A Comedy (of Sorts) Tonight

Lysistrata Jones at the Walter Kerr Theater

 

            Retellings of the old tales often work just because they aren’t yours.  With something that’s been proven to work—such as Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet—you can mess around with the characters, storyline, and setting without worrying that you’re setting yourself up to fail (a fact of life Laurents, Bernstein, and Sondheim took advantage of with their hit West Side Story).  It’s almost a guarantee that you’ll attract viewers solely based on the following the old story has accrued.  That’s the same reason you can’t list many musicals on Broadway today that aren’t taken from a tale from long (or not so long) ago: think Billy Elliot, Mary Poppins, The Addams Family, War Horse, and especially Godspell.  This must be the reason why writing team Douglas Carter Beane (Sister Act) and Lewis Flinn (The Little Dog Laughed) thought they could succeed with their new musical Lysistrata Jones, based on Aristophanes’s age-old tale of women withholding sex as a means of controlling their disobedient men.  Sadly, they were mistaken.

            Lysistrata Jones is unspeakably average.  Every action performed on the stage screams maximum effort, minimum result.  While I do pity Beane and Flinn for coming close to what legitimately could have been a good show, I’m not inclined to accept something as mundane as this basketball farce.  It wasn’t that it was bad, but that it wasn’t the opposite either.  Jones is the kind of show where you leave the theater indecisive, because it hasn’t given you anything to be excited about.

            And there’s another fault.  Jones has no pull.  There’s no massive, noticeable feature like Daniel Radcliffe in How to Succeed or even a composer descending into a previously unvisited realm that has become newly interesting to the composer’s fans, as was the case with Stephen Schwartz and his passion project Wicked.  Even the concept of the show is wholly uninteresting.  Taking the pacifistic attitudes of the original Lysistrata’s women and reapplying their anger to a college basketball losing streak is forced and unrealistic.  If anything it makes the heroine seem utterly controlling, a puppeteer in the wings so desperate for glory she’ll instill a school-wide dry spell just to see some personal victory.  As if this wasn’t enough, “Lyssie J” installs herself immediately as cheerleading captain, a position that isn’t exactly home to many protagonists in fiction or non.  The result is that both Lyssie and the show are entirely unlikeable, and even song-ending high notes every now and again or an Aretha-like narrator with a toga and feather boa can bring the audience’s attention past the initial disinterest.

            A show’s greatest enemy is clichés, and Jones is chock-full of the kind of oversights that would make a playwright wince in his seat.  The dumb blonde who leads the pack away from conformation and into the light of self-acceptance (Legally Blonde, Clueless, House Bunny), the suave basketball captain whose belief in his solid relationship causes him all kinds of trouble (High School Musical, Pleasantville, Teen Wolf), and of course, the nerd-gets-the-girl theme that for some reason tends to hang out around feel-good comedies like a mosquito at your Fourth of July picnic (I hope I don’t have to name anything for this one).  There’s no shortage of original moments, either, but they’re far out-weighed by painful and grossly self-referential mentions of Siri, the iPhone, SparkNotes, and enough other odd little “techie” outbursts to make one wonder if Beane and Flinn wrote the show as a response to “those darn kids with their machines!”

            I won’t lie, there were one or two places where I laughed.  During a scene in the basketball locker room when the team, the vast majority of which is white, address each other as if at a meeting of the Crips, the team’s only African-American member complains, “Guys, I am the only black man here! Why are you talking this way?” But I didn’t love.  I didn’t feel the Broadway in the air (not surprising, since the show was produced originally in a gym and does its best to make the stage look like one too).  People pay hundreds of dollars to see a Broadway show, and if it’s not good enough, I’m going to tell you it’s not good enough.  And Lyssie and her team are not good enough for me.  Sorry, Lysistrata, but hopefully your writers will live to “Fight! Fight! Fight!” another day.

The Ego and the Id

Freud's Last Session at New World Stages

         Do I expect too much of New World Stages?

            To any experienced in the theater, the preceding sentence may seem odd and misinformed.  New World Stages has no standing on Broadway.  In fact, the seven-theater establishment is housed in what was once an underground movie theater.  But the Stages have good judgment, after picking up revivals of Rent and Avenue Q, or so it would seem.  But when I went to see the longest running show Off-Broadway this season, New World Stages disappointed me.  They put on a play that was long, inane, and monotonous.  The show was wildly rambling and had little point, describing a fictional meeting between C.S. Lewis (Mark H. Dold), the deeply theist author of The Chronicles of Narnia, and Sigmund Freud (Martin Rayner), the atheist psychologist who managed to link sex to innumerable everyday activities.  To call the play well-developed would be similar in nature to calling Elton John a real man’s man.  It makes no sense to me, and lacks any semblance of a plot.  Sure, the play was complicated, and there were moments where I could detect some things that were meant to be humor, but all in all I was nothing if not a man whose time had been wasted. 

Now, to be fair, there are only two people in the play, and one, Martin Rayner, who usually plays the part of Freud, was absent, leaving dual understudy Tuck Milligan in his place.  Milligan was a boring and unpracticed actor, and the performance seemed to mostly consist of Mark H. Dold attempting to coax Milligan into entering the fun and games of the play’s intensiveness, such as it was.  The actors themselves didn’t seem like they actually liked the work they were performing.  I agree.  The play had all the drama of a fifth grade report on Freud plagiarized from a few of his better books.  Perhaps if I had seen the play with Rayner in the title role, I would have felt differently.  For some reason, though, I don’t think so.

One can’t fault the playwright, Mark St. Germain, for running with an intriguing idea.  In 1939, Freud met with a young professor in his new home of England.  St. Germain was interested in the possibility that this professor could have been C.S. Lewis.  He imagined that “the meeting between these two men [would be] timeless.” The problem with Mr. St. Germain is that he gets so into the idea of religion that he makes the play seem like an amateur debate over the legitimacy of the Catholic Church.  Forgive me for expecting more of two of the most brilliant writers of the twentieth century, but I believe that if Lewis and Freud did meet (unlikely, since Freud was, at the time, in the midst of spiraling into a deep, solitary depression that would cause his purposeful morphine overdose) their conversation would be much more engaging and much more entertaining.  St. Germain wasn’t up for a premise this bold.  Perhaps in the future he should remain in the realm of bedroom farces or, better yet, one-man shows.  St. Germain’s droning rhetoric would be perfect for a graying man reclining in a director’s chair as the audience succumbs to slumber.

In another place, during a different, less enjoyable season, Session would have impressed me further.  It was just that in one of my more respected Off-Broadway theaters, I wanted more than what I was given.  I craved a show that gave Freud all he deserved, and Lewis all the literary self-references he could possibly spout.  If I could sum up the faults of this show in one sentence, it would be this—It wasn’t enough.  Good enough? Maybe.  Not substantive enough? That could be it.  But the key word is enough.  Theater should exceed expectations, astound you in a part of your sub-conscious where before you had only stored dreary reflection.  Freud’s Last Session did not give me that.  It stayed firmly in reality, something the arts are meant to transcend.  Sorry, New World Stages, but one dud ain’t bad.  Maybe next time.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

White Christmas at the Paper Mill Playhouse

           Before the days of “alternative” musicals and their ilk, the geniuses at Tin Pan Alley turned out one hit after another on their lunch breaks, filling the world with what could only be considered brilliant musicals.  There was no such thing as a flop.  It was either good, or it never got written.

            This was in the days of Cole Porter, Rogers and Hammerstein, and, most relevant in this case, Irving Berlin, whose classics such as “Annie Get Your Gun” have lodged him in our memories as one of the greatest composers and lyricists ever born.  Now, at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn through December 24^th, one of his hits is being brought back to the public eye.  “White Christmas,” platform for memorable standards such as the title song and Berlin’s ode to the ivories, “I Love a Piano” (which opens the second act with unbelievable gusto), is a masterwork in any theater or on any screen.  The Paper Mill did it fair and perfect justice.           

            “White Christmas” is a timeless paradigm of the Christmas story—the story enveloped in warmth and gratitude towards all human beings, where lovers whisper to one another beneath the mistletoe and things all turn out all right because it’s Christmas, and it’s snowing.  Berlin set the bar for such musicals and even such stories, with his tale of retired soldiers, now song-and-dance men, who put on a show to save an inn overseen by their former general.  Though less powerful without the display of pure talent that came from Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby in the movie version, the songs remain beautiful and the lyrics achingly perfect.  Before the time of “Sunset Boulevard” and “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,” through this we can see that there were once real musicals where the sole purpose was to showcase human talent.  And that’s what White Christmas is, at the Paper Mill or anywhere else, a true barrage of talent.  The storyline really doesn’t matter.  What does is following the individual elements through to their conclusion.  You care less about unrequited love than you do about each lyric and its meaning, and its cooperation with the next lyric.

            But I make it sound deep and intense.  In fact, White Christmas is light, easy entertainment, quick on its feet and loud in its devotion.  The Paper Mill cares more than many other theaters because it doesn’t really have anything to lose.  It’s a large, popular theater that showcases the best New Jersey can offer, and it’s almost Broadway, but it’s not.  So it doesn’t have angry producers looming over it, and it can do whatever it likes, and what it likes is usually what the public will like.  That’s admirable.

            But there are more stars in this show than just the theater it’s debuting in.  Lorna Luft, half-sister to Liza Minnelli and daughter to Judy Garland, appears as Martha “Megaphone” Watson, a former Broadway actress who claims Ethel Merman once told her, “You are loud!” She seems much happier and gentler than her sister, whose intimidating stage presence and literal megaphone voice can sometimes frighten an audience.  Luft plays her role laudably and with a carefree feel.  White Christmas is comfortable for her and us.

            So as you settle in this holiday season, why not choose White Christmas to keep you warm? It’s just as large, encompassing, and cozy as your draped blanket, and just as delicious and pleasant as your hot cocoa.  On Christmas Eve this year, there’s no better journey than back to 1954 to enjoy the beauty and the pure sagacity behind this show.  It’ll knock your Yuletide stockings off.

It's Time to Raise the Curtain

Jim Henson's Fantastic World at the Museum of the Moving Image

           The past generation was raised on The Muppet Show and Fraggle Rock. My own was raised on Sesame Street. The characters are instantly recognizable in any form.  Just their parody, Avenue Q, has been running seven years in New York City and won the Tony for Best Musical the year it began.  Their creator has been nominated for Oscars and is the father of the proudest and most famed puppet family ever to exist on the planet Earth.  I think it’s pretty clear we’re talking about someone with a great deal of talent—and power.

           The holder of all this power was, of course, the great Jim Henson, the eccentric puppeteer/graphic designer/writer/director who founded an empire of animation and family-style tradition.  He’s the subject of the newest exhibition at the Museum of the Moving Image, Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.  The museum itself is filled with interesting old gadgets from the early days of cinema, but shares space through January with artifacts from Henson’s life, including some of his puppets.  (Miss Piggy in her wedding dress stands, serenely, midway through the exhibit.) It’s thorough and absorbing, but it is a little sparse and not very well organized.  The information is without a doubt fascinating, but it’s hard to follow the exhibit when there isn’t enough information, and when there is, it’s not positioned well.

           But the layout, obviously, is not Jim Henson’s fault, and that’s who you come to see.  Trust me, when it comes to Henson’s work, you will not be disappointed.  The exhibition features the filmmaker’s award-winning short film Time Pieceplaying on a loop, as well as props from many of his original works and some intricately sculpted objects used on the set of The Dark Crystal, Henson’s 1982 work, and Labyrinth, of 1986.  It’s enthralling to wander through the world of this visual genius, to think how he thought, to see what he saw, in the drawings and works of art he left behind.

           What is even more diverting ,is to follow Jim Henson’s trail from the beginning, to see how he got his start.  Henson began in graphic design for the covers of school plays and events, eventually beginning his own graphic arts company and leaving posters around campus.  Soon enough, once Henson was out of college, companies began to contact him (and he began to contact companies) about creating commercials for their products.  He, of course, gravitated to puppets.  He created the La Choy dragon, who cooked beans in “dragon fire” and knocked over an entire supermarket in hopes of selling his product; Wilkins and Wontkins, selling Wilkins coffee as Wilkins blew Wontkins to smithereens over and over for choosing the cheap brand, and even some of what would become Muppets—the Wheel-Stealer, who stole the delicious Wheel cookies, became Cookie Monster.  No matter what he did, Henson managed to parody commercialism in his commercials while still successfully selling products.  (During his reign with Wilkins coffee, the drink became ten times more popular.)

           Jim Henson had always wanted to create some kind of variety show centered around his puppets, and after years of trying, he finally achieved greatness—The Muppet Show, which paved the way for Fraggle Rock and, eventually, Sesame Street.  Henson was asked by one of the show’s creators, Joan Ganz Cooney, to populate her educational “street” with Muppets.  Henson was glad to.  The rest is history.

           The greatest thing about this exhibit is nostalgia.  No one of my age or older could exit without a smile on his or her face.  There’s nothing more fulfilling than looking back for a while.

Over the Moon

Rent at New World Stages

           There’s a surprise or two in everything.           

           For one, I had no idea that Jonathan Larson’s Rent was an opera.  Or almost an opera.  The music takes over the stage so powerfully you can barely tell if there are smidgens of dialogue in between numbers.  I also was surprised to find that Adam Chanler-Berat, who plays the filmmaker Mark (who, in this production has lost his scarf and glasses—so ‘90s), was the original Henry in the spectacular musical Next to Normal.  I didn’t know that every song in the show was so overpoweringly good, if a little overwhelming at times, and I didn’t know I’d carry the tunes in my head the next day of songs I’d never known before.  (Turns out Seasons of Love is about 30 seconds long.  Hmm.)

           You don’t need to know anything about the original Rent to love this one, although it helps.  When Angel appears in his red dress at the beginning of Today 4 U, the audience roars, and when Maureen Johnson encourages the onlookers to moo with her, they low appreciatively—and loudly.

           Yet, it’s likely a whole new generation will get to know Rent in a whole new way, and that’s as a historical piece of theater.  When Rent first appeared in 1994, and later on Broadway in ’96, the AIDS epidemic raged around it.  It was happening.  Now, younger viewers can look back at it with horror and  queasiness. The smash hit The Normal Heart was written this way, and Rent,unintentionally, has become the same.

           The great thing about the show, though, is that it doesn’t rely on the epidemic for pitying viewers.  No, it veers from the topic as often as possible (though keeping it in the background as what can be termed the villain of the piece), branching out to romance and solidarity and withdrawal.  This is what draws the audience in now, as it did then—that it can be funny, and loud, and brash, and musically brilliant, without losing the backbone of the performance: that everyone keeps pain within, whether physical or emotional, and that everybody must face up to their own pain in order to survive.

           For those of you who don’t know anything about Rent (how has it been living under that rock for these past 15 years?), it’s a modern rendition of the opera La Boheme, about the early bohemians, who aren’t really that different from the artists who squatted in abandoned lots in Alphabet City in the '90s.  They took part in many of the same activities (as referenced in the powerful, fun number, “La Vie Boheme”).  They each had their problems, and they each solved them in entertaining ways.  I guess we’re lucky they do it in front of us, because somehow the show manages to be very entertaining, despite its dark themes.  There are bright, bouncy songs enough to keep the mood high.  The audience laughs itself into a stupor as it gets ready to cry.  The show explores deep enough themes, too, to keep the audience constantly interested throughout.  And it is deep, too, because there are almost an unlimited amount of levels Rent can evidence.  It is truly a beautiful show, perhaps one of the most beautiful.
           How is the new cast, you ask? It’s hard to imagine, for me, Mark as anyone but Chanler-Berat, his performance is so gratifying.  However the part of Maureen seems righter for Idina Menzel than it does for Annaleigh Ashford, and there are a few other parts it’s easy to imagine played by other characters.  All in all, the cast isn’t overly impressive, but it’s impossible to even consider that a factor in the case of this show, because it would be impossible to make Rent bad.  The best musicals don’t rely on their casts.  Rent, being one of the best, wouldn’t be left out.

           If you were looking for a good time in New York and can’t get Book of Mormon tickets until late 2012, Rent is a desirable and relatively inexpensive alternative.  There’s nothing keeping you—unless of course you’re reading this in some frozen part of the tundra, in which case, sorry about that and good luck finding good theater over there!

Into the Wild Gray Yonder

Tornado Alley

           A storm builds slowly in the distance.  Bill Paxton’s time-weathered voice gropes its way lazily into hearing distance as the dark clouds come ever closer.  Finally, the blue skies overhead turn brown as an enormous twister overtakes you.

What’s going on?

           It may be a drama, you decide.  There’s certainly enough evidence for that.  Our heroes, the researchers of the storm-chasing mission Vortex 2, have all the cheeriness that naturally comes before a horrific but stoic fall from the very behemoths they pursue.  Sean Casey (who also acts as the director and 1st unit cinematographer), building his gargantuan Tornado Intercept Vehicle—a 10-ton Dodge with bulletproof windows and armor plating—accepts his burden bravely, claiming, “This is my life now.” But no, it can’t be.  After all, you can hear Paxton echoing out over the theater like some gritty cowboy’s ghost.  You can hear what’s going on.  This film, approached so clearly like something akin to the beginnings of a Titanic of tornado obsession, is a documentary.

           While visually astounding, Tornado Alley (the film’s title and setting) provides little in the way of information, leaving you instead to watch in amazement as Casey dons a motorcycle helmet and makes his way, with his trusty TIV (short for the mentioned Vehicle), into the abyss.  You must view with great hope the Vortex 2 (or V2) team goes forth to discover new ways to find earlier warning times for cyclones.  However, there is no great, dramatic ending, just repeated disappointment.  V2 never gets up to much of anything at all.  They sit around and hope they’ve captured something useful while far, far away from any danger, but you never find out if they have.  The film ends with hope, hope, hope, cross your fingers for the team, and that’s disappointing for any film, even a nonfiction one.

           Meanwhile, Casey is planning to get video footage from inside a tornado with the help of a driver/scientist and a Navy medic.  The fact that he’s doing this solely for thrill somehow takes away any connection between you and the filmmaker.  He fails in his mission repeatedly, and when he finally succeeds (anchoring the TIV to the ground and crouching at its skylight with a camera), it’s not very impressive.  The storm he chose was small and passed over him in under a minute.  The footage itself was nowhere near as spectacular as the rest of the film.

           And yes, the film is spectacular, optically, that is.  Because the tornado in itself is so majestic, one is willing to sit in the LeFrak Theater for 45 minutes solely to be taken in by the breathtaking view.  (Tornado Alley is also playing in New Jersey’s Liberty Science Center and other museums around the country—check online for show times near you.)  Occasionally you can watch storms approach in time-lapse, and that’s the most beautiful of all.  To view the clouds advance like a wave,  floating slowly toward the screen is a good time in itself.  No one can fault Sean Casey; he is, after all, a great cinematographer, and he can’t help it if his personal story isn’t significantly filmic.

           All in all, Tornado Alley is not an informative film, simply a mildly enjoyable one if you go by sight.  And while the storm-chasers may not seem to care about the damage the monstrous beings they love do, Casey is compassionate enough to show the aftermath of a horrible squall in a Texas town.  This moment is the one in the film where it is shown that perhaps these characters, appearing so flat and emotionless, are empathetic after all.  And somehow, to the viewer, that is deeply satisfying.

The Big, the Bad, and the Herbivorous

The World's Largest Dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History

           As the special exhibitions at the Museum of Natural History become more and more extravagant, showcasing myths, polar expeditions, and frogs, it’s a relief to see them going back to those which made them famous—impressively enormous extinct lizards.

           In the rotunda, in the halls, the highlight of every poster and every logo, dinosaurs line the halls at AMNH.  It’s impossible to focus on any flashy link, so the museum went classic—big.  And they made the right choice.  The exhibit is well thought out and beautifully organized. 

           At The World's Largest Dinosaurs, a new exhibit at the Museum, size is all that matters.  The question here is how did these animals eat, survive, and function day-to-day without perishing beneath their own weight or restrictions, likely crushing most of the surrounding foliage as they fell? The exhibit goes into this in depth.  

           Diet, weight, length, reproduction, respiration, and circulation are discussed at length along the informative notice boards that line the walls, and all questions that could be asked are answered.  At some points, the subject veers wildly from dinosaurs and changes simply to size, putting water buffalo, crocodiles, giraffes, tapirs, and even an enormous butterfly up for view.  And somehow this makes sense, if only because the elaborate display is planned so thoughtfully.  At the very least, it’s simple.  That’s why, for the viewer who would almost certainly be flattened by the extent of the information the museum is able to deliver, it’s the safest, and accordingly, impossible to dislike.

           Even as you enter, the showcase begins its flamboyant display with a bang.  A long sauropod’s neck cranes in through the wall, gaping at newcomers confusedly as if wondering why this unknown species has intruded upon its privacy.  Continuing to a life-size human skeleton beside a titanic dinosaur’s leg (which almost presses against the ceiling) and a parade of currently living creatures so enormous they would give a prize-fighter pause, but never one of the World’s Largest Dinosaurs, which becomes more evident upon entry to the main arena of the exhibit. 

           Only the fine hand of a talented curator can combine something seemingly complex and elementary at once, and that’s just what The World’s Largest Dinosaurs does.  The exhibition either pictorially or literally represents every fact, like the amount of greens eaten shown in a 5 x 5 tank filled to the brim with ferns and greenery.  Both children and adults will feel perfectly comfortable and unembarrassed to be at the museum’s latest special exhibition because, they will feel at home absorbing any fact showing their own history, or, in this case, that of a wildly different species that lived so long before our own.  Children can become accustomed to the facts through games, or touch, our fossil-digging (all three offered by Dinosaurs), and adults through the relevant literature, but both will inescapably come to the same conclusion.  The world we live in is strange, and, in it, some things appear impossible to keep alive by any odd circumstances, but somehow remain.  And years later, when we find their remains, it is easy to marvel at their stamina and endurance techniques, but easier still to marvel at the institution who so thoughtfully presents them for the good of the public.  Amazement at history is, in itself, an amazing thing.

iArt

Talk to Me at the Museum of Modern Art

           It is my opinion that technology becomes both more ridiculous and more amazing through the years of its development.

           Ridiculous because it has achieved heights that long ago would have seemed both impossible and useless—like the Mumbling Hat, on display at the Museum of Modern Art’s Talk To Me. The Mumbling Hat, through its blue felt ear protectors, literally scans the fluctuations of your brain waves and transmits aurally to your ear exactly what you’re thinking.  Even if you already know.

           Amazing because it is astounding to the extent to which designers and engineers are willing to go to make our lives both easier and more interesting—like EyeWriter, a software system allowing the fully paralyzed to—you guessed it—write or even create graffiti with only their eyes and the program’s fully automated laser pointer.

           Technology is what separates our own breed of animal from the rest, in giving us tools to combat the problems in our lives.  Nowhere is this process both so evident (or not) than in the cheerfully decorated interiors of Talk to Me.  Ranging from the mundane (a poster showing what strokes should be performed in the act of brushing one’s teeth) to the insane (a negatively stimulating metal chastity belt of sorts that mimics both the pain and bleeding of the menstrual period for any male or menopausal who wishes to try it out), technology is what brings us together from all corners of the world as a people.  In a way, we’re all like children, crowding together on common ground to exclaim, “Look what I got!” accompanied by friends’ sighs of jealousy.This is why Talk to Me makes so much sense.  Not everyone can relate to art (though even the green-tinted Warhol’s Flowers in MoMA’s entryway is greatly beautiful), but in this rapidly changing world, everyone of every age who can relate personally to technology and carries a ready smartphone in his or her hand would be remiss in skipping this exhibit.

           One of the most amazing things about Talk to Me is that it's almost a living breathing creature in its technological abundance, responding visibly to the visitor pleasantly holding up an iPhone or the less favorable (at least to this reporter) Android.  For one, take an amused look at the exhibit’s entry guardian—a red, cubical, lovable scamp by the brilliantly clever name of Talking Carl.  Carl sports a touch screen next to his enormous projection that allows control over his annoyance or satisfaction levels, but it doesn’t always function well.  Anyway, the most pleasing experience is to download Carl’s app onto your iPhone or iPad and poke him repeatedly in the eye on your personal handheld. 

           Then view with regret the QR codes under each object, which can be scanned from the lowliest iPhone 3GS to reveal a cornucopia of additional, easily accessible information about this new, revolutionary invention.  For the smartphone-less, the exhibit slowly devolves into one mass of moving metal after another until one is desperate for interactivity.  (To be fair, there is much of this for which no phone at all is necessary in the exhibit.)

           Admittedly, as a member of Generation Y, I have long ceased to be impressed by any object of technology that does not offer me godlike powers, so I confess to being unfair.  For those of you not so cold, just the sight of such amazing work from geniuses all over the world will be sure to induce gasps—or perhaps laughter.  I’d like to finish with this observation.  Among all the incredible advances of this century, in the middle of the exhibit lies an ordinary, functioning, peaceful MetroCard Vending Machine.  And if that doesn’t unite the last two or three generations into one cooperative group of techies, I don’t know what will.

Ellis Island

           The Museum of Immigration on Ellis Island is a beautiful establishment containing wonderful exhibits that the expectant museum-goer can really sink his or her teeth into. Discover your ancestors and their story, watch an historical film, see exhibits about just plain immigration itself- the possibilities are endless.
           After recent renovation, Ellis is more radiant than ever, with displays honed to perfection and whole sections redone.  Among the best are the gallery, showing pictures and posters from the peak of the immigrants’ flood into our country, the small hallway containing clothes from other countries during Ellis’ prime, and the dioramas and pictures in the back rooms concerning the evolution of the island and the depot.
           If you want an enjoyable afternoon, just skip Liberty Island all together and head straight toward Ellis. The boats leave every twenty minutes and are themselves a good time to be had: the intercom blasting facts as the islands appear in the distance, the wind blowing in your face and the waves rolling across the surface of the water. This combined with a nice lunch and a trip to the Ellis Island Museum would create a perfect day.

The Statue of Liberty

           Last time I checked, the red, white, and blue didn’t mean waiting on lines for an hour and a half for something that wasn’t worth my time.

           I spent at least forty-five times longer waiting to reach the Statue of Liberty on roped-off sections of the grounds than we did on the observation deck of the pedestal. Apparently, some who registered a long time in advance were able to skip the lines, but the process seems to be selective. A Dutch woman we met in line had bought her tickets six months in advance and had to wait as long as we did. We were checked by security two times while in line, and held up each time because the metal detectors recognized my grandmother’s knee replacement as metal. Not so much of a monument as it is a bother.

           The museum at the foot of the pedestal is fine, befitting a national park, but don’t trouble yourself with “The New Colossus” as Emma Lazarus, the poet whose engraved sonnet is displayed within, termed it. (Surprisingly enough, the plaque on which it’s written contains a typo - saying “Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp” instead of the actual “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp.”

           It is beautiful, certainly, but that’s thanks to the French architects who built it, not thanks to the park rangers of Liberty Island and their interminable lines. Observing it from a distance will probably be enough to satisfy your patriotism. Do not waste a morning, or, for that matter, an afternoon, at the Statue. Choose instead to read a good book, or have a cup of coffee. You know… Just relax for a while.

Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum

           I exited the taxi at the harbor and looked up at the gray ship, apparently recently renovated. The ship was a little smaller than I’d imagined it, but 900 feet long isn’t bad.

I was looking at the Intrepid, an aircraft carrier in service for thirty-one years, before dry-docking on the piers of the Hudson and becoming the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum. It was briefly re-commissioned in 2001 as an HQ for the FBI members investigating the 9/11 attacks, but afterwards returned to its former status.

           The museum is a one-of-a-kind experience, leaving the ship and the adjacent submarine Growler just as they were when relieved of duty. Plaques along the way create a miniature tour of their own, and the Exploreum at the rear of the hangar deck is fun for kids.

One of the definite highlights is the Kamikaze show, which plays every hour on the half hour. Five separate screens in the exact spot where the Intrepid was hit with two Japanese Kamikaze planes during WWII portray the film on record of the “Day of Darkness, Day of Light.” As an addition, this film is more than 3D - actual smoke pours up through vents in the floor, the color of fire illuminates the surrounding museum, and sound effects loud enough to be heard in Brooklyn, boom in the background. It’s as if you’re there.
           The museum has also accumulated an impressive collection of aircraft on the upper flight deck, including planes on loan from the Israeli, French, Italian, and French governments, as well as foreign countries with, assumedly, plane decorators who are great with a paint job. Be sure to check out the collection, but don’t forget your sunscreen! The white and gray floor on the “roof” of the Intrepidraises our recent boiling temperatures to at least one hundred degrees.

           All in all, the Sea, Air & Space Museum is not something to miss if you’re near Pier 86 at the Hudson River harbor. You’ll learn a lot and have quite an experience as well.

Note: It would be a better idea to go into the Growler submarine first. It gets very crowded in the afternoon!

Oh, How They Try...

The Museum of Jewish Heritage

           I’m going to be honest here. It’s a passing grade only for effort and for the Project Mah Jongg exhibit if you’re visiting New York’s Museum of Jewish Heritage, which incongruously promotes itself as a ‘living memorial to the Holocaust.’ The JHM falls just short in capturing the lives, the fear, the hope of the Jews pre-, post-, and during World War II, and replaces all emotion with pure, unfettered fact. 

           They do all they can with walls  strewn with information and television screens chock-full of interviews of survivors, and children of survivors, and so on and so forth.  They are more technologically advanced than many major museums I’ve ever visited – but precious little of that tech goes into making the exhibits more relatable or fun for kids my age.  

           The high point of my visit was the Project Mah Jongg exhibition, a beautifully designed and researched yellow enclave on the third floor.  This exhibit which runs through January 2, 2011,  researches the relationship between the game and Jewish women of America, and is replete with beautiful pictures and sets.  While we were there, LX First Look was filming a segment about the exhibit.  I also checked out the controversial Egon Schiele painting, Portrait of Wally, which was on display there until August 18.

           I guess you could say I have mixed feelings about it, but if the artifacts, photographs, and personal belongings found and having to do with the Holocaust appeal to you intellectually, then by all means, go.    

We Live on Avenue Q

Avenue Q

           The story of the origin of The Book of Mormon is nearly as compelling as the musical’s own plot. In 2004, when Trey Parker and Matt Stone were deep into work for their puppet film, Team America: World Police, they visited Broadway to wind down, choosing to see, perhaps in empathy, the puppet musical Avenue Q. Replacing the perpetual joy and spirit of learning on Sesame Street with songs such as “If You Were Gay,” “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist,” and “You Can Be as Loud as the Hell You Want When You’re Making Love,” the musical, presumably also an attraction to Parker and Stone for its vulgarity, was written by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx. (Later that year Avenue Q won the Tony for Best Musical.) Lopez, as he later confided in interviews, was inspired by the film musical: “South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut” to create Avenue Q, and was greatly surprised to see its creators in his audience. After the show, the three went out for a drink, and discovered that each had been thinking of doing a parody of the Mormons on a much larger scale than a 30-minute episode. And thus, The Book was born.

           It has been seven years since Avenue Q opened on Broadway, and my parents went to see the show that same year. As The Book of Mormon inspired me to begin watching South Park, I allowed it to draw me in a different direction - following the musical’s composer, Robert Lopez, to the New World Stages on 50th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues, a block away from “The Book.” The theater, which once acted as a film multiplex, now hosts seven shows (the newest, a revival of Rent, premiering in July) and a remarkable ethic of keeping the shows high-quality and a credit to their Broadway predecessors. Avenue Q, which will play indefinitely (another credit to the Stages), is no exception. However, it needs to be no better than it was on a smaller stage, and would be fantastic anywhere.

           My thirst for Broadway greatness in the style of The Book of Mormon did not go unquenched. Avenue Q is raunchy, no doubt, but spectacularly written with music to boot. The best thing about this show (discounting perhaps a few of the better-performed numbers) is its anti-Sesame Street spirit. Throughout, it maintains that life isn’t perfect, as evidenced by its opening number, “It Sucks to Be Me” and shouldn’t be treated as such.

           Avenue Q itself is a great representation of how unfair life is. The nonexistent New York street is portrayed as three small apartment buildings inhabited by a wide array of characters. In the first, lives unemployed aspiring comedian Brian and his Asian-American therapist wife, Christmas Eve, and a neurotic, goody two-shoes schoolteacher, Kate Monster (monster being a new, furry ethnicity created to further poke fun at Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster and his ilk). In the second, lives a closeted gay Republican stock-broker (who insists he’s straight in the slapstick tune “My Girlfriend Who Lives In Canada”), Rod, and his straight, green-skinned roommate, Nicky (a blatant lampoon of Bert and Ernie).

           In the third, lives the shaggy, porn-addicted pervert Trekkie Monster (a twisted orange Cookie Monster), the new kid in town, Princeton, struggling to find his “purpose,” and the building’s super, Gary Coleman (whose first entrance is accompanied by the strains of the Diff'rent Strokes theme), who in Avenue Q’s world is apparently still living. Their struggles to interact with each other without causing offense or hurt is a clear example of how tough life is, and how if you don’t deal with it you’ll be stuck living in either a false reality or the past forever (a fact accepted by Princeton, Nicky, and Kate in “I Wish I Could Go Back to College”).

           Avenue Q is enacted expertly - not just sung or acted, but also with the help of its puppeteers. The puppets interact with the human actors similarly to its infamous similar show on PBS, and the players controlling them remain unnoticed in black, tight clothing, and, after a while, unnoticeable even to the audience. The fact that “Q” remains so great after almost a decade, while being staged with different actors, on 50th, stands as a tribute to its excellence in every area of the arts. The show knows how to use its fame - it closed only two years ago after having made $117 million, donates all funds collected during the showstopper “The Money Song” to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, and has played in 17 countries. It’s going to Germany, #18, in 2012. Let’s just say that after my little experience, I can conclusively say that Robert Lopez is a musical genius. Good luck to Avenue Q wherever it may roam.

War Horse

           It’s a play, and a musical, and a puppet show, and a war. War Horse has literally everything, and there’s nothing to regret about this incredible display of talent and craftsmanship. Documenting the story of a boy whose horse is sent to fight in World War One, War Horse uses enormous puppets, which are controlled by three people who work together with the elegance of ballet dancers. The show’s acting is superb, and its occasional singing of British battle songs merely livens up an already excellent time. Even jokes are littered throughout the wartime epic, and the audience loves them. War Horse does absolutely everything right, and there’s not one thing they scrimp on. The special effects are amazing, if a little loud, and the puppetry cannot be matched. The horses are so realistic that you begin to believe in them. The goose is so real that you begin to sympathize with it when it gets the door slammed in its face. This show is amazing. I am not exaggerating when I say it is the best play I’ve ever seen. 

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Priscilla, Queen of the Desert

           Two drag queens and a transsexual drive through the desert in an RV.

           Sound like a bad joke? Well, you wouldn’t be far off, as this is the premise ofPriscilla, Queen of the Desert, an adaptation of Stephen Elliot’s hit 1994 film and the most successful musical ever to come out of Australia.  Whether the musical standards are lower there or this is an average Australian showcase, who knows, but this show- or revue, as it appeared- seemed like an inside joke by the gay community aimed directly at those expecting a night of good fun and discovering not a musical, but a frankly erotic and inappropriate display of costumes and scenery.  The acting, it seems, is merely a backdrop, if not much of one at all.

           Will Swenson, flush with success from the recent heralded production of Hair,and a song list dating from the greatest times in musical history could do nothing for the fact that this show seems unacceptable on Broadway, not living up to the standards of its fellow musicals and diluting hits such as I Will Survive into nothing but gaudy dance numbers on stilts and in plastic wigs.

           Jokes sprung to the surface occasionally, but failed to disguise the rest of the show as being anything more than an excuse to sit on a shoe in a sequined jumpsuit and sing opera.  I honestly believe that musicals are worth more than this and should be treated with respect.  If anything, Priscilla does not deserve to be classified as a show, as it includes essentially no plot, uses pre-written songs and second-class actors, and instills no feelings of joy or wonder whatsoever in the expectant theatergoer.

The Company Way

How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

           There are many angles to How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying that are intriguing - its music, its humor, and of course, its actors throughout history.  Ranging from stars of stage such as Robert Morse to stars of film such as Matthew Broderick to stars of television such as Walter Cronkite, the cast of characters in this show has always been as diverse as it was entertaining.  
           This is evident now, as Daniel Radcliffe takes the stage as J. Pierrepont Finch, a polished businessman who climbs rapidly to the top of World Wide Wickets, a company run by philandering (and knitting) tycoon J.B. Biggley (John Larroquette, Night Court) with the help of his extremely descriptive book: How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying – sonorously intoned by an off-stage voice, (CNN’s Anderson Cooper).

           Though the show in itself is greatly entertaining and rightfully twice revived, the greatest appeal of the show is watching Radcliffe (the 21-year-old actor who starred in all eight of the Harry Potter films) sing, dance, and act - and end up being really good at it.  There you have it, I suppose.  Radcliffe steals the show, especially in his final (mainly) solo number, Brotherhood of Man, where he performs feats unheard of from a star mostly known for casting spells.  In a new environment, he casts a spell on his audience, and as if entranced, they stand and applaud him, laughing hysterically at his jokes, gobbling up his every word, amazed to be in the same room as an actor of such magnitude, and of such obvious depth.  And who wouldn’t be?

           I shouldn’t slight the rest of the cast - their performances were greatly admirable as well. Larroquette delivers as a CEO unsure what to do with his power besides exercise its perks, and Christopher J. Hanke shines as his nephew, the villain of the show who is so jealous of Finch’s success that he wheels and deals his way to a position of power to have power over Finch - only to end up back in the mailroom once again.  Also unforgettable is Rob Bartlett, who plays two roles - first, the timid Head of Mailroom-soon-to-be-Head of Shipping who is willing to do anything to stay employed, and second, Wally Womper, a former window washer who grew to be Chairman of the Board of World Wide Wickets but dislikes high-rolling style.  The show also boasts an amazing, multi-purpose set designed by Derek McLane, who won a Tony in 2009 for his sets in 33 Variations.  However, when all of these elements converge and a product such as the one I’ve just seen is the result- well, that’s when you know you’ve got a musical that knows a little something about how to succeed.

God Loves Mormons and He Wants Some More

The Book of Mormon

           Are you looking for more in your Broadway experience than just a night out? Do you intend to celebrate the life, the passion, and the genius that encompasses what the Great White Way is all about? Ladies and gentleman, allow me to introduce you to The Book of Mormon, the greatest piece of writing, acting, and all-around stage-readiness I’ve ever seen in a theater or on screen.  So powerful, so hilarious, so amazing is this show, that without proper precaution, an audience member may happily succumb to its hypnosis and slump into an unresponsive coma, all to be completely immersed in the wonder that is the Book of Mormon.  I can happily and truthfully say that I would gladly watch this show multiple times.

           The irreverent and blatant crude humor makes for an extremely satisfactory backdrop, but this show is smart and legitimately uproarious.  It spends its valuable time making fun of a religion that is ripe to be made fun of, and it does so quite successfully.  The plot is a simple coming-of-age tale, as two young Mormon missionaries - one talented and adherent, one a pathological liar with an amusingly pitchy voice - are sent to lower Uganda, where no baptisms have come to pass despite the efforts of the established proselytizers, one of whom is a closeted gay who insists Mormons should “Turn it Off.” Unfortunately, the liar - christened Elder Cunningham (a delightful and eccentric Josh Gad) takes things a little too far in his attempts, with some disastrous, yet witty, results.

           In reference to this show, Jon Stewart said, “When the aliens come, thousands of years from now, it may exist as our only memory of Earth. And I’ve got to say, I'm happy to go down with that.”

           This show may truly run for thousands of years.  Actors who are still enjoying themselves may dance about in the ruins of our civilization, crying, “Tomorrow is a latter day!” When the aliens land, this pinnacle of truth and hilarity may stand as a monument to our lives and to the lives of the brilliant minds who conceived it in an attempt to bring joy to all those who watch it, and it may represent our hopes, dreams, and attempts for perfection.  And I, too, am very, very happy to go down with that.

There They Are, the Blue Men

Blue Man Group

           There are musicals that are amazing, like The Addams Family or Billy Elliot.  There are shows that are amazing, like The Importance of Being Earnest.  And then, well… There is Blue Man Group.

           This masterpiece of modern expression and performance art is silly, exhilarating, invigorating, and simply the best thing you could do in coming to New York.  There is nothing that will leave you happier, more awake, and more revitalized than this show.  There is no speaking by the actual characters, only music and nonsensical activity, but the voices that blare in the background and words that scroll by or appear on posters are a statement about the world today and an extremely effective way of getting a laugh.

           There is no plot, but then why should there be? The audience is already involved with the show, sometimes literally as women are brought up to feast on Twinkies in replicas of Italian restaurants, men are brought backstage to be painted blue and smashed against canvases, and masses of toilet paper are thrown through the back of the mezzanine and into the orchestra by way of the stairs.  The greatest thing about this show, though, is that everything is real.  Nothing is lip-synched or backtracked.  All the music played on plumbing is real.  All the moves are real.  All the escapades are real.  And there is nothing better than an unedited, true, amazing show with literally no flaws and enough power and audience-rousing effect to bring the entire population of Las Vegas to their feet.

           There is no show like Blue Man Group anywhere near Broadway, or for that matter the east coast.  There are no jokes like the jokes in Blue Man Group.  It is an exemplary show in every way imaginable.  Missing it would be the real joke.

Billy Elliot

           You may have seen the 2000 movie about a boy ballet dancer during the British coal strike of 1984. But you haven’t seen anything until you witness the Elton John rendition of the film, which (yes, I agree with the Tonys on this one) is the best musical on Broadway, and most likely will always be.

           Of course, I am talking about Billy Elliot, the musical that took audiences by storm when it opened in the fall of 2008, and hasn’t stopped. I would gladly see it again several more times. The music, lyrics, and acting skills this show possesses are irresistible, not to mention the comedy in between.

           It’s not every show you see that every song is your favorite. Billy Elliot will leave you humming each song in turn and hoping to buy the soundtrack afterwards. I, for one, enjoyed Expressing Yourself; Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher; Shine; Electricity; and Born to Boogie, immensely, and the entire score almost as much.

           My cousin Zach Drucker and I were privileged to watch the newest Billy, Tommy Batchelor, who might be the best child actor I have ever seen live. Haydn Gwynne as Mrs. Wilkinson and Gregory Jbara as Dad could be the funniest and most vocally agile actors in the world. As for David Bologna as Michael, the kid is just plain funny, however you look at it.

           This is a great play to see no matter how old you are or when you want to see it. Buy tickets now! I guarantee you won’t regret it.