Come On!

Why everyone needs to shut up and enjoy the fourth season of Arrested Development

            Now the story of a virtually flawless television show that lost everything (and then gained it all back) and the one critic who had no choice but to keep the media off the backs of its loyal fans.
            In a fandom as extensive as that of “Arrested Development,” which ran from 2003 to 2006 on the Fox Network and is—it has to be said—the greatest television program ever created (or at least on par with “Seinfeld,” “The Odd Couple,” “The Office,” and “30 Rock”), it is inevitable that two schools of thought would crop up in response to the news that the much-heralded, Emmy-winning comedy would be returning for a fourth season on Netflix.  For months, however, the more cynical of the two remained hidden.  Indeed, ardent fans such as myself were treated to months of near-hysterical anticipation as guest starts, images, and videos appeared sparingly from the creators of the program (headed up by the incomparable Mitch Hurwitz, to whom television nerds owe everything).  What, oh what, would the incorrigible Bluths get up to next, and would good son Michael ever succeed in keeping them all together?

            There was certainly no dissent—none who would dare to suggest that Netflix had somehow made a huge mistake in bringing back the show, or that the show’s original creators and writers themselves would somehow not do it justice.   There were no materialists who intimated that the stars of the show would not “look as good,” or that narrator Ron Howard would not “sound as good.”  It was, thankfully, all quiet on the western front as we in the comedy-obsessive community breathlessly awaited the return of a friend we believed would never leave us in the first place.

            For the connection between the fans of “Arrested Development” and the show itself is and has always been as strong as the link between Buster Bluth and his contemptuous mother, or between his contemptuous mother and an 8:00 AM martini.  The lucky bastards who watched the show loyally, live, every Monday at 10 for almost three years had the initial love, sure, but AD had other lovers: those who bought the DVD’s (chock-full of incisive commentary and surreal bloopers that might not be bloopers at all) and every now die-hard fan (myself included) who discovered it on Netflix, the forum it was born to commune with.  The brilliant, witty, and sharp humor of the show is such that repeated viewings and especially binge-watching are rewarded with in-jokes, running gags and sudden, abrupt plot twists found by the captivated viewer as a Ben and Jerry’s spelunker might discover a chunk of cookie dough in their ice cream.  AD was perfect and remains perfect.  The cast members are ideally suited to their respective roles, the writers to their specific, brutally funny wit, and the story to a slightly insane, always magnificent tilt towards uncontrollable hilarity.

            Or such was the feeling of the “Arrested Development” fan base before the dark time of a few days before the release of the new episodes on May 26^th.  On those few days, mutterings from various pop culture websites and social networks arose, with messages like “Don’t get your hopes too high” and “It can never be as good as the original.”  Surely these so-called fans had hope that, just as there is always money in the banana stand, there is always humor in Newport Beach?

            Incredibly frustratingly, these rumors and muffled anger culminated in Mike Hale of the New York Times writing, on the morning of the 26^th, “Chalk one up for the Internet.  It has killed ‘Arrested Development.’”

            This lie is not only so near to treason that George Bluth Sr. could be brought up on charges for it, but also incredibly, unforgivably uninformed.  Not only had Mr. Hale only watched 8 of 15 of the episodes released (admittedly, for reasons of restrictive Times deadlines), but he was also noticeably bitter in his review, as when he calls Season Four “forced and overly complicated,” and as when he uses complex phrasing and analytical language in a bit of critical trickery waved in the faces of readers of the Times who would, if a bit more intelligent, notice that the critic was spewing bunkum.

            None of those outspoken against the new season—not the writers at The A.V. Club (who called Season Four “an always bloated boondoggle of a project”), TV Guide (“heartbreaking and tragic”), or IGN (“lame and lacking in energy”) have specified any reasons for their displeasure other than the fact that the show is “different” than it was.  To rationalize this painfully obvious observation, one need look no further than the fact that Season Four is presented in a different format—one episode per character, with fantastically intricate and overlapping storylines that are generally revealed to the viewer with increasing clarity, as if we are solving a mystery.  This at most minor makeover for the show (which, by the way, must have been hugely difficult to pull off and is not something for bored users of Tumblr to be complaining about) does not change the humor or the complexity of the show, which remain as concrete and entertaining as they were seven years ago (or, in my case, have been on Netflix). 

The universal thread between the naysayers has been that the show should never have been revived in the first place, that “what’s dead should stay dead” (according to Matt Seitz, an analyst for Vulture, in an editorial he wrote in the fall).  Mr. Seitz professes that “when a work’s cultural moment has passed yet fans convince creators to revisit it, the result will always feel unnatural, no matter how deftly it tickles our nostalgia.”  In the same article, he bemoans the power fans have attained in a new era of content creation and consumption in their ability to “zombify” shows that went away for a reason.  There is no other way to respond to Mr. Seitz’s allegations other than the fact that he is patently wrong.  He misrepresents and distracts from what he is trying to say, but in fact he’s basically maintaining that, as in the dark days of pre-2000, network executives (who, as we on the Internet know, are all idiots) should control what we see, based on completely inaccurate Nielsen ratings and whatever blather they’re convinced they’ll be able to sell advertising on.  Mr. Seitz, I say to you—if I were Mitchell Hurwitz, and I created a show as preternaturally perfect as “Arrested Development,” why wouldn’t I want to write it, produce it, and all-around be a part of it for the rest of my life?  Wouldn’t you?

The reason that such a substantial portion of AD’s viewership has begun to react negatively to what is obviously a massively perfect continuation of the Bluth saga is that we, as a species, are afraid of our own happiness.  We refuse to admit to ourselves that anything could be as good as the original, even if it is—even if a few episodes are better than those of the original run.  We glom on to a fierce loyalty that we don’t feel to an ideology that doesn’t, or shouldn’t by rights, exist.  We deflect and block and slam shut the door on those who suggest that the Star Wars prequels and their ilk could ever truly be considered for widespread appeal, even though some, like the 2008 reboot of “Futurama,” for example, worked magnificently and resurrected the appeal of their respective shows’ brands.  The new can match—and exceed—the old.  Perhaps the reason we find this difficult to accept is because we have been indoctrinated to believe that so many things past are better than things future; or, as Mr. Seitz suggested, it could be our accursed nostalgia.

To summarize, Netflix’s “Arrested Development” is really, really good.  Everyone on it is exactly as charmingly funny as they once were.  The storylines are whip-smart and fit perfectly into AD’s canon.  There is absolutely nothing here to complain about.  (Further, Mitchell Hurwitz worked for seven years to bring back this beautiful, wonderful program, so anyone who'd choose to complain is too self-entitled to reason with.)  If we were able to calm ourselves out of our superior, frothy frenzies, we would be able to settle onto the couch and watch Season Four all the way through all over again, enjoying our old friend "Arrested Development" just as much as we ever have.

Lives, or Lack Thereof

Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike at the John Golden Theater

            In Christopher Durang’s new play, "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike," Chekhov references, coffee cups and dignity are tossed around.  Kristine Nielsen has a fit, Sigourney Weaver has a fit, and David Hyde Pierce has an even worse fit.  Clothes are alternately chosen, changed, and then torn off, (usually) in that order.  There is prophecy, serious acting, and sibling rivalry.  Suffice it to say that theatergoers looking for stability on Broadway need not apply.

            It’s worth noting that "Vanya" (and though I hesitate to use this abbreviation since it smacks of Chekhov, I’m sure Durang would find it delicious) is a comedy that’s substantially funny in places, and not a glorified soap opera reveling in its own melodrama.  In the play, the fifty-somethings Vanya (Pierce) and his adopted sister Sonia (Nielsen), after having spent years caring for their Alzeimer’s-ridden parents in rural Pennsylvania, are treated to a visit by their other sister, Masha (Weaver), who skipped out on the family years ago to pursue an acting career.  She brings along her young boy-toy, Spike (the surprisingly fantastic Billy Magnussen), who, we are repeatedly reminded, came very close to landing the lead role in HBO’s “Entourage 2.”  Tut-tutting in the background is supposedly prescient housekeeper Cassandra (Shalita Grant).  (Ms. Grant, by the way, manages to play with comic aplomb and success a character whose manic ramblings would be brutally unfunny from many a more talented actress than she.)  Liesel Allen Yeager is there too, playing a character whose name I’ve forgotten.

             Masha owns the house, and wants to sell it out from under her siblings; Sonia wants a life and a lover (uniquely, I’m sure); and Vanya, though he says otherwise, doesn’t seem to care much one way or the other.  Hilarity ensues.

            Mr. Durang’s prose is elegant and free-flowing in a distinctive way, but he’s funnier in passive, reflective situations than in active ones.  Unfortunately, the passive sections can be drearily exposition-heavy.  Fortunately, in the right moments, he makes stars out of Mr. Pierce, Mr. Magnussen, and—as I’ve mentioned—Ms. Grant, simply because, in very different ways, they each fit into the story without weighing it down.

            Vanya’s quiet, perhaps inevitably, builds to a climactic and wildly amusing outburst at the end of the second act.  Rather than taking one of two of the traditional approaches in making a character’s woes either entirely dramatic or entirely ridiculous, Mr. Durang has wisely chosen to intersperse such clever witticisms among Vanya’s reflections as to create, on the whole, a funnier monologue up there with some of Woody Allen’s best.  This culmination is a perfect representation of the unseen devotion that Mr. Pierce gives to the character.  His passion clearly burns beneath the mild-mannered, housebound amateur playwright during the entirety of the play.  If I were a betting man, I’d say David Hyde Pierce is going places.

            Spike is a faintly ludicrous character whose narcissisms are balanced by how little he cares that he is an idiot.  (Mr. Durang—lucky for him—has caught this trope right before it becomes a cliché.)  Similarly to Ms. Grant’s performance, from any other actor Spike would likely have been completely uninteresting, but the extent to which Mr. Magnussen extends some of Spike’s least savory characteristics make him a delight to watch.

            On the whole, the show is very funny.  There are parts that could be improved—Sonia is relatively dull but for a sweetly romantic moment late in the play, and Masha is occasionally frivolously over-the-top—but all in all, it makes for an enjoyable and uncommonly droll evening.

Parts to Perform

Pippin at the Music Box Theater

            Five minutes into the first act of director Diane Paulus’s revival of Pippin, any viewer, even while reveling in the glory of Stephen Schwartz's deistically perfect opening notes to "Magic to Do," would be of two minds.  On the one hand, the 1972 musical, unbelievably un-revived since its original five-year run, is so hugely and utterly superior that seeing it live in any format is an experience comparable to rapture.  On the other, one must wonder why Diane Paulus, in all her hare-brained glory, would ever feel the need to do anything in her revival but leave this masterwork of American musical theater exactly the way it was.

            First, the bad news.  True to form, Ms. Paulus has sped up every song in the show as if the American Theater Wing is now requiring a two-hour flat time limit for all shows wishing to be nominated for Best Revival of a Musical.  (She’s done this twice before, once with 2009’s Hair, notably in “I Got Life,” and once with 2011’s The Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess, in which she sped “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’” up to almost three times the time signature it was written in—a choice parodied by Gerard Alessandrini in the latest Forbidden Broadway in a song titled “I’ve Had Plenty o’ Gershwin.”  [Hair and Porgy and Bess both won the Tony for Best Revival of a Musical.  Pippin is nominated for the same award and nine others.])  The pauses between lines are almost obliterated by a hectic, unnecessary orchestration style, and the brilliant military satiric song “War is a Science” is now a patter song, which was an incredibly unwise decision by Ms. Paulus.  The song was written to impress with lyrical dexterity, not speed, and some of the lyrics, including the immortal: “A simple rule that every good man knows by heart / It’s smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart,” are lost in the fray. 

Many other changes were to follow, two most conspicuously.  To begin with, the production is circus-themed, with related choreography (climbing, balancing, unicycling, etc.) by Les 7 doigts de la main co-founder Gypsy Snyder.  Suffice it to say that acrobatics, as evidenced by this production, have no place in Pippin, and the zealous performers often seem to be creating the chaotic cacophony on the stage purely for its own sake.  (During the razor-sharp number “Simple Joys,” the doubtless athletic acrobats jump through hoops.  What does that have to do with anything?)  The unimpeachable score is spectacle enough, thank you.

The other major change in the production is that the Leading Player, a part memorably played by Ben Vereen in the original production, is now played by a woman, Patina Miller, who was recently nominated for a Tony for her participation.  But this brings us to the good news.

Personally, I don’t agree with the choice to change the Player’s gender.  Considering that this musical is gospel to many theatergoers, this kind of major upset is near-blasphemous and seems like radical feminism.  Further, I didn’t actually see Ms. Miller in the role—she was absent that night, and Stephanie Pope, her understudy, played the part.  However, Ms. Pope had a fantastic, catlike magnetism to her portrayal (coming nowhere near close to Mr. Vereen’s, of course, and slightly too mercurial to be believable), and regardless of her sex, if this kind of talent belongs to an understudy, Ms. Miller must certainly live up to the buzz.

Yes, Ms. Pope is talented, and so are many of her fellow cast members.  Matthew James Thomas’ Pippin is appropriately wide-eyed and enthusiastic, if less relatable that John Rubinstein’s in the original version.  Terrence Mann’s Charlemagne is funnily extroverted, and a good foil for Pippin.  And Andrea Martin’s Berthe is, of course, fantastic.  Though her “No Time at All” is burdened by trapezes and other such funambulism, she pulls off the raspy, good-natured performance as Pippin’s grandmother beautifully.  (Ms. Martin received a standing ovation after her performance, which included—cloyingly, but sweetly—a sing-along.)

A good deal of the actors share this talent, but frankly, as long as they can carry a tune and do the musical justice, it really doesn’t matter who they are.  The attraction of this Pippin is seeing this musical (probably among the five best ever written) on a live Broadway stage.  The liberties Ms. Paulus has taken might make you itch, but the viewer gets the last laugh when the cast hits the high note at the end of “Morning Glow.”  Afterwards, you can check the theater gift shop to see if they’re selling the original cast recording.