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.

Second Best to None

A Chorus Line at the Paper Mill Playhouse

            It takes great talent to perform the late Marvin Hamlisch’s masterpiece, A Chorus Line, with sincerity.  There are as many poignant soliloquies as there are overzealous attempts at humor, and in the Paper Mill Playhouse’s production, running through October 28^th, some are more talented than others.  But is that not what the chorus is about?  A Chorus Line was penned to tell the story of a grossly underrepresented group of artists in musical theater, and the numerous yet somehow vastly generous cast members embody them perfectly.  When a star takes his place in front of the chorus, it’s difficult to tell what the latter is thinking, but when they are given center stage, one can discern their life stories simply from the way they dance.

            This show, and this well-defined production along with it, dramatizes the audition process beautifully, bringing the audience to a human connection with the performers.  There are so many, never in the same formation, never one taking preference over another, yet each is unique and relatable, a testament of course to the show’s creators (Hamlisch, Michael Bennett, James Kirkwood, Nicholas Dante, Edward Kleban), but also to the actors who play the parts in this edition of a long-running cash cow (and rightfully so) for the Public Theater.  Some take the spotlight better than others—Jessica Lee Goldyn as Cassie turned the character’s impassioned dance number into a sleepy, ineffectual bore—but all in all the cast was as impressive as they should be, given the material they had to work with.

            The set, as always with A Chorus Line, was simple—an empty stage, a mirror covering the back wall, room for the dancers to do their work.  The costumes were leotards and dance shoes.  Some musicals can go bare-bones and seem like they’re desperately trying to do so (*cough* Once *cough*), but not A Chorus Line.  The stage seems so much fuller with the presence of the auditioning chorus, and though some sudden light changes may confuse, James Dardenne’s scenic design quite agrees with the production.

            And then, unavoidably, there are the songs.  One can’t quite help but mourn Hamlisch’s passing at every spiking, perfectly tonal note in the instrumental portion of “I Hope I Get It,” and this is just beginning.  Why name songs when the score is so evenly paced in its brilliance?—But I shall.  Mike Cannon and Amanda Rose as married couple Kristine and Al are abundantly talented, and their collective aura is not wasted on one of Hamlisch’s best-timed duets, “Sing!”  Gabrielle Ruiz as Diana (or “Morales!”) is merely noticeable until her first solo, “Nothing,” which she performs fantastically.  However, no solo can compare to the perfect mesh of the company in their ensemble numbers, “Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen, Hello Love,” “What I Did For Love” (led by Ruiz) and, of course, “One.”

            There are three separate occasions in which “One,” the chosen audition number, is performed.  In the first, when Cassie is having it out with her former lover, director Zach (Martin Harvey), and he professes that she cannot possibly want to be in the chorus, they turn to the rest of the cast, going into the song’s first chorus.  Their smiles are equally wide, their steps exact, and for the first time, we realize, though the characters seemed so unique, they are exactly the same.  They are merely part of a whole—struggling artists, wannabes, a chorus—one colony, one mass.  In the first instance, this is what the “One” spoken of in the song truly means.  It is beautiful in a way, but also deeply disturbing.

            The second time, shortly afterward, Cassie has rejoined the rest, and the group is celebrating their—pardon the pun—“oneness.”  Maybe, after all, they are not the same, but the idea that they can function as a singularity is impressive and beyond mere mortals’ comprehension.  In this case, the “One” is celebratory—look at what those dancers can do, when they work together!

            The third performance of “One” is the finale.  In this utterly identifiable number, the stage lights come on (beautifully, thanks to lighting designer Julie Duro), the mirror folds over (for reasons the choreography makes obvious), and the cast members come back on to do their ubiquitous number—this time dressed in golden tuxedos and top hats.  This time, even, ironically, in their matching outfits, we can recognize that they are unique entities who have joined together to create something bigger than they are.  This time the “One” is each and every one of them, and they are larger than life, to be revered.  There is something godlike about this number.  Let us worship at the feet of A Chorus Line, that we may one day learn the secret, the deeply emotional epicenter, of what makes this show such a glittering example of perfect musical theater.

A Man Alone in His Ensemble

An Enemy of the People at the Samuel J. Friedman Theater

 

            In the ingenious new translation of the Heinrik Ibsen play An Enemy of the People by Rebecca Lenkiewicz (and staged by the Manhattan Theater Club), protagonist Dr. Thomas Stockmann (Boyd Gaines) declares that the minority may be right, but the majority will always be wrong.  He goes on to say, “The strongest man in the world is the man who stands most alone.”  An Enemy of the People is the story of Stockmann’s journey from beloved town medic to a so-called “enemy” who is forced to stand alone, often among an angry and intolerant throng.

            Gaines’ excellent portrayal of Stockmann, by contrast, is that of a manic, excited friend of the people, a man who would do anything to reveal the truth—sacrificing his livelihood, his inheritance, and his family’s well-being for the chance to be believed by and to save the masses.  What’s more important, though, is that Stockmann always seems to be right and the masses wrong, which epitomizes Ibsen’s belief that the majority is populated by imbeciles and the minority geniuses.  In short, we are on Stockmann’s side, no matter how many risks he might take or how many chances for redemption he might gamble away.  At one point he calls himself a freedom fighter, and in these times, when the definitions of “freedom fighter” and “terrorist” (or “enemy of the people”) are not so far apart, the play is more relevant than ever.

            In a coastal town in southern Norway, Dr. Stockmann and his brother Peter (Richard Thomas), mayor of the community, have planned the construction of baths, which will make their town profitable as a spa destination.  Just as the baths are beginning to become successful, Dr. Stockmann discovers that waste from the local tannery—owned by his father-in-law, Morten Kiil (Michael Siberry)—has contaminated the baths.  The mayor is at fault, for refusing to build the baths on higher ground as Dr. Stockmann had suggested.  The doctor thinks he’s made a praiseworthy discovery, but finds it more difficult than he had expected to publish his report when his brother comes out against it, on the grounds that fixing the problem would be too costly an expenditure.  During the course of this political thriller, by turns jarring and humorous, Dr. Stockmann is taken as low as a man can descend, as his brother, Mayor Stockmann, reaches new heights on the tails of his brother’s disgrace.

            This production of Enemy is very well-acted by a dedicated and generous ensemble, and Mr. Gaines simply shines as Dr. Stockmann opposite a pompous, scheming mayor very well embodied by Mr. Thomas.  There are unexpected and entertaining twists and turns throughout, and Mr. Gaines makes some thought-provoking speeches that, needless to say, are not well received by the townspeople.  Also unexpected is a star turn by lighting designer and Drama Desk award nominee Ben Stanton, whose interesting uses of candle- and sunlight during some of the pivotal scenes really bring the action home.  And of course, one cannot leave out the brilliant translation of Ms. Lenkiewicz, who modernizes the play thoroughly without losing any impact.  If not for a paradoxical scene in which a character claims he “can’t read a word of English,” one would lose sight entirely of Enemy’s Norwegian setting.

            An Enemy of the People is a riveting example of a turn-of-the-century play that would have incited political scandal then and still makes us ponder our political system today.  Heinrik Ibsen wrote Enemy in response to the uproar over his previous play, Ghosts, which made reference to syphilis.  Between the critics of Ghosts and the man who wrote a classic thriller denouncing the views of the majority, I think we can deduce who got the last laugh.

Before the Second Star to the Right

            Peter and the Starcatcher at the Brooks Atkinson Theater

            Peter and the Starcatcher, winner of five Tony awards (most notably for supporting actor Christian Borle) has undergone a casting change.  Borle has returned to film the second season of NBC’s Smash, in which he plays composer Tom Levitt.  Now playing Borle’s role, pirate captain Black Stache (a different nomenclature to a Peter Pan villain I’m sure needs no further description), is Matthew Saldívar, lately of A Streetcar Named Desire.  If any fans of the first productions of Starcatcher are worried for the play, they need not be.  Although I never saw the play with Borle as the Stache, I can assure you that the performance I saw was as entertaining and uplifting a play as I’ve ever seen, threadbare production value and all, with excellent direction by Roger Rees and Alex Timbers and a riveting score by Wayne Barker.

            Many prequels (Captain Hook: The Adventures of a Notorious Youth) and sequels (Hook; Return to Neverland; Peter Pan in Scarlet) have been written to correspond to J.M. Barrie’s 1904 play/1911 book Peter and Wendy.  The play looks to one of the more popular prequels: Peter and the Starcatchers (note the final “s”) and its sequels, written by American thriller writers Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson (who perform with Stephen King and Matt Groening in the literary band the Rock Bottom Remainders).  Though the Starcatcher books veer often from canon, they are entertaining and fun, and Rick Elice (Jersey Boys; The Addams Family), who adapted them for the stage, does not lose any of the series’ charm.

            In Starcatcher, Peter—at the beginning of the play known only as “the Boy” (and played by Adam Chanler-Berat)—is tossed aboard the HMS Neverland with two other orphans, Prentiss (Carson Elrod) and Ted (played at the performance I attended by understudy Eric Petersen).  The cruel master of their orphanage is sending them to far-off Rundoon to be fed to snakes to entertain the country’s king.  The Neverland is part of a chain of two boats chartered by aristocrat Lord Aster (also an understudy, John Sanders).  The other, the Wasp, carries Aster and what seems to be a chest filled with treasure Queen Victoria has instructed him to take to Rundoon.  In fact, the Neverland’s captain, Slank (Matt D’Amico), has switched the trunk with one on board his ship, hoping to sell the treasure to Rundoon’s king.  Lord Aster’s daughter, Molly (Celia Keenan-Bolger) and her nanny, Mrs. Bumbrake (Arnie Burton in drag) are on board the Neverland, and a nest of pirates led by the fearsome Black Stache and, of course, his first mate, Smee (Kevin Del Aguila) are hidden on board the Wasp.

            There is swashbuckling, stormy weather, and shipwreck before the two parties collide on remote Mollusk Island, and all is greatly enjoyable and accomplished uniquely.  There are no wires to allow the cast members to fly (as they inevitably must), but when they do they are lifted on shoulders or fulcrums.  The scenery is not expansive nor does it seem to be expensive, but every fantastical occurrence is achieved through the cast’s ability to augment the audience’s imagination.  There is no other show on Broadway that approaches narration as Starcatcher does, and it seems that none but Starcatcher, with its fanciful storyline and frequent—not to mention successful—humor, could pull off such a feat.  Throughout, however unbelievable the situation, this ensemble brings us through to an altogether satisfying (if a bit of a cop-out) ending.  When the Boy becomes Peter, who then becomes Peter Pan, though we knew all along it would happen, somehow we’re surprised.  Maybe we never imagined that the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up could be drawn so painstakingly, or spring from more imaginative origins.

Boozing in the Empire City

Beer Here: Brewing New York's History at the New York Historical Society

            Alcohol plays a greater role in all societies than anyone would care to admit.  However, at Beer Here: Brewing New York’s History, a new exhibition at the New York Historical Society running through September 2^nd, though the point of the exhibit is how much beer and its brewing has influenced New York City, beer seems almost incidental in comparison to the great events going on around it.  When the Erie Canal was built, brewers chopped up its ice to cool the beer.  During prohibition, drinkers protested, but not on behalf of beer specifically.  A good brew seems irrelevant to the twists and turns of the Big Apple’s history as charted by the exhibit.

            Still, Beer Here is well laid out and pleasant to walk through.  It’s a bit threadbare, but that’s welcome after some of the more overwhelming exhibits at New York’s history museums, and the show is easy to follow.  It’s fun to see some of the more creative advertisements for the Brooklyn brewing companies (Schaefer, Rheingold, and Piels) and older ale bottles (some were even found by archaeologists in digs downtown).  Beer Here is no more than an exploration of the history of beer in New York, not beer and New York.  But that’s okay.  It’s equally as interesting.

            Beer Here takes a basically chronological journey through metropolitan beer’s story, beginning with its recipe and early influence.  (In the early 17^th century, many thought beer was safer to drink than water because its creation involved boiling, which kills bacteria.  It was served to men, women, and children alike.)  From there it moves to the New Amsterdam colony in the 1630’s and 40’s, where, when the Dutch realized beer’s popularity, it was heavily taxed.  Then on to DeWitt Clinton and the Erie Canal (beneficial, as I’ve stated, for its icy film), then to the hops farmers of the early 1700s, then to beer’s modernization, prohibition (and repeal), and eventual popularization and public advertisement upon Jimmy Carter’s law allowing homebrewed beer.

            It’s a short but entertaining walk through history, ending with a beer hall that serves the exhibition’s focus during the museum’s open hours.  It’s a seemingly legitimate bar that happens to be connected to a historical annex detailing the rise of its fare.  It’s funny the impact an alcoholic beverage can have, but beer does technically spur man to action in a way no normal activist could imagine.  The Anti-Saloon League and its ilk protesting alcohol itself in the 1910’s could not at the time imagine the power alcohol had over men (and it was mainly men).  When the men fought back, protesting themselves (not to mention bootlegging), it was to be expected.  It wasn’t exactly an addiction—though it could have been—it was a loyalty of sorts, of a man to his drink.  The exhibition doesn’t go into the emotional connection New Yorkers could have had to the bottle, but perhaps it should have.

            In fact, Beer Here skips a lot.  The sections about prohibition, the modernization and canning of beer, and especially Carter’s home-brewing law are especially short, and the museumgoer is left wondering what he’s missed.  That’s a good thing in itself, though, that such a short exhibition, when it cuts corners, can inspire regret.  That being said, Beer Here is unique, not winding or overlong like some other exhibits, but not too short either.  Well, not necessarily.  If it had only expanded in a few ways it would have been an epic of the human race’s relationship with fermented hops, but instead it’s a essentially a beer hall with some artifacts to one side.  Oh, well.

There's Nothing Like It

Closer Than Ever at the York Theatre Company

            The revival of Richard Maltby Jr. and David Shire’s Closer Than Ever (at the York Theatre Company at 54^th and Lexington through August 25^th) is very, very good.  But then, that simple a description is never enough.  To elaborate, the music is great, the lyrics are fine, and the actors (Jacquelyn Piro Donovan, George Dvorsky, Julia Murney, and Sal Viviano) are pretty good at what they do.  Somehow, though, that combination results in a very, very good revue, reminiscent of the eighties but firmly cemented in the now.

            Let me go further.  David Shire has a nearly unmatched talent for musical composition.  (Mr. Shire actually attended the same performance I did, looking remarkably well for a man of 75.)  He writes for the piano and bass magnificently, and his arcing, pleading tunes are quiet and brooding, while his fast-paced, comedic numbers are equally excellent and appropriate.  His music is impossible not to play well, and the pianist (Andrew Gerle) and bass player (Danny Weller) at Closer Than Ever seem virtuosos thanks to his talent.  He also worked frequently with Sondheim early in his career, and it shows.  His music is deep and introspective and seems always to be setting up for an increasingly complex rhyme scheme.

            Now onto the fabricator of that scheme, Richard Maltby Jr.  When Mr. Maltby is good, he’s brilliant.  Songs like “The Bear, the Tiger, the Hamster and the Mole” (cut from an earlier Maltby and Shire hit, Baby) and “Back on Base” are on-the-mark, speedy and smart, and Maltby can work with smart.  He knows how to manipulate the language to its core, which is why it’s disappointing to be exposed to some of the less engaging numbers, like “Patterns” or “Fathers of Fathers,” because the audience knows he can do so much better.  It’s good, however, to experience less-than-genius work in a revue that includes genius, because it’s such a relief to return to it.  (Why do you hit yourself in the head fifty times with a hammer?  Because it feels so good when you stop!)  That’s all well and good, but when comedy is completely drained from the show halfway through the second act, it can seem an avalanche of melodrama and depression.  The show is meant to represent adult lives, which anyone can tell you are not exactly rosy all the time, but a musical can only lose so much rosiness before it begins to resemble a wilted dandelion.

            The actors veer back and forth between transcendent and confusing.  Sal Viviano is a cartoonish man, full of vim and vigor, who can seem overtly comic even in dramatic numbers, but his eagerness is entirely paid off when he belts by far his best solo number, “What am I Doin’?” and respecting applause is his reward.  Julia Murney is a great singer who played Elphaba in Wicked for a while, and has few flaws but for, in contrast to Viviano, her constant attempts at humor.  Murney often lowers her voice to a pitch far beyond her scale, and after one or two mannish swings, the audience has had enough.  We want to hear her sing, and thankfully we do.  Murney is the one actor who ought to be less comedic on stage, and eventually, along with, unfortunately, the rest of the cast, she drops the charades for the tragedy of the songs leading to the finale.

            Jacquelyn Piro Donovan and George Dvorsky, oddly for actors and singers of their caliber, were actually subject to, respectively, a lyrics blank (for Donovan, during one of the best songs in the show, “Life Story”) and a false start (for Dvorsky, at the beginning of the health freak-targeting “There’s Nothing Like It”).  Otherwise, the two are funny and fun to watch.  They’re the ones who should stay funny, too, but Act II drags them into the dumps along with everyone else.

            Regardless of the slips and slides and nitpicky flaws, when Viviano, Murney, Donovan, and Dvorsky work together along with Maltby’s best lyrics and Shire’s always-great tunes, there is magic on the York’s stage.  During the closing (and title) number, the cast does seem to get “closer than ever” to perfection, as kitschy as actually using that phrase to describe them might seem, and what does it matter if the bricks are a little cracked as long as the house looks beautiful when you’re done?

EDIT: After an extension, Closer Than Ever will now close on September 30^th.
EDIT: Closer Than Ever has been further extended through November 25th.

Going a Long Way to Avoid Being Tied Down

Yayoi Kusama at the Whitney

            The Whitney Museum at 75^th and Madison is known for celebrating today’s art, so perhaps a career retrospective, like the one running there now (through September 30^th) in honor of Japanese pop artist Yayoi Kusama, may seem out of place.  However, Kusama is still very much alive, producing new and original artworks from within the Japanese psychiatric hospital where she’s been living voluntarily for the past 35 years.  Is she crazy?  Well, who can speculate?  But Kusama’s work is unique and original, and for an art museum, this is the part that matters.

            Kusama left Japan at a young age after finagling her way into art school and making a living painting with whatever she could find—often using house paint and sand to paint pictures on seed sacks.  When she made it to America, she fell in with the pop crowd of New York, becoming acquainted with noted artist Georgia O’Keefe and a disciple of the minimalist Donald Judd.  She fabricated chairs covered in phalli, collages, paintings, clothes, and furniture.  The only thing one can conclude about Kusama’s art as a whole is that she was—and is—ceaselessly avoiding being defined as an artist.  It’s clear Kusama doesn’t want anyone to think of her as a fashion or interior designer, but for that matter one wouldn’t think her to be a sculptor or painter either.  It’s hard to pin Yayoi Kusama, and that’s exactly how she likes it.

            There are few common themes among the pieces at the retrospective, which, so says the museum, are meant to represent the “highlights of her career.”  (A full rather than career retrospective, the Whitney insists, would take up all six of its floors.)  One underlying idea, though, is dots.  Kusama seems to love dots, creating many of her best frescoes with pointillism, and dotting her collages (many of which she created with the help of her friend, collagist Joseph Cornell) with pink dots that seem to eradicate the message of the piece.  Kusama loves dots, and wears and sells dresses (many sold by Louis Vuitton, which also sponsors the exhibit) covered with them.  One of the museum’s docents suggested that Kusama thought of the earth itself as a dot among the galaxies of the universe.  Depressing, certainly, but true, and a truth that many great artists see as the center of their worldview.

            Kusama’s works are also all bright and conspicuous.  Even her canvasses painted all in white with gray dots—and yes, there are many of these—dominate the room.  Color plays a huge role in her work, as evidenced by some small, early works she made with India ink.  Most noticeable of these is The Coral Reef in the Sea, in which the background, as in many of Kusama’s best pieces, is black, and a multicolored, violin-shaped reef emerges from the darkness, suffused with an incandescent glow, and seeming to vibrate with life as a real reef does.  For a young woman in rural Japan who had never scuba dived or snorkeled, it’s an amazing view of an underwater paradise rendered with lifelike strokes.

            Not all the pieces are meant to mimic life, but most do.  They represent things we know about our lives that Kusama has inadvertently brought to the surface.  Some of her works are crude, some ridiculous, and some just plain eyesores, but she knew what the point behind each one was.  She is an artist who creates with the knowledge of the meaning of each piece, and even now, at 83, she is still painting pop masterpieces that will last for years to come.

            However, the most beautiful Kusama artwork on display at the Whitney is a timed-entry mirrored room on the first floor, which the artist calls “Fireflies on the Water.”  One person at a time enters the booth for one minute at a time.  Walking down a short plank into the middle of a flooded room, the entrant is besieged by wonder.  Lights hang from the ceiling in all conceivable colors, at different heights and different brightness.  Every wall is a mirror, and multiplies the lights out into eternity, giving one the feeling of observing an endless city, or for that matter a universe, from above.  Not only does it bestow an imagined power on the museumgoer, it also reminds you how small you are, and yet that your smallness is not necessarily such a bad thing.