but on the way back into Berlin on the Autobahn, when they stopped at one of the checkpoints along the route, the kid decided to practice the Russian he’d been learning.  While the teacher was getting the papers attended to, the boy started a conversation with a Soviet guard and gave him a pack of American cigarettes.  (Russian cigarettes—papyrosi, to be precise—are disgusting things; American ones were a prized acquisition.)  Well, someone in another car at the checkpoint saw this exchange and reported it at the MP station at Checkpoint Bravo.  The MP’s immediately reported this to us, and we got the crossing lists—the document kept at each checkpoint on which the cars of all GI’s and civilian or military staff were registered as they passed through.  We ID’d the car in the report, found out who owned it, tracked down the teacher and ID’d the student, and called him in for a SAEDA talk.  I was the agent assigned to talk to the kid.  Man, he’d have liked to piss his pants, he was so scared.  No matter how much I assured him that nothing was going to happen, he was sure his father was going to get shipped home at the very least.  It was quickly obvious, of course, that nothing serious had happened—though contact with a Soviet guard was against regs for obvious reasons.  (It’s one of the excuses the Soviets would use to shut down the road and cause a diplomatic incident if they were in that mood at the time.  This isn’t paranoia—it’s realism.)  I did the Dutch Uncle routine—me being not much older than the kid was, you understand—and sent him home.  I sure wouldn’t have wanted that kid’s dreams that night!  (Me, I felt like a big shot!)

[This is the first installment of what will be a series of eight posts on my tour of duty as a Military Intelligence Special Agent in West Berlin.  The series will be posted irregularly every two or three weeks, so I can’t say now when Part 2 will appear, but I can tell you that it picks up with a little bit about what it was like to live in Cold War Berlin from the point of view of a GI.  I hope you’ll come back to ROT to read the rest of the series.] 

Michael Kaiser: Man of the Arts

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[Michael Kaiser, director of  the DeVos Institute of Arts Management at the University of Maryland, was, among other arts positions, president of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C.  Here are two pieces focusing on Kaiser and his multifarious expertise in the performing arts.  First is the transcript of an interview by Jeffrey Brown from the PBS NewsHour (aired on 25 March 2015) concerning Kaiser’s book, Curtains? The Future of the Arts in America (Brandeis University Press, 2015), which explores the serious problem facing the performing and visual arts in the era of the Internet and other electronic media.  This is obviously a serious matter for artists and others who make their lives in the arts, but it also ought to be of great concern to all of us. 

[The PBS interview is followed by a Washington Post article by Katherine Boyle from 2013 about Kaiser’s arts management organization, a program that promotes the training of arts administrators.  It’s not a field to which most of us give much attention, but arts administrators are the managers and operators of theater companies, performing arts centers, dance troupes, museums, and orchestras both large and small all across this country, and audiences, communities, artists, and boards of directors all depend on these executives to manage, program, and budget their organizations efficiently and enticingly so that they thrive and bring in audiences and viewers as well as donors.  As the saying goes, it’s often like herding cats, and yet most arts administrators learn their trade in the school of hard knocks—because there are few programs that train people in the field.  The DeVos Institute is the exception.]

 “HOW DO WE KEEP ARTS VITAL IN AN AGE OF ONLINE ENTERTAINMENT?”
by Jeffrey Brown

When was the last time you went to the theater, or watched a modern dance concert? Why are Americans less connected to the arts?  In his new book, Curtains? The Future of the Arts in America, Michael Kaiser, a former chief of the Kennedy Center, American Ballet Theatre and others, considers what arts organizations can do to thrive and survive. Kaiser discusses his book with Jeffrey Brown.

JUDY WOODRUFF: Now: The plot thickens for the arts in America.

Jeffrey Brown has our conversation for the NewsHour Bookshelf.

JEFFREY BROWN: Have you been to the theater lately, seen a modern dance concert? Have your children? Will those theater dance and other arts institutions survive?

The questions are at the heart of a new book with a question in its title, “Curtains?: The Future of the Arts in America.”

Author Michael Kaiser has headed many arts organizations, including the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, the American Ballet Theater and the Alvin Ailey dance troupe. He now heads the DeVos Institute of Arts Management at the University of Maryland.

And welcome to you.

What’s the—if I say, what’s the essential problem, is it economic, cultural? What is it? How do you sum it up?

MICHAEL KAISER, Author, “Curtains?: The Future of the Arts in America”: We have faced many challenges in the arts for many years, but more recently, so much entertainment and arts are available online or in movie theaters. And they are becoming very important competitors to those who present live performances in their theaters.

JEFFREY BROWN: Just a new world of technology and entertainment and choices?

MICHAEL KAISER: Just as newspapers are challenged by the existence of online news, so are theaters and opera companies and ballet companies, particularly those in midsized cities, competing with the very large, famous organizations whose art is now available to people electronically.

JEFFREY BROWN: You’re also writing though about a first generation of an audience that has grown up—I forget—you put it as without a kind of traditional arts education, without exposure to the arts in the media, for example?

MICHAEL KAISER: Absolutely.

We—I enjoyed a great arts education in the public school system when I was growing up, but children today, most children don’t. And so we have a generation of children who are coming out of high school without the kind of background in the arts that I had and that many of my peers had.

And as a result, as they age and as they would typically become our subscribers and donors and board members, we worry that they won’t be there for us and for the arts in the future.

JEFFREY BROWN: And, therefore, you write too many people feel like the arts are irrelevant to them.

It’s come to that. They just have no connection.

MICHAEL KAISER: Both because of the education, but also because of ticket pricing.

We used ticket prices to balance our budgets for so many years, our tickets have gotten so expensive, that many people have felt priced out of the market and thought the arts aren’t for them because they simply can’t afford it.

JEFFREY BROWN: One of the things that struck me in the book is something we talk about on this program a lot, is the gaps in American society, the income gap, the wealth gap. You’re talking about a kind of arts gap.

MICHAEL KAISER: I am.

JEFFREY BROWN: Arts for some, not for others.

MICHAEL KAISER: That’s true.

And we enjoyed over the last 50 years this explosion in arts accessibility to people all over America. We expect a theater company or a dance company or an opera company in our towns, even midsized towns, and I worry that that accessibility will change and diminish over the next 20 years.

JEFFREY BROWN: But can you give us some examples? What do you see around—you travel around the country a lot. Who is—where is this hitting? What kind of companies, for example, are being hit?

MICHAEL KAISER: It’s hitting orchestras first.

We read so many stories about orchestra union problems and union negotiation problems. That’s just a manifestation of a diminishment in ticket sales and in contributions. So when you look around the arts world right now, you see many, many organizations either doing less work or going away entirely.

This is true particularly of arts organizations of color, which is a very important part of our arts ecology that is starting to shrink.

JEFFREY BROWN: Which were fragile always. Right?

MICHAEL KAISER: Which is always fragile and is more fragile now.

And now we’re seeing it in midsized American cities and in their large classical organizations. And I worry that they will not be able to sustain themselves.

JEFFREY BROWN: But what you do see and you write about is—and again we see this in the rest of society—winners and losers.

MICHAEL KAISER: Absolutely.

JEFFREY BROWN: Some at the high end are going to do very well, you write, many at the low end, because they can get along basically on a shoestring. It’s the great middle.

MICHAEL KAISER: It’s the great middle that is at risk.

And the great middle is what made the arts accessible to all Americans over the last 50 years.

JEFFREY BROWN: So, what’s to be done?

MICHAEL KAISER: What’s to be done is arts organizations have to get more creative about the actual art they make.

I find that what happens is, so many boards and staffs feel the way you compete in this environment is to do what people want. So, we have lots of “Swan Lakes” and lots of “La Boheme”s.

But the problem is…

JEFFREY BROWN: Doesn’t that bring people into the theater?

MICHAEL KAISER: Well, not if there are great “Swan Lakes” and “La Boheme”s available in the movie theater, online from the Bolshoi or the Royal Opera House or La Scala.

Then you have to do something that’s really special. Artists have to get back to dreaming and stop planning their art to a budget. And an arts organization is doing great, including work consistently, even if it’s of modest size, it’s going to create and keep its audience and its donor base.

JEFFREY BROWN: But should arts organizations and arts managers be thinking of their institutions more as commodities, more as businesses or…

MICHAEL KAISER: We always had to think of ourselves as a business to the extent that we needed to balance our budgets to sustain ourselves.

But we have to think of ourselves more as creative enterprises who do really interesting work that engages our community. And those organizations that dream big and create amazing projects are going to do very, very well.

JEFFREY BROWN: I asked you for a negative example. Can you give me a positive example? Where are you seeing the kind of new thinking, or dreaming, I think is the way you put it?

MICHAEL KAISER: Sure.

The opera companies in Philadelphia, the opera company in Saint Louis both do great work and exciting work and interesting work. They get a lot of coverage. They’re both midsized art—opera companies. They’re not the size of the Metropolitan Operation or La Scala.

But they maintain the interest of their communities and their donor bases because their work is so interesting. So I think the organizations that do interesting work are the ones that are going to survive and compete well against online arts.

JEFFREY BROWN: And so your question in the title, “Curtains?” what’s—the answer is to be determined?

MICHAEL KAISER: To be determined, and I hope not.

(LAUGHTER)

JEFFREY BROWN: All right. On that, Michael Kaiser, thank you very much.

MICHAEL KAISER: Thank you.

*  *  *  *
“CURTAIN CALLING:
The Kennedy Center’s departing president will focus on another passion:
Teaching theart of arts management”
by Katherine Boyle

[The following article originally appeared in the Washington Post’s “Arts” section on4August 2013.]

Michael Kaiser starts his classes 10 minutes early, reminding students that they’re already late. Late in planning for a blockbuster ballet. Late to raise funds for a “Ring” cycle in 2017. Late in buffering their theaters and dance companies against volatile economic shifts. And though his students bring what seem to be insurmountable concerns — some worry that their governments will yank arts funding without warning — for the Kennedy Center president, it’s never too late for a turnaround.

The Kennedy Center hosted 36 international art managers for its annual month-long summer training program last month. The fellowship, now in its sixth year, brings together arts managers from 26 countries, including Argentina, Singapore and Pakistan. The intensive seminar is extra work for the Kennedy Center staff — all the top brass become teachers for the month of July — but for Kaiser, 59, teaching arts management is a labor of love, a passion he’ll devote his career to when he steps down as Kennedy Center president in December 2014.

“We spend so much money to train singers, dancers and painters, but we spend almost nothing to train and employ arts managers,” Kaiser says. “And as arts funding becomes more complicated, the need for these programs increases.”

Since his arrival at the Kennedy Center in 2001, Kaiser has led what could be called an overextended double life, managing the $200 million budget of the Kennedy Center while serving as president of the center’s institute for arts management. The institute began as Kaiser’s passion project but has since grown into the DeVos Institute of Arts Management, a $6-million-a-year nonprofit consulting practice that advises domestic arts groups and conducts seminars abroad. The project became the DeVos Institute in 2010, when Michigan philanthropists Betsy and Dick DeVos gave $22.5 million to ensure the growth of the arts training institute

Since then, the institute has flourished, providing seminars and at times, free arts management, as it did for 750 organizations after the 2008 financial crisis, despite its relatively small staff. Kaiser and his protege, DeVos director Brett Egan, 36, have taught and consulted in 50 states and more than 70 countries. Kaiser acts as the institute’s chief cultural diplomat, zipping to Ramallah, Muscat or Kampala for a few days at a time to teacharts management seminars. He also consults with institutions teetering on bankruptcy, taking on clients such as the Miami City Ballet and the Penumbra Theatre Company in St. Paul, Minn.

It’s a job he takes to naturally, glowing when he speaks of his work in Uganda or how his international fellows hosted festivals in Cairo during the Arab Spring. To some, it might seem as if Kaiser loves consulting more than his day job.

“I can’t say there’s one job I like more,” Kaiser said. “I’ll miss programming. But I know that I’m getting older. I can’t do both forever.”

There are few comparable figures in arts management, or even in the corporate world, who emulate what Kaiser is doing. For the director of a major performing arts center to spend his nights and weekends shaping the strategic plans of other institutions is rare, and perhaps it seems unrelated to the mission of a performing arts center president. Kaiser rejects this assumption, seeing the DeVos Institute as a central component of the Kennedy Center’s mission.

“It fits in perfectly with the nomenclature of the Kennedy Center, of being the nation’s performing arts center,” Kaiser said. “It’s one of the ways we’re known the best around the world, and it helps us with our international festivals.”

Indeed, the Kennedy Center’s 2009 festival “Arabesque: Arts of the Arab World” led to the partnership between the Royal Opera House in Muscat, Oman, and the Kennedy Center. Egan served as interim chief executive for a year when it opened in 2011.

Kaiser sees his arts management evangelizationas an important tool for cultural diplomacy, a mission that drives him to keep up a grueling schedule. How does one make the time for all this?

“I get up early and go to bed late, and I work seven days a week,” he quips.

The lessons of turnarounds

It’s arguable that the Kennedy Center never needed “the Turnaround King.” The Kennedy Center was not in crisis, although private fundraising has ballooned from a low of $27 million when Kaiser arrived to $80 million in 2013. The onetime opera singer began his management career in corporate consulting after receiving a master’s degree in management from MIT. He started his own consulting business for corporations and then switched to managing nonprofit arts organizations. In the ’90s, he was hired to direct the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, the American Ballet Theatre and the Kansas City Ballet, companies that were deeply in debt. In 1998, Kaiser became head of the Royal Opera House in London and raised $100 million in 18 months. (He says that the British press called him “The Crass American,” not “The Turnaround King,” since asking for donations was considered to be poor form at the time.)

“Arts institutions fail for the same reasons, everywhere,” Kaiser says, noting that while cultures and circumstances differ, failure almost always comes down to a lack of resources. “You’re so worried about money, instead of talking about the great exciting thing you can do, you talk about what you’re going to cut. It’s done with the best of intentions, but it just doesn’t work.”

Kaiser has since developed a framework called “The Cycle,” a model that explains the interplay among art, marketing and fundraising as a cycle that grows over time. Every summer, it’s the first class he teaches when the summer fellows arrive in Washington. He and Egan co-authored a book by the same name that comes out this month [The Cycle: A Practical Approach to Managing Arts Organizations (Brandeis University Press)]. Kaiser has also written two books on arts management [The Art of the Turnaround: Creating and Maintaining Healthy Arts Organizations (University Press of New England), 2008; Conversation Starters: Arts Management Topics for Today (DeVos Institute of Arts Management at the Kennedy Center), 2011], and he regularly blogs about management tips.

His books led Lourdes Lopez to seek him out last year when she was named artistic director of the Miami City Ballet. She entered an organization that, she euphemizes, “had some problems,” after the forced resignation of longtime director Edward Villella. The company was said to be on the verge of bankruptcy. It was a precarious situation for a ballet company that had always had a stellar national reputation. Lopez and the board hired Kaiser to act as an independent consultant for the troupe.

“He interviewed every department head, did research, looked at revenue,” Lopez said. “Almost like a surgeon, he dissected the organization and gave us a comprehensive plan. It was so clear, and he took the board through it page by page.”

As for Kaiser’s attention to the company, Lopez said she’d send e-mails at 5 a.m. and Kaiser would respond immediately, saying, “Call me.”

“My guess is he doesn’t sleep,” Lopez added.

After a year spent implementing the plan, which focused on community outreach and engagement, Lopez said the company’s finances are improving.

“You can’t accomplish it all, but it gave us benchmarks,” Lopez said. “We owe him a lot.”

Kaiser notes that the Kennedy Center is one of the few institutions that provide comprehensive consulting for arts organizations. Since the institute is housed under the nonprofit umbrella of the center, fees are reasonable when compared to for-profit consulting fees. Kaiser says clients pay between $10,000 and $100,000, depending: “We’re not out there racking up the big bucks,” he said.

The Kennedy Center also benefits from having a massive fundraising operation to offset the costs of consulting and Kaiser’s travel.

“It’s a savvy investor that understand the utility of what we do,” Egan said. “I call us the plumbing behind the beautiful house. It’s hard for some people to get excited about what we do until you see summer fellows go on to create programs in Cairo or Alexandra [sic] in the midst of a revolution. Then you feel you’ve made a contribution that really matters.”

Bloomberg Philanthropies is among the foundations that have invested in DeVos to bring arts management courses to 245 arts organizations in New York City. For some of its grant programs, it has required organizations and boards to attend seminars on executive management or audience development with Kaiser.

“We sought them out because we care about providing tools for long-term success,” said Anita Contini, program lead for art and culture at Bloomberg Philanthropies. “These organizations have so few resources. . . . They often don’t think about managing operations for the long term.”

One-man cultural diplomacy

Foggy Bottom has long been the international hub of town, with the State Department as one of its most famous tenants. But in recent years, with reduced federal funding for cultural diplomacy programs, the Kennedy Center has taken on a greater international role of its own making — one where Kaiser acts as chief diplomat. It’s a self-assigned role that arose because so few countries have the history of private arts philanthropy that the United States does. And with governments across Europe, including Britain and the Netherlands, slashing funding for major arts institutions, fundraising prowess has become a sought-after American export.

“You’re truly investing in the strength of other cultures and not asking for much in return,” Egan said of the DeVos Institute’s growing international work.

While many countries welcome Kaiser’s help — he routinely meets with prime ministers or heads of states on his tours — not every country has welcomed him with open arms. Of all the places Kaiser has visited, France is among the most skeptical of his fundraising strategy. Kaiser recalls giving a speech at a theater in Paris where he doled out his usual fundraising advice. An official from France’s Ministry of Culture complained that his speech was about how the United States is better than France.

“Of course, that’s not what I was saying,” Kaiser said.

Kaiser’s international schedule won’t be lightening up when the Kennedy Center’s new season begins. In September, he’s launching a program in Croatia to teach strategic planning. In November, he’ll do the same in Vietnam. Kaiser admits that the travel is grueling.

“I spend a lot of time in airports,” he says. “It’s not just a time challenge but an emotional challenge, in a way, to have the emotional energy for all these assignments.”

Kaiser, who has always maintained his steely, workaholic demeanor, is clearly attached to his students, bragging about their work as a proud mentor would. He still advises former fellows via e-mail, such as Patrick-Jude Oteh of Jos, Nigeria, who ran the town's only theater amid violent insurrections. He’s quick with the names of current and past fellows, asking probing questions of them in class and remembering their latest projects when he calls on them.

On a bookshelf behind his desk, he keeps a framed photo of himself in Cairo, standing with 140 arts managers from around the Arab world. Of all the turnaround coverage he’s ever received, his favorite piece chronicles his trip to Ramallah to meet with the director of Al-Kasaba theater.

“Some of these places are challenged locations,” he says. “But in each one, people were piling in to learn about arts management. It’s not us saying, ‘Come see American art.’ This is us saying, ‘We think your art is important.’ In my mind, it’s the best form of cultural diplomacy.”

[In addition to Curtains?, the book featured in the PBS interview at the top of this post, Kaiser is also the author of   Leading Roles: 50 Questions Every Arts Board Should Ask (Brandeis University Press; University Press of New England, 2010).]


"It's a Wonderful Life Was Based on a 'Christmas Card' Short Story by Philip Van Doren Stern"

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by Daven Hiskey

[A week or so ago, I watched the perennial Christmas-season feel-good movie It’s a Wonderful Life (RKO, 1946), one of director Frank Capra’s best known and, arguably, most beloved films.  Famously starring Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey, one of his most iconic roles, along with Donna Reed as his devoted wife, Mary; Thomas Mitchell as bumbling Uncle Billy; Lionel Barrymore as mean, old Mr. Potter; and, of course, Henry Travers as Angel Second Class Clarence, It’s a Wonderful Life is either your favorite holiday indulgence or, if you’re a Grinch, the bane of your Christmas season.  I fall into the former category—though my father used to say he hated the movie (I don’t believe he really did).  Of course, everyone knows Wonderful Life is a Christmas movie—but what I hadn’t noticed until I was sitting watching it this time around, is that it’s myChristmas movie.

[Here’s how I figure that bit of arrogant claim-laying.  The diegetic Christmas Eve of the movie is 1945, right after the end of World War II (VJ Day, 2 September 1945), but the movie had its official première on 21 December 1946, its New York City release date, just in time for Christmas that year.  (It opened in Los Angeles on 26 December, Boxing Day.)  As it happens, I was born on 25 December 1946.   (Yes, I just turned 70 yesterday.  Happy Birthday to me!)  So, the movie was essentially my birth announcement—or, looked at slightly differently, it was a gift to my mother on the occasion of the birth of her first son.  No wonder I’ve always had a soft spot for It’s a Wonderful Life!  (I can’t explain my dad’s expressed feelings about the movie.  I think he was just being contrarian.)    

[Something else I didn’t know about It’s a Wonderful Life was its origins.  I came across this article on the website Today I Found Out, posted by Daven Hiskey on23 December 2011 (http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2011/12/its-a-wonderful-life-was-based-on-a-christmas-card-short-story-by-philip-van-doren-stern.)  I figured the movie’s 70th Boxing Day would be a good time to repost “It’s a Wonderful Life Was Based on a ‘Christmas Card’ Short Storyby Philip Van Doren Stern.”  Enjoy!  ~Rick]

Today I found out It’s a Wonderful Life was based on a “Christmas Card” short story by Philip Van Doren Stern, which was originally sent out to around 200 of Stern’s friends and family in December of 1943.

The short story was called The Greatest Gift and was inspired by a dream Stern had one night in the 1930s.  Stern, already an accomplished author at this point, albeit a historical author, then proceeded to write the 4,000 word short story about a man named George who was going to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge, but was stopped when someone happened by and struck up a conversation with him.  The mysterious person eventually learns that George wishes he’d never been born and grants George his wish.  George soon discovers that no one he knows recognizes him and that many of the people he’d known were worse off in their lives because he had never existed.  Most prominent among these was his little brother who had drowned because he had not been there to save him.    George eventually gets the stranger to change everything back to the way it was and is now glad to be alive.

Stern initially sought to find a publisher for his short, 21 page story, but failed in this endeavor, so decided to make a “Christmas Card” style gift out of it and printed 200 copies which he sent out to friends and family in December of 1943.  This ended up being a gift that gave back, as the work eventually found its way into the hands of producer David Hempstead who worked for RKO Pictures.  RKO pictures then paid Stern $10,000 (around $124,000 today) for the motion picture rights to the story, just four months after Stern had sent it out.  Various adaptations were then written before the screenplay version of the story was sold to Frank Capra’s production company in 1945, also for $10,000.  Capra’s company subsequently adapted the story further and ultimately made it into It’s a Wonderful Life, which debuted in 1946.

Interestingly while the story was based on The Greatest Gift, the character of George Bailey was actually based partly on the founder of Bank of America, A.P. Giannini.  Giannini was also the inspiration for a similar character in Capra’s American Madness.  At the age of 14, Giannini left school and began working with his step father, Lorenzo Scatena, in the produce industry as a produce broker.  By the time he was 31, he was able to sell much of his interest in this company to his employees and had planned to retire.  However, one year later, he was asked to join the Columbus Savings & Loan Society, which was a small bank in North Beach, California.

Once he joined up, he found that almost nobody at the Savings & Loan, nor other banks, were willing to give loans to anyone but the rich or those owning businesses.  At first, Giannini attempted to convince the other directors at the Savings & Loan to start lending to working class citizens, to give them home and auto loans, among other things.  He felt that working class citizens, though lacking in assets to guarantee the loan against, were generally honest and would pay back their loans when they could.  Further, by loaning them money, it would allow working class citizens to better themselves in ways they would not have been able to do without the money lent to them, such as being able to buy a home or to start a new business.  He was never able to convince the other directors to begin lending to the working class.  So he raised funds to start his own bank, the Bank of Italy, which later became the Bank of America.

He then made a practice of not offering loans based on how much money or equity a person had, but based primarily on how he judged their character.  Within a year, Bank of Italy had over $700,000 in deposits from these working class individuals, which is somewhere around $15-$20 million today. By the middle of the 1920s, it had become the third largest bank in the United States.

Much like the fictitious George Bailey, Giannini kept little for himself through all this.  Despite that fact that the bank he started was worth billions at the time of his death, Giannini’s entire estate was valued at only $500,000 when he died at the age of 79 in 1949.  He avoided acquiring great wealth as he felt it would cause him to lose touch with the working class.  For much of his career, he refused pay for his work and when the board attempted to give him $1.5 million as a bonus one year, he gave it all away to the University of California stating “Money itch is a bad thing.  I never had that trouble.”

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Bonus Facts:

  • The Greatest Gift was eventually made into an actual published work in 1944, one year after Stern had sent it out as a Christmas present, being published in Reader’s Scope magazine.  One month later, it was also published in Good Housekeeping under the title “The Man Who Was Never Born”.  Stern also managed to get it published in book form around this time, with illustrations for the story done by Rafaello Busoni.
  • When the motion picture rights of the story were first sold to RKO, Cary Grant had been slated to play the lead role of George.  When Capra acquired the rights, Lionel Barrymore ended up being the one to convince Jimmy Stewart to take the part, even though he initially didn’t want it, as it was too soon after he had returned from WWII.
  • Jimmy Stewart rose to as high as a Two Star General in the U.S. military.  In August of 1943, he found himself with the 703rd Bombardment Squadron, initially as a first officer, and shortly thereafter as a Captain.  During combat operations over Germany, Stewart found himself promoted to the rank of Major.  Stewart participated in several counted and uncounted missions (on his orders) into Nazi occupied Europe, flying his B-24 in the lead position of his group in order to inspire his troops.
  • For his bravery during these missions, he twice received the Distinguished Flying Cross; three times received the Air Medal; and once received the Croix de Guerre from France.  This latter medal was an award given by France and Belgium to individuals allied with themselves who distinguished themselves with acts of heroism.
  • By July of 1944, Stewart was promoted chief of staff of the 2nd Combat Bombardment wing of the Eighth Air Force.  Shortly thereafter, he was promoted to the rank of colonel, becoming one of only a handful of American soldiers to ever rise from private to colonel within a four year span.
  • After the war, Stewart was an active part of the United States Air Force Reserve, serving as the Reserve commander of Dobbins Air Reserve Base.  On July 24, 1959, he attained the rank of brigadier general (one star general). He finally retired from the Air Force on May 31, 1968 after 27 years of service and was subsequently promoted to Major General (two star general).
  • It’s a Wonderful Life was the first film Jimmy Stewart did after serving in WWII.  It came at a time when he was strongly considering quitting acting, as he didn’t know if he’d be able to continue after his experiences in the war.
  • On January 5, 1992, It’s a Wonderful Life became the first American program ever to be broadcast on Russian television.  A translated version, courtesy of Stewart and Lomonosov Moscow State University, was broadcast to over 200 million Russians on that day.
  • It’s a Wonderful Life was largely considered a flop after it was released and, partially due to this film’s poor showing at the box office, Capra’s production company went bankrupt and Stewart began to further doubt his ability to act following the war.  However, thanks to being considered a Christmas movie (which Capra himself claimed to be a surprise to him, as he didn’t see it that way), the movie steadily gained momentum over the years and today is considered one of the great classics in movie history.  Stewart himself stated that It’s a Wonderful Life became his favorite of all the movies he had done in his career.
  • It’s a Wonderful Life cost $3.7 million to make (about $44 million today) and only took in $3.3 million in its initial run in theaters.  This made it good enough for only the 26th best (out of 400+) gross take of American movies in 1947.  Incidentally, it did beat out Miracle on 34th Street in 1947 for gross revenue, being one position ahead of it.
  • While initially a flop with the public, It’s a Wonderful Life was nominated for five academy awards, though didn’t win any.  Today, it is considered by the American Film Institute as one of the 100 greatest American films ever made.  They also have it as the number one most inspirational American film of all time.
  • In the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life where “Uncle Billy” is drunk and leaving the party at George’s house, the sound of him apparently running into some garbage cans and falling down is heard.  In actuality, one of the crew members accidentally dropped some equipment after Uncle Billy walked out of the shot.  Rather than break character, the actor who played Uncle Billy, Thomas Mitchell, shouted “I’m all right, I’m all right!” and Jimmy Stewart also played along.  The take was obviously the one that made it into the movie, despite the gaff.  The stagehand that dropped the equipment was given a $10 bonus.
  • Donna Reed really did manage to hit the window in the first take of the scene where she makes a wish and throws a rock at the window.  Originally, they had planned to have her throw it and then had a sharp shooter standing by to shoot the window at the appropriate moment, to make it appear the rock had broken it.  This turned out not to be necessary as Reed had quite the throwing arm. 
  • Donna Reed grew up on a farm and, on a bet from Lionel Barrymore, demonstrated how to milk a cow on the set of It’s a Wonderful Life.
  • Over his lifetime Philip Van Doren Stern published over 40 books, mostly historical and many on the Civil War, to which he became one of the nation’s leading scholars.
[Philip Van Doren Stern was born in 1900 in Wyalusing, Pennsylvania.  He grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and New Jersey, and graduated from Rutgers University (New Jersey’s state university in New Brunswick) in 1924.  A historian as wall as an author and editor, some of his 40 books were on the Civil War, works  for which he was well regarded by scholars.  Stern compiled and edited many collections and anthologies of short stories, picture books, and books on historical subjects.  Stern died at 83 in 1984 in Sarasota, Florida.

[A personal anecdote concerning one of the “Bonus Facts” appended above:  When I was living in Germany as a teenager in the early 1960s (see “An American Teen In Germany,” 9 and 12 March 2013), a story about Jimmy Stewart made the rounds in 1962 or thereabouts, even appearing in the Stars and Stripes, the newspaper published abroad by the U.S. military.  (Along with the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune, we read the Stars and Stripesdaily.)  He arrived in Spain and was in Madrid to do his month-long reserve duty  at Torrejon Air Base.  He pulled up to the five-star luxury Hotel Ritz and went to check in—but the Ritz had a strict policy of not accommodating actors, not even famous ones like Stewart.  So the world-renowned Hollywood star registered as Brigadier General James Stewart, U.S. Air Force Reserve, and was given a first-class reception by the hotel.]


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