Closers

Glengarry Glen Ross at the Schoenfeld Theater

 

            If it was not clear before, it has become abundantly clear now—Al Pacino is Glengarry Glen Ross.  Of course, he is so many other things—the Godfather, Tony Montana, and Scent of a Woman’s Colonel Frank Slade, to name a few—but truly Mamet’s brilliant depiction of a 1980s real estate sales office has become inexorably tied up with his name and face.  In 1992, when the critically acclaimed film version was released, Pacino played Ricky Roma, the hotshot young salesman who inspires a strange combination of jealousy and reverence in his coworkers (played in the film by, among others, Alan Arkin, Kevin Spacey, and Jack Lemmon).  Today, in the masterful, enticing, and perfectly cast Broadway revival, he plays elderly, washed-up salesman Shelly “The Machine” Levene, in a true sign of the times.  It’s no coincidence that in the film, Roma seemed to be the main character.  A mysterious and indefinable enigma, Roma was the office’s God—vengeful to some, benevolent to others.  Nor is it coincidence that in the revival, Levene becomes the main character.  He’s a kind man, a man whose egotism you can forgive because you are (strangely for a Pacino character) so unequivocally on his side.  Yes, Al Pacino is Glengarry, and he’s back in business.

            That’s not to say Pacino is the only attraction in this cast of brilliant, shining stars.  Bobby Cannavale applies his own high-society, well-groomed take to Ricky Roma, and John C. McGinley puts all his fire to use as the angry, spiteful Dave Moss.  Other highlights include David Harbour as a cruel yet oddly sympathetic John Williamson, and Clybourne Park’s Jeremy Shamos as Roma’s weak-willed mark, James Lingk, but the cast shines as a whole.  Together they perform Mamet in a new and exciting way, as a piece that deserves to be heard rather than “experienced.”  Most Mamet is rapid-fire and could be said to charge at you with the vigor of a rhinoceros, but this production allows you to truly hear the words and feel the emotions of the shockingly talented group at work on stage.  Perhaps, after almost 30 years and six productions, the cast feels that we should truly appreciate the genius at work in the effortless words Mamet wrote.  I happen to agree.

            The story is one of crime, redemption, and soul-crushing failure.  Moving from a Chinese restaurant in the first act to the sales office in the second (both built, averagely, by scenic designer Eugene Lee), Mamet penned the tale of desperate Chicago real estate salesman who would do anything to get a signature on the dotted line—lie, cheat, steal, or fight to get ahead.  The loud, angry, and utterly profane battle is fought in furious tirades directed at whomever the character feels is keeping them from his goal.  (The cast of the film jokingly referred to it as “Death of a Fuckin’ Salesman.”)  Soon enough, it becomes clear who the worst of the bunch is, and how little or how much the rest of them will net in commission along the way.

            In short, Glengarry is an adventure, if a limited one, but a memorable one.  Each line is perfectly formed, as a Shakespeare couplet had he known a few more four-letter words.  Among the great two-act plays in the theater world, and among modern playwrights, there is little to nothing like Glengarry or David Mamet.  And as Mamet moves further and further into the late years of his career, and begins producing only plays like the universally panned The Anarchist, we must savor Glengarry Glen Ross even more each day.

They Look Happy to Meet Us

The Sound of Music at the Paper Mill Playhouse

            The principal feeling upon exiting Paper Mill Playhouse’s new production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s exuberant masterpiece The Sound of Music is relief, but it would be fair to say that it is mixed almost evenly with revelation.

            The Sound of Music is, of course, perfect, and this production is, in kind, perfect.  Most productions of the musical have two faults—one being that the actress portraying the lead, Maria von Trapp the singing governess, is not nor will ever be Dame Julie Andrews.  The other—and this is nearly irrefutable—is that children cannot act.        
            Thankfully, Paper Mill overcomes these constant aesthete’s tribulations with the greatest of ease, casting as Maria the lanky, energetic, and appropriately tomboyish Elena Shaddow, who, while not (sadly) being Dame Julie Andrews, is equipped with an altogether different set of tools, which go excellently to work on the Paper Mill’s mammoth stage.  She can sing, act, and dance without any misguided assumptions about the character or any lighthearted but unnecessary ebullience.  She goes at the part with a satisfied and admirable determination, joyously and with the power and stage presence of a (dare I say it?) Dame Julie Andrews.

            As for the other issue, the von Trapp children (respectively, Chelsea Morgan Stock, Sean McManus, Amanda Harris, Hunter A. Kovacs, Maya Fortgang, Gracie Beardsley, and Greta Clark) can—glory be—act!  Such rapturous magic is at work on the stage that one could break down and weep!  Here is a musical to make you believe in God!—or in such a vein were my thoughts upon their entrance.  So rare is it in musical theater to find a child with actual dynamic ability that these von Trapps are ones to make your hair stand on end.

            And truthfully, I thank whatever power oversees musical providence (or casting agents Tesley and Company—whoever reads this first) that someone is doing The Sound of Music justice, because that is exactly what it deserves.  In the halls of musical history, Rodgers and Hammerstein stand alone, and The Sound of Music stands alone in their works.  It is a musical bordering on the divine.  The libretto, music, and lyrics are all equally sublime (no surprise it later won the Tony for Best Musical and, as a film, the Academy Award for Best Picture).

            It is a constant reminder, however, that nine months after its Broadway premiere, Oscar Hammerstein died of cancer, breaking up a composing duo legendary in the annals of the Jewish-American Broadway mogul.  It is fair to say that when he is mourned, a part of his fans’ dismay is that he and Richard Rodgers would never write another Sound of Music, let alone another Oklahoma! or South Pacific.  When Hammerstein died, the final true testament to his lyrical brilliance in conjunction with Rodgers’ light, lilting, altogether cheery music was this ingenious contribution to American cultural history.  Rodgers wrote other musicals later in his life, with other contributors (Do I Hear a Waltz? with Stephen Sondheim, Rex with Sheldon Harnick), but they were never the same.  They didn’t have the same je ne sais quoi as songs like “Edelweiss,” that could be played over and over again and never become mind-numbing.  The gist of it is that they weren’t perfect.

            But we can get down on our knees with the nuns of Nonnberg Abbey that a theater with as noble a tradition as the Paper Mill Playhouse is performing this magnum opus.  We should all feel lucky that, though today we are void of comparable geniuses, we can enjoy perfection from the past written by those who have long left us behind.

Drab by Choice

Picasso Black and White at the Guggenheim Museum 

            Pablo Picasso once said, “Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing?  Can one really explain this?  No.  Just as one can never learn to paint.”  Picasso seemed to have an excellent and mutually beneficial relationship with color.  Most of his greatest pieces were bright and eye-catching.  His periods as an artist are even denoted by the color he used most prominently.  So why then does the Guggenheim Museum insist, in all its descriptions of its new exhibition, Picasso Black and White (running through January 23^rd), that Picasso was a minimalist of color, believing that it sullied great art?  Picasso was certainly not thrifty with color in Weeping Woman, or Crucifixion, or Girl Before a Mirror.  But in the exhibition, the Guggenheim puts on display only the Picasso pieces which are more void of color, and, consequentially, of life.

            It isn’t that the works are bad; quite the contrary.  Picasso, while not a very good realist, was a brilliant surrealist, especially later in life, and his art is without doubt beautiful.  It’s that most of the compositions shown are actually sketches, preparations for later pieces to be done all in color.  The museum was working around the fact that Picasso didn’t avoid color at all, but in fact worked toward it and reveled in it.  Even the simpler Cubist works at least had shades of brown and blue.  Though the title of the exhibition tries to prepare you for it, it can seem that the Guggenheim is presenting us with a barrage of black and white so intense that, by its end, you ache for Three Musicians.

            The art didn’t need saving, the exhibit did.  But the only thing that could have swooped in and snatched Black and White from the depths of the despair it seems to be writhing in would have been Picasso’s magnum opus, Guernica.  An outcry against the bombing of a Basque village of the same name, Guernica is the explosion of the brooding anger and intensity that fueled all those black and white paintings in the first place.  It is the culmination, in its outburst, of everything Picasso was working towards.  Sadly, the original Guernica is immovable from the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid, and the tapestry version (commissioned by Nelson Rockefeller in 1955 when Picasso refused to sell him the original) is on loan indefinitely to the San Antonio Museum of Art.  As a result it seems that Black and White has no real conclusion, nowhere to go.  The winding hall of the Guggenheim ends, underwhelmingly, at one of the paintings Picasso entitled The Kiss, a series in which two androgynous lovers appear to be trying to eat each other.

            The most likeable parts of the exhibition were those in which Picasso’s style had fully developed, when he had begun to use shadow and depth, and when he had abandoned entirely the idea of verisimilitude in his art in favor of the near-abstract.  This is the Picasso we all know and love, monochromatic or not, and it is a relief to see it among so many sketches and plans for pieces that either never planned out or did in a way much more interesting than what the Guggenheim currently has to offer.  The exhibition has no centerpiece, no real underlying idea but for two colors which can be found in almost any painting you care to name, and no true direction to take Black and White.  The one thing we can take comfort in is that, like any misguided adaptation of the works of a genius (this season’s The Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess being a prime example), the original idea of the artist remains the same.  Here we must appreciate what we can of Picasso, while attempting to ignore the out-of-the-ordinarily mediocre curating of the Guggenheim.

New Faces Behind the Glass

Renovations for the Hall of North American Mammals and the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall at the Museum of Natural History

            For seventy years, the dioramas in the Hall of North American Mammals at the American Museum of Natural History have greeted visitors warmly with a view onto a moment in nature they would most likely otherwise never see.  They’ve served the museum through wars, national shakeups, and international struggle.  So it’s understandable that they might need a once-over.

            In the past year, they’ve gotten one.  The wing of the museum that includes that Hall has been fully renovated.  Animals have had their fur brushed, their ears made more translucent, and their eyes re-glistened.  The backgrounds of their enclosures have been repainted, and the lights that illuminate them but have lately caused them to fade have been readjusted.  In addition, AMNH has added a memorial hall for its most famous advocate, President Theodore Roosevelt, whose father chartered the museum.  The Roosevelt section is brief but in-depth, composed of four displays added to the existing dioramas in the entry hall (spanning Roosevelt’s six decades of life as an aspiring naturalist, politician, and philanthropist) and a bronze statue of Teddy sitting serenely on a center bench.

            The Hall of North American Mammals is a far more impressive feat.  A year of preparation has led to the reopening of the hall with new donations and reinvigorated dioramas.  It is difficult, surveying the work taxidermists toiled over for so long, to remember a time when they looked any different, but they did.  A mere twelve months ago the animals of our forests, deserts, and mountains appeared weary, elderly, and approaching their final years (as before and after photos can attest).  It’s thanks to the efforts of the talented team at the museum that we can enjoy the naturalistic dioramas as they are today.  The Natural History Museum never backs down from a challenge, and the Hall is no exception.  It remains as memorable and identifiable as it ever has been, with the added benefit of revitalized animals to teach, exhibit and excite.

            This Hall, along with the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, is a landmark of the museum, one that is identified with the institution as strongly as the greening statue of Roosevelt straddling his horse on the museum’s steps.  Both the Hall of Mammals and the Milstein Hall are dark and quiet, mammoth and labyrinthine without appearing to be, and boast a world-famous attraction that greets viewers right as they enter the hall—for the Milstein Hall, the massive, benevolent whale that casts a shadow over the entrance, for the Hall of Mammals, the lone bear standing on its hind legs, perfectly shadowed as if on a stage.  In some ways, the hall is like a quiet theater where one can observe flashes of stories from all walks of the animal kingdom.  For this drama we owe thanks to the taxidermists and artists who made the hall possible.

            For in a more specific way, the Hall of North American Mammals is a different kind of art.  A representative for the museum in a behind-the-scenes video about the renovation calls it “animal sculpture.”  The museum’s artists have created something here on the scale of Rodin, a monument for the ages dedicated to the human acquisition of knowledge.  It may be less blatantly artistic and a little more icky, but the preservation of animal specimens is as important to the scientific community as making sure live animals stay that way.  I applaud this renovation and hope there will be many more to come in the museum and the hall’s lifespan.

Tested Faith

Grace at the Cort Theatre

            In promotional images for Grace, Paul Rudd, Michael Shannon, Kate Arrington and Ed Asner stare serenely out into space, faces and dispositions flawless, with no visible problems or bones to pick.  This image could not be further from the hour-and-a-quarter of mayhem and excitement that the four create on the Cort Theatre’s stage (and will through January 6^th).

            For one, in the images Ed Asner is clean-shaven, but in the play flaunts his Kris Kringle beard as a German exterminator named Karl, who, being German, naturally has horrible and completely relevant stories to tell about the Nazis.  He sprays pesticides all over the stage and uses catchphrases unsparingly.  His German accent is understandably rather lacking, and he looks (just as understandably) ridiculous in Bermuda shorts.  Nonetheless, as always, Asner’s performance is brilliant and entertaining.  No one, I presume, is surprised.

            The absolutely fantastic Michael Shannon (who saves the first half of the play) is prominently featured on the playbill smiling out at nothing with his smooth, even face gently lit.  On stage, he plays Sam Gavin, a NASA scientist who escaped a car crash that killed his fiancé and ripped off half of his face.  He wears a face mask reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter’s that, when removed, reveals an underwhelming and minor series of welts across his energetic mug.  Still, he seems rather depressed with his looks and his life, and Shannon conveys this with an air of genius.  In his first scene, he argues with an Apple tech support representative on the phone as if delivering an angry monologue by Shakespeare.

            Paul Rudd nearly hides Kate Arrington’s face on the Grace posters, which is an excellent metaphor for their characters’ tumultuous relationship.  Rudd plays Steve, an earnest evangelist and entrepreneur struggling to open a chain of gospel-themed hotels in sunny Florida.  As it becomes increasingly clear that he’s being duped by his investors and losing control of his wife, Sara (played by Arrington), Steve begins to lose his mind and his faith.  Sara, meanwhile, is drifting away toward Sam.  Rudd, a better stage actor than one might expect, portrays what Karl calls a “Jesus freak” convincingly and with an aura of darkness.  Arrington plays Sara as an unanchored wannabe Anna Karenina with no place to settle and nowhere to find home.  They are magical to watch.

            Grace is one of the few pieces of theater I’ve seen in which the actors save the script and not the other way round.  The book is mediocre, the story meandering, and plot points sparse.  Some ideas are even stolen, like portions of the narrative—including (spoiler alert) gunfire—playing forwards and then in reverse (exactly as in Christopher Nolan’s masterful thriller Memento).  Rudd, Shannon, Arrington, and Asner make it work.  Each is a star in his or her own right, and their actions all eventually factor in to the show’s sudden, dramatic finale.  It’s different from some other small ensemble shows in which actors work together like clockwork.  Here it’s more like four separate but perfectly synchronized clocks—and like clocks, the tension they create with the dexterity of seasoned professionals ticks on and on and on, up to an eventual explosion.

            There are many elements of Grace that make it worth seeing.  The staging (by Beowulf Boritt) is unique and fits perfectly to the show’s setting—two identical and neighboring condos that occasionally bleed together over space.  The direction (by Dexter Bullard) is adept and fast-paced, with touches of the mystical and the bizarre.  But the reason to see this show (and, let’s be honest, the only real reason most go to the theater) is the acting.  Few performances this season have impressed me more.

            

A Nose (and More) Transformed

Cyrano de Bergerac at the American Airlines Theater

 

            The Roundabout Theater Company’s new production of Cyrano de Bergerac, the brilliant 1897 play by Edmond Rostand, is witty, fast-paced, and action-packed.  One could, broadly, call it a comedy, but it is so much more than that.  Cyrano is a swashbuckling war tale, a patriotic call to arms, a witty satire (or, more accurately, a celebration of wit), but especially a love story between the titular character—who was born with a nose so large his mother disowned him—and his cousin, Roxane.  Leaving aside the incestuous implications, it is a beautiful story, well-composed and vastly entertaining.

            Certainly this is owed in large part to the efforts of Rostand, who is remembered as one of the greatest French dramatists who has ever lived, but also to the British translator, Ranjit Bolt, whose brilliant transcription of Rostand’s rhyming couplets from French to English could be seen as a crowning achievement.  Bolt’s translation is not overlong if also not simplistic, and loses no brilliance in the journey between languages.

            But then, credit too goes to the cast, who are fully multidimensional in their portrayals of characters whose vices range from lust to intolerance.  Douglas Hodge is fantastic as Cyrano, exuding his valor and acumen, and Clémence Poésy is more than a match for him as an intellectual and beautiful Roxane.  The ensemble is numerous, and all are equally exciting in their talent.

            Seeing Cyrano, especially this version, is akin to viewing a piece by Shakespeare at the Globe.  The translation feels so beholden to the original that the attitudes of the late nineteenth century seem to infuse the production.  Perhaps Rostand in the Park would not bring as many theatergoers to New York, but it should.  Rostand’s rhyming couplets follow one another like heartbeats.  The electricity on the stage during the fight scenes (expertly choreographed by Jacob Grigolia-Rosenbaum) is difficult to describe, but suffice it to say that the only way for them to impact the audience more would be if Cyrano actually skewered his enemies at their conclusions.

            There is an aura about Cyrano that most Broadway plays, even those seeking to harken back to the age of masterpieces, cannot attain.  It is infused with humor but also tension and sincerity, to the point where it is indefinable.  Yet it does not confuse us or drive us away, rather drawing us closer to learn and understand more about its story.  Cyrano is unique.  This, unfortunately, is a quality not to be found on the Great White Way in this day and age.

            In the magnificently realized story, Cyrano, a member of the Paris guards, and his disciple, Christian (Kyle Soller), are both in love with Roxane.  Cyrano cannot approach her due to his looks, and Christian, though handsome, is inarticulate.  Cyrano, seeking the thrill of wooing his love without the rejection that it would surely precede, writes Christian’s “lines,” so to speak.  He prompts him under Roxane’s balcony (in a pivotal and beautiful scene), writes his love letters for him, and trains him to be what he is not.  Meanwhile, he pines for Roxane himself.

            As the play approaches its finish, it becomes more and more difficult to tell if Cyrano is, in fact, a comedy or a tragedy.  We weep for Cyrano, but we laugh at his antics, and we want for him what he cannot bring himself to take.  Cyrano may be complicated, or he may be un-.  Either way, we desperately want for him to succeed.  In the end, as with any great character, we feel that we are him and he is us.  The character of Cyrano may know that he is a man of the people on the stage, but he cannot be aware what influence he has the world over.