A whole mess of reviews

Yikes! I've gotten behind on the reviews something fierce. Fortunately, this collection should reiterate what so many others have already said: This is a darn good season for plays on Broadway.

A Bronx Tale
The first rule of writing a one-man show, of course, is to have a damn good story to tell. Chazz Palminteri's Bronx childhood has that from the start. His autobiographical romp takes us through a witnessed murder, an unlikely bond with a dangerous mobster and a perilous interracial romance. It also gives us the now well-known date test that, thanks to the advance of automatic car door locks, is no longer relevant, but I digress. While I wouldn’t call Palminteri’s characterizations one-note, there’s just not enough differentiation there to propel the basic underlying conflict between the two centers of the show: Palminteri’s working-class hero father and the smooth gangster Sonny. At times, it’s a bit like listening to a book-on-tape, albeit a darn interesting one.

Is He Dead?
Playgoers, be warned. The dusty relic now on display at the Lyceum Theatre is full of stock characters from the ethnic stereotype warehouse, contrived plot devices and groaners that even Fozzie Bear wouldn’t incorporate into his act. Case in point: German Stereotype Character, after causing his companions to recoil in disgust at his hunk of limburger cheese, pulls a sausage out of his trousers, noting “The wurst is yet to come.” So why is this show so darn entertaining? Credit the fine cast, led by Norbert Leo Butz as Jean-Francois Millet (based on the real Millet about as much as the real Sam Walton was represented in "Walmartopia"), a down-on-his-luck artist who, at the urging of his aforementioned stereotype-laden cadre of pals, decides to fake his own death to jack up the value of his paintings and reappear as his own sister to collect on the estate. “Is He Dead?” is slow to get rolling, but in the hands of Butz and a talented ensemble that includes John McMartin, the chameleonic David Pittu and Marylouise Burke—so delightful as a dotty old spinster that I’m finally ready to forgive her for that bizarre performance in the revival of “Into the Woods” a few years ago—you’ll find yourself sheepishly laughing with, not at, this show. Like a fine team of paleontologists, adapter David Ives, director Michael Blakemore and the cast have taken a few ancient bones and given us a clear picture of the original, charming beast.

Cymbeline
Had the Internet existed in Shakespeare’s time, I can only imagine the legion of angry Internet nerds pounding out scathing reviews following the premiere of “Cymbeline,” a twisted, confusing show that requires a flowchart even to get through the prologue. And then Jupiter comes down and fixes everything, helped by a step-by-step deathbed confession by one of the chief villains. In other words, a copout akin to “a wizard did it.” Still, like the first time I saw a production of the, to put it mildly, much less optimistic “Titus Andronicus,” I couldn’t help feel a little camp appreciation of this wacky work, particularly in the form of the lush production helmed by Mark Lamos at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theatre. The costumes, by Jess Goldstein, are gorgeous and are especially dazzling amongst the minimalist set—rows of gold columns to indicate a forest, for example. A lot of the acting is over-the-top, as it should be, but there’s also some very human performances to be found. Michael Cerveris anchors the show as the exiled groom Posthumus, John Pankow brings a quiet dignity to the proceedings as Posthumus' servant and David Furr and Gergory Wooddell. Martha Plimpton also continues her ascension as a go-to stage darling as the royal Imogen, whose verboten romance with Posthumus drives the action. And Phylicia Rashad and Adam Dannheisser are so much pompously hissing fun as the wicked mother-and-daughter team set out to usurp the kingdom that you’ll almost feel bad for laughing as Dannheisser’s disembodied head is dangled around the stage like a prop lantern.

The Seafarer
It’s hardly a spoiler, I suppose, to reveal in the first sentence of this review that the mysterious Mr. Lockhart, played by Ciaran Hinds in the production of Conor McPherson’s latest now playing at the Booth Theatre, is the devil himself. Even Sharky (Robert Morse), the very man whose soul he’s come to claim in a game of cards, doesn’t seem that surprised by it. Such is McPherson’s brilliance, though. He can so delicately weave in the Irish supernatural with his tragically pathetic characters that I’d probably be willing to overlook it if Jupiter popped in to help out with matters. Set appropriately enough on Christmas Eve, however, this devil has come to earth in a wholly human form and melds in with McPherson’s equally florid and conversational dialogue.. His description of hell is one of the finest original speeches to be seen on Broadway in some time. The rest of the cast is superb, too. Morse gurgles with reserved frustration that makes one fearful of the eventual explosive climax. Conleth Hill is tragicomic gold as a hard-luck oaf, and I’ll also prematurely make the call that Jim Norton, as Sharky's carefree yet ailing brother Richard, will be the man to beat in the supporting actor in a play Tony race this year. Do these characters sound familiar? Yes, “The Seafarer” is typical McPherson. Replace the devil character with a young woman, in fact, and one could pretty much perform the show in perfect repertory with “The Weir.” But it’s definitely on the higher plane of typical McPherson, which is not a bad thing in the least.

Cyrano de Bergerac
This isn't so much a review as a cautionary tale. Never forget about 7 p.m. Tuesday curtains! I had just gotten back from Washington and was relaxing at my apartment, thinking I had time for a little rest and a quick bite before the show tonight. At just a little after 6:40, I glanced at my ticket and realized my error. Somehow, I managed to get from Washington Heights to the Richard Rodgers Theatre in about 20 minutes and missed only about a minute of the action. But I hate latecomers -- even when they're me! Oh, OK. Here's a quick, one-sentence review: Kevin Kline is his usual excellence, Jennifer Garner exceeds expectations and finally seeing Daniel Sunjata made me realize just how much I regret not seeing "Take Me Out" when I had the chance.

Gay dating in the styx, or lack thereof

In recent months, I’ve been playing around with one of the online matchmaking services. No, I’m not talking about Gay.com or Manhunt. Let’s just call it one of the less fickle dating services, one of those sites that makes you juggle toggle meters and write essays just to gain the right to even correspond with someone. I’ve met some interesting people through it, one even pretty close to what I’m looking for in an LTR, although just not quite enough to get me to give up my confirmed bachelorhood just yet.

My schedule as of late, however, has made me put it all on the back burner. Just last night, someone whom I had been chatting with and who seemed like he might have a little potential suddenly bumped me to the reject pile largely because, I presume, I’m so hard to nail down nowadays. Dropped before the first date even had a chance to happen! As I alluded to in an earlier post, if Mr. Right had come along at any point in mid-November, I would have had a window of maybe two or three days to fit in a single date with him by the end of the year.

As evidence, I’m putting up this very blog post from a hotel in Bethesda, Md., where I just arrived tonight and will be leaving tomorrow following a brief business meeting.

All this made me realize: Do you know when the last time was that I had an actual date? Try around Halloween.

So I’m wondering – is my not dating right now a neglectful act? If it were all work causing this, it would be a no-brainer, but a lot of this hectic schedule is stuff I truly enjoy doing: traveling, seeing shows, visiting family and, of course, the chorus. And those two or three days I had in that dating window I really needed to fuel the introverted side of my personality. It's not as if I feel like I'm missing anything -- until people tell me that I am, that is.

Honestly, I’d rather not try to date if I don’t have the time to properly cultivate a good relationship should it come along. Self-centered? Perhaps. But I never jump into relationships quickly, and I’d rather not waste time spinning my wheels if it means cutting time out of things I enjoy doing. My usual philosophy on dating has been to give anyone a shot or two, even if they don’t seem my type, just to see what happens. But now, consider my bar officially raised. Or at least mounted. I just can’t decide if this is a mature or immature decision at this point.

And besides, that one guy who just sent me his “relationship essentials” is kind of cute.

My peace pipes are getting hoarse!

Things have been so hectic lately that I failed to give my usual shameless plug for the New York City Gay Men Chorus' concert! Alas, this time I missed out the off chance that I might help sell one extra ticket to a lost googler trying to figure out Tyler Hanes' sexuality of find the script to "A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking" (seriously -- that's been the most frequent search leading people here as of late). So, I'm left to praise the morning after.

Really, I always hate the day after a performance, especially one for which I truly enjoyed preparing. Such a crash! Our new director, Charles Beale, did a really great job putting this one -- our annual holiday concert at Carnegie Hall -- together. Admittedly, some of the song choices had a lot of us saying "Huh?" at the beginning of the rehearsal process --"You're the Voice"? That Heart song? Really? -- but it really blended into a lovely, coherent program, if I do say so myself. Angels and peace were the motif throughout, and it really spoke to some personal stuff with which I'm dealing right now, not to mention the crap that's going on in the political landscape right now. (I'm ready for my quarantine, Mr. Huckabee!)

I'll especially cherish the memory of working with Kelli O'Hara. She was a real workhorse for this concert, doing four numbers in a row in the first act as well as a surprise appearance in the second. She told us it was a special occasion for her as well, as a friend of hers who has since died had been in the chorus a few years back. She and bari/bass Robert Osborne were stunning on the Gerald Finzi cantata "In Terra Pax." I wish I'd slipped in my voice recorder for a bootleg, but those Carnegie folk are pretty scary about that, and I didn't want to risk getting caught and getting the chorus stuck with a heavy fine. Even if I had, the organ would have been overpowering from where I was standing, anyway.

Beyond that, I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to review my own performance! I will say, however, that there's no feeling like walking out to an applauding, packed house at Carnegie. Last year, my first concert with the chorus, I was really too overwhelmed to appreciate the experience. This year, I savored every moment.

So, since I can't plug the concert, buy our recordings! Even though I only participated in one of those recordings.

OK, enough of that. I'm falling behind, so I have a lot of reviews to get through this week as well as photos from Budapest. And a silly little detail called "work."

Les Kinsolving: The muttering dotard of the White House Press Corps

As fascinating as the World Net Daily rogues gallery of writers is -- Grandpappy Joseph "Uses More Questions Marks Than Periods" Farah, Star "Quarantine All Sodomites" Parker, Ted "'Bee Movie' Promotes Satanism" Baehr, Hal "I Know I Said It Thirty Years Ago, But We're In The Last Days, Really" Lindsey, Pat "Nothing In Quotation Marks Could Come Close To The Real Horror" Buchanan -- nothing compares with the piece of work known as Les Kinsolving.

The name probably doesn't ring a bell, but anyone who's ever watched a White House press briefing in the last several decades has seen him. Or any regular watcher of "The Daily Show," for that matter. He's the old goat who always rattles off some tinfoil hat question that whomever is handling the conference quickly bats away.

For anyone who's ever attended a City Council meeting, think of him as the zany lady who always sits in the front row, reeking of McCormick Gin and cat litter, and has a 15-minute diatribe prepared on the city's coyote problem or some other matter that's conflated to a crisis in her head only. The one to whom the mayor always nods politely to after the speech but would run like hell if he ever saw her on the street.

At any rate, World Net Daily is up in arms because White House spokeswoman Dana Perino brushed off the "questions" about AIDS that Kinsolving had prepared in honor of World AIDS Day. Here's the exchange:

KINSOLVING: "Two domestic questions. The Media Research Center – with the Centers for Disease Control's statistics that HIV/AIDS in the U.S. is still a great deal higher among men who have sex with men �"

PERINO:: "Let's move on to the next question. I'm not even going to dignify�"

KINSOLVING: "No�"

PERINO: "I'm not, Les, unless you want to just move on altogether. What's your next question?"

KINSOLVING: "All right. In major cities like Washington, Chicago and San Francisco, there are reports that gay bathhouses facilitate�"

PERINO: "Okay, Keith, go ahead. Les, it's inappropriate�"

KINSOLVING: "Inappropriate?"

KINSOLVING: "AIDS isn't that�"

PERINO: "Just stop it, stop it."

This is actually interesting for what it says about both the actors involved. Kinsolving absolutely hates homos to the point that he'd like to see them in ovens. Meanwhile, Perino is stuck with that White House policy to talk about AIDS without ever, ever mentioning the gays. And World Net Daily spins the whole thing to say that the White House has banned questions about AIDS altogether. No, they just don't want to listen to a senile nut rattle off Brent Bozell's doctored statistics about it. And they don't mention the gays EVER, except in cloaked language about marriage amendments.

Synchronize your bigotry, guys. It's embarrassing when you show up to a party in clashing outfits.

No touchbacks

Rats. Tagged again. As indicated in the comments in a previous post, I've once again been hit with the "seven weird facts" meme. Thanks a lot, Angela! Now, I'm not going to repost the rules or tag anyone else, even if it means seven years bad luck or that Ronald McDonald won't run across my screen and drop-kick the Taco Bell dog. But, since I've been blog negligent, I'll do it again as penance. Here were my last seven facts, in cast you missed them.

1. When I was four, my sister made me learn her twirling routine as she tried out for the drill team. The music was...gosh, I can't remember the name of the song. It was used in an 80s movie--I can't remember which one--and it had no lyrics. That song used in the SNL sketch about the male synchronized swimmers. Long story short, sis didn't make the team, thus ending my twirling career.

2. I learned to eat beans only a few years ago. For most of the rest of my life, I wouldn't touch them. This included almost every type of bean outside of soy.

3. Although I've been a pretty consistent blond in recent years, I used to dye my hair all sorts of colors. My favorite was red, which I did when I was in "Dancing at Lughnasa."

4. I mentioned this in a blog comment before, but presidential hopeful Ron Paul was my mother's obstetrician and was supposed to deliver me. I was several weeks early, however, so he was out of town when I was born. Paul was also my sister's obstetrician several years later and actually was on hand to deliver my nephew. When I was in the Cub Scouts, I also got to swim in Paul's swimming pool.

5. I can name all the books of the Bible to this day, thanks to an annoying summer church camp ditty from years ago. I have to hum the tune in my head as I do it, though. And I can't name the apocrypha. Not in order, at least.

6. I was supposed to have been a featured extra in the film "Powder," but an unpleasant high school principal blocked me from doing so with nasty threats.

7. My first major writing project was a book I wrote in the second grade about the digestive tract. It was from the point of view of a roast beef sandwich. You should've seen my illustrations, particularly the chyme with the smiley face on it.

Didn't Malcolm McDowell kill some lady with this in 'A Clockwork Orange'?

I'm back! More on the travels and such later, but I'd rather get this poor, neglected blog started again with something lewd. What else? I go visit my parents at Thanksgiving to discover this in my mother's kitchen:


Apparently she found it stored away during a cleaning kick and decided to add it to the home decor. OK. So I'm told it's some sort of good luck charm to have a witch in your kitchen. But look at that thing REALLY closely. See if you notice anything unsettling about it.

Good luck indeed. And no, that Special K behind the witch isn't for a rave.

One of those heinous 'why I'm not posting' posts

My blogging record has been pretty bad the last few weeks -- even for me! Let me explain: I'm never home. And that won't be changing anytime soon.

Between business trips, a choral retreat and holiday visits with family members, I've figured out that I will be actually sleeping in my apartment a grand total of 15 nights for the rest of this year. I'm sitting in Texas right now, in fact, about to go to bed so that I can wake up and fly to Budapest tomorrow. If I can get out, that is. The weather in Houston really bites this weekend.

So expect my blogging to be more sporadic than usual the next few weeks. But at least know that when I do write something, it's because I really have something to say.

My holiday sanity guide

At this point, I've already had all the Starbucks holiday drinks -- even the fat, fat fatty eggnog latte -- the wreaths are up at Penn Station, and, thanks to preparations for the NYC Gay Men's Chorus holiday show, I've been singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" since September. But that's OK with me. I'm a pretty damn cynical person, but I still get caught up in the whole holiday thing.

It's largely because of the music. Yeah, I'm one of those annoying people who doesn't mind mixing in a little holiday music on his iPod shuffle year-round. But I'm convinced the people who hate holiday music are those who don't listen to it right. They either get stuck on on of those all-holiday radio stations that play the same flat versions of the standards over and over again -- Just what IS so funny to Bruce Springsteen at the end of his "Santa Claus is Coming to Town"? And don't get me started on the cruddy Christmas shoes song, or the one where Dan Fogelberg drinks beer with an old flame in a supermarket parking lot -- or, even worse, they just judge by department store holiday muzak.

Nay, I say! Here's 10 holiday songs that I can't live without, in no particular order:

"That's What I Want for Christmas," as sung by Nancy Wilson
The radio leans toward the Dixie-Chicks-lite group sheDAISY's version of this song, but there's no holiday song around that's better suited to the sultry Miss Nancy.

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," as sung by Doris Day
The Judy Garland version is just too obvious, so Day's is a nice alternative. And, unlike most non-Garland versions, this one sticks to the original, depressing lyrics. Oh, crap. I'm going to get that "speaking of Judy Garland..." message in my comments now.

"Jingle Bells?," as sung by Barbra Streisand
This one gets a little radio play, but not much. Absolutely hilarious and a wonderful reminder that Barbra doesn't ALWAYS take herself so seriously.

Ding Dong Merrily on High," as sung by Julie Andrews
The recording is kind of hard to find now, Dame Andrews' Christmas album -- given away at Hallmark more than a decade ago -- is one of the best. This is probably the most showy piece for her on the album.

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," as performed by Linda McKechnie
McKechnie isn't well-known outside of the church musician circle, but she's really quite a fun arranger. Her usual gimmick is to take a classical work and wrap a hymn tune around it. It's stunning how well they intertwine sometimes. This is one of those cases, in which the old carol is mingled with "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies."

"Gloria," as performed by the Boston Pops
I didn't know this Randol Bass composition until last year, when I performed it with the chorus. Quite a fascinating piece, using a lot of irregular meter, actually. Of course, it's also available on the chorus' "Holiday Homecoming" album. Plug!

"Do You Hear What I Hear?" as performed by The Carpenters
I'm hard-pressed to pick just one song of The Carpenters' holiday canon, as those are THE holiday albums for me. While everyone might gravitate toward "Merry Christmas, Darling," I prefer this standard in all its Carpenter cheesiness.

"I'll Be Home for Christmas," as performed by Connie Francis
She sings it just like she sang "Where the Boys Are." And, uh, pretty much everything else. 'Nuff said.

"Please Come Home for Christmas," as performed by Anita Cochran
Again, the song itself its in fairly regular rotation on the radio. But they play only the dull-as-Dishwalla version by The Eagles or the version by love-him-or-hate-him Aaron Neville. Listen to a country-fried version, though, and you'll never want to hear it any other way.

"What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" as performed by the O'Jays
It's probably blasphemy to pick their version when both Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald have versions. But this is shrieky doo-wop at its best, folks.

There you have it. Most of these are on iTunes, except for Julie Andrews, I think. Still not convinced? Perhaps as December gets closer, I'll put together the 10 absolute worst holiday recordings I know.

What wine should I serve with roach crap?

Here's a tasty bit of irony. Last week, Upper East Side tourist magnet Serendipity 3 unveiled its latest in opulance: a $25,000 chocolate sundae, using numerous exotic chocolates, served in a gold goblet wrapped in a diamond bracelet with edible gold -- does that even digest, or is it like the morning after drinking Goldschlager? -- and accompanied by an exotic truffle. The owner bragged to the media how he knew that wealthy Saudi princes would be flooding the dessert eatery picking up a couple to impress their wives.

This week? The place is shut down by the health inspector. Sewage problems, live mice, tons of cockroaches -- you name it, they found it. Nummers.

Honestly, even if I were a Saudi prince, I can't imagine myself eating these overpriced publicity gimmicks. Remember the famed $1,000 pizza from earlier this year? The one with six kinds of caviar, fresh lobster, chives and creme fraiche on it? Way, way too busy. Your tongue wouldn't even be able to distinguish the different caviars. The common cook's rule of limiting your pizzas to about three ingredients is there for a reason.

Weekend review roundup

Well, actually, uh...I was going to see either "August: Osage County," "The Seafarer" or "A Bronx Tale" this weekend, but obviously, that didn't happen. And I'll spare you guys another Duran Duran post. Instead, I'll try to respond some common things I've been reading and hearing regarding the strike. I might not have intimate knowledge of the parties involved, but I have covered my share of labor negotiations in the past.

Lazy union people. I wish I could just not show up for work when things don't go my way.

Guess what? You can! Not in a union? Try to organize a wildcat strike. Or better yet, why not just use one of those wonderful sick days, personal days or vacation days you've no doubt been accumulating? You know, one of those things you probably wouldn't even have had unions never existed? You'll even still get paid!

If people don't like their job, they should just go find a new one instead of whining about it all the time.

Yeah. That's really easy to do. Everyone who makes this argument hereby loses the right to ever complain about any aspect of his/her work again. And that would make them one of those people who just prattle on about how wonderful his/her job is. And nobody likes those people.

It's pretty selfish for them to go on strike considering how some people have planned trips in advance to see shows.

Yeah, um, if there wasn't any hardship, it wouldn't be a very effective strike, would it? Sad to say, but all travel planning entails some risk. Whether it's Hurricane Bertha canceling your Caribbean cruise or Grandpa Gus having a massive stroke the day before your flight to Tripoli (I just learned Americans can go there again. Cool!), crap happens. Hell, when I went to Yellowstone, it rained the whole time, and I didn't get to ride a horse for the first time. I cried. Of course, I also was 9 years old. At least in this case, you get almost a full refund.

And on the other side:

The media spends far too much time talking to tourists with canceled tickets and not nearly enough time talking to the people this strike is really affecting.

Yes, because those angry tourists are easy to find and usually more than willing to talk. I once covered a strike in which a certain party complained that their side wasn't making it into the stories -- and then would provide me a one- or two-sentence canned statement to state its position. Simple entropy, folks. The loudest and most accessible people will always get the best coverage.

In New York, $150,000 a year barely qualifies as middle class.

Then I am beyond poverty stricken.

You insensitive jerk. I really do have a Grandpa Gus, and he just died last week.

Oops. My condolences.

One more Duran Duran video

I can't resist, so here's one more. I actually shot one more, but the video quality is so bad, I'm too embarrassed to post it. Yes, it's possible to shoot with worse video quality than what you're seeing here!

At any rate, this was during the electronica set of the concert, a performance of "Skin Trade." Sorry the camera moves around so much, but I was dancing at this point. You also get a fab view of the video camera the girl in front of me was using.

Breaking the law!

Ushers were oddly complacent during Duran Duran's performance at the Barrymore Theatre. They made sure nobody brought beer back to their seats, but in regards to photography, it was a free-for-all. The girl in front of me had an actual video camera out for the entire second act.

Well, when in Rome...

I'll have more on the show later, but here's a little video I shot from the rear mezzanine. Enjoy it until YouTube inevitably takes it down.

A vision of the Claymates in the year 2050

As was alluded to in the comments, it was a rather fun people-watching experience at the Steve & Eydie concert the other night 4 p.m. in the afternoon. Let's just say it made us feel quite young! But nothing compared with the crew behind us.

It was a crew of typical er, mature Long Island ladies. I couldn't really describe their appearance because I didn't look behind me too often. But I could pick any one of them out of a lineup if they opened their mouths.

Even before the dazzling duo appeared onstage, the opening clip montage was enough to provoke squeals of delight. It was kind of like the dead people reel during the Oscars. Who could get the biggest gasp? Steve Allen? Judy Garland? Bob Hope?

Nay, but that nothing compared to the nonstop chatter once Steve and Eydie started the show. I swear, it was like Hannah Montana herself was up there and I was a Brownie den mother. Or whatever they're called. Each song was followed by shrieks of "I LOVE YOU STEVE! YOU'RE FANTASTIC EYDIE!" And so on. Meanwhile, the songs themselves provoked orgasmic ohs of delight. I was expecting a pair of support hose or a bladder pad to fly past my head toward the stage at any minute. This was their Woodstock, dammit. And as seemingly annoying as it got, my companion and I agreed that it was just too funny to be truly annoying. Hell, I hope I keep passion for something...anything...going that long into my life.

Speaking of which, I just realized I've been quite neglectful in adding said companion to my link list. I've rectified that now.

Weekend review roundup

Rock 'n' Roll
How current is this? I'm actually writing about a show on the day it opens, just like a real reviewer! Yeah, and my ego needs the boost, because once again, Tom Stoppard has made me feel woefully inadequate. But here goes anyway. Rufus Sewell is absolutely stunning in his journey as Jan, a Czech native who returns from his studies in England with a love for the rock music the increasingly oppressive Communist regime finds dangerous and subversive. Brian Cox also is a powerhouse as Jan's mentor Max, who clings to the Communist party in England even as he sees the worldwide execution of the political philosophies' ideals betrayed by those who are spreading it. Both master Stoppard's usual delicious language. Yet, the stories that surround them just left me a little cold. Like "The Coast of Utopia" trilogy, Stoppard runs through the vignettes in Max's and Jan's lives at breakneck pace. This worked in "Utopia," in which we were dealing with historical figures. Here, however, these characters are all the invention of Stoppard, while the actual historical figures--Syd Barrett and Vaclav Havel the most prominent--largely remain offstage as catalysts to their development. The play too often feels like bullet points painting the life of two fictional characters. Beautifully written and acted bullet points, but bullet points nonetheless. Still, there are worse things to sit through than a Tom Stoppard Power Point presentation. And this one comes with really cool musical breaks in between scenes.

Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas
I missed this little spectacle last year, but--in my quixotic quest to see everything that opens on Broadway this year--I decided to give it a visit. And, to no fault of its own, it had two strikes against it before I even planted myself in the seat: I've been out of the target demographic for this show since Ronald Reagan left the presidency, and it's a bit difficult to get into the holiday spirit one day after wading my way through the Halloween parade crowds in the village. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, the show didn't give me quite the toothache I was expecting. Sure, adults will be checking their watches from about the first time sweet Cindy Lou Who ballads the first crack in the Grinch's crusty facade. But as the title character (that's the Grinch, not Dr. Seuss), the grumbling, growling Patrick Page is just about enough savory to counteract the gooey sweet that was inevitable in fleshing out the Whos enough to make a 30-minute TV special stretch to and hour and a half worth of material. In fact, it might even be enough for you not to complain too much about getting the foamy snow stuff blown into your hair at the end.

Steve & Eydie at the North Fork Theatre
"You're not old enough to remember Steve and Eydie," one patron remarked to me as I walked into the snappy duo's concert this afternoon in Westport. Well, yes, madame, I'm also not old enough to have known Giuseppe Verdi personally, but that doesn't stop me from going to the opera. What's more, I lived in Atlantic City for more than a year, so I saw my share of casino billings that had me asking, "They're still alive?!" And I've seen my share of faded acts that just made me sad. Listening to Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, however...well, if I closed my eyes, I could have sworn I was listening to one of their old recordings. Gorme's knee problems made it a little more difficult for her to get around, but she can still perform "If He Walked Into My Life" with the best of them. And Lawrence, good heavens, looks and sounds no different than he did on the variety show clips from decades ago that they showed prior to the performance. Add in an incredibly lush orchestra to put in that extra pizazz, and you have more than enough reason to justify having to trek out to Long Island. Yes, my name is Mike, I am an old soul and I had a fantastic time this afternoon.

A special note to my new friend

Yes, you, dear. The lovable old scamp-of-a-thousand-facelifts outside of the Jacobs Theatre tonight. You know, the one who thought it would be proper to, as I stood in line to pick up my ticket from the box office, whack me with your cane so you could better read the posted review on the wall. The one who apparently thought that was the appropriate gesture rather than a simple "excuse me." The one who also apparently thought the absolute best time to read up on a show was within 30 minutes of an actual performance, a time when dozens of other people are gathered around the theatre, particularly those trying to get in the aforementioned line that happens to go right through your choice reading spot. The one who proved that, without a doubt, the sense of entitlement is the absolutely last thing to go, long after looks, health, grace and tact.

Yes, dear. I have a message for you. What was it? Ah, yes! Go to hell.

That is all.

Oh, and happy Halloween everyone! Hope your costumes were great. I apparently dressed up as an American vandal in Singapore.

Weekend review roundup

Young Frankenstein
Mel Brooks and the creative dream team behind the record-setting musical version of "The Producers" is back on Broadway, and along with their own impressive Tony total, they've put together a cast with -- a what I think is an unprecedented -- four Tony winners, not to mention a multiple Emmy winner, in their musical version of Brooks' "Young Frankenstein." Still, despite all the special effects lightning onstage, there's just never the right electricity to give life to this primeval soup of fine ingredients. Granted, Roger Bart, who plays the title role, is currently sidelined with a rather serious injury, which no doubt throws off the balance of the show greatly, even though understudy Matthew LaBanca is giving a solid performance in his stead. Even with that in mind, however, the biggest problem with "Young Frankenstein" is that it's just more of the same. Really, how many times can the Jerome Robbins "Fiddler on the Roof" choreography be parodied? There are plenty of fun moments, many involving the always wonderful Andrea Martin as Frau Blucher. And Brooks' music is still appealing even in its repetitive simplicity. But unlike "The Producers," which strung these gags along to several "wow" moments, there's no such point in this show. Perhaps the famous scene in which the Monster (Shuler Hensley) performs "Puttin' on the Ritz" was meant to be that moment. But unlike "Springtime for Hitler," which was wonderfully reimagined to fit in with the musical, the moment here isn't that radically different than what is in the film. While it might be fun to see a favorite moment like that recreated in person, it's pretty hard to justify the bloated ticket prices they've set for this show.

Xanadu
Yeah, I've already reviewed this show. I'm revisiting it only to admit that I was wrong, wrong, wrong. A friend of mine got me onstage seating for the show this weekend, and it was a blast. Back when I reviewed it, I assumed "Xanadu" would already be halfway across the River Styx by now. But it's doing respectable business, and I say bravo to it. Not only was I wrong about the show's prospects, I was also dead wrong when I attempted to correct its mythology (and I'm surprised no one called me out on this in the comments). Paris did indeed kill Achilles, not Hector, as I tried to say. Jeez. I was a grump when I wrote that review, so consider this a slap to June Mike!

Also another fun fact: With "Young Frankenstein" in my Playbill collection, I now have one beginning with every letter of the alphabet, except for Z. Time to bring back "Zanna, Don't!" or "Zorba," folks. Or perhaps someone can write a one-person show about Zero Mostel or Zsa Zsa Gabor. I don't know whatever happened to my Playbill of "Zorro: The Musical," though.

Oh, and speaking of pointless miscellany, yet one more song is gone from the theme song candidates: Krisanthi Pappas' "Pure Imagination" medley. Gosh, I'm rooting for Jessica Molaskey now.

Presence makes the heart grow harder

Prior to living in New York, I was, for the most part, ambivalent to Rudy Giuliani. With the exception of his appearance in that one Rage Against The Machine music video, he seemed like an affable enough guy. Being a Texan, I thought any Republican who didn't hate the homos was kind of a cool novelty.

Then, I moved here and noticed the deep-seated contempt so many long-time New Yorkers had for the man. That made me take notice. After all, I disliked George W. Bush long before he had the chance to show his true colors in the White House.

Now that ambivalence is gone. He's crossed the line into the unforgivable. Most egregious was his decision to kiss the butt of Family Research Council executive director Tony Perkins -- who, by the way, has some ties to white supremacist groups in the not-so-distant past -- by coming up with some bizarre circumstance under which he'd support a federal marriage amendment. The other was his equally bizarre decision to root for the Red Sox. He explained that one away by saying he'd always support the American League team in the World Series, unless, perhaps, the Mets were involved. You hear that Houston, St. Louis, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Washington, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, Phoenix, Denver, Miami and the sad half of Chicago? He automatically hates your teams.

Seriously, though, do you know how much of a spit-in-the-face it is to Yankee fans for him to come out for the Red Sox? Giuliani had better hope his next appearance at a Yankees game isn't on Bat Day. And I wonder what that gay couple -- you know, that one who took him in after one of his many marriages failed -- thinks of his sudden support, albeit tepid support, for a marriage amendment? Politicians pander. I know. But these turncoat moments are so egregious that I'll bet even Mitt Romney's embarrassed for him.

Weekend review roundup (a few days early)

The Farnsworth Invention
Tired of seeing films adapted for the stage? Well, how about seeing a film that never even got made adapted for the stage? Honestly, I had no idea that "The Farnsworth Invention," Aaron Sorkin's new play about the race to invent television, now in previews for its Broadway debut at The Music Box, was adapted from an unproduced screenplay until I read up a bit on its later, but the production is so cinematic, I'd already made that guess. The Andrew Lippa-composed relentless underscoring, the huge number of characters and the vignette-style scenes are some of the obvious signs that this is a medium-out-of-water experience. Still, as a former broadcast major in college, it's a compelling story, although I imagine it might be rather tedious for some. The two leads in the cast--the heretofore criminally underused Jimmi Simpson as brainiac inventor Philo Farnsworth and Hank Azaria ruthless businessman and NBC founder David Sarnoff--are more than up to the task here. The big problem comes from the rest of the cast. No one is particularly bad; some, in fact, are quite good. However, most of the 18 or so supporting members play multiple roles to flesh out the more than 100 characters in this show. And some of these characters appear so briefly, it's a bit confusing to see one of the guys funding Farnsworth's research suddenly working for Sarnoff in another scene, or to see Sarnoff barking orders at the young actor who was only recently playing his childhood self. What's more, the script relies entirely too much on narration, and the fact that our two narrators establish themselves as not-too-trustworthy from the get-go makes it even more problematic. Even so, this "Rashomon" of television history is worth checking out for anyone who isn't put off by quite a bit of technical babble. Also, in technical and pacing terms, it was in great shape, particularly considering it was the third preview.

Die Mommie Die!
Housed appropriately enough in the same theatre that brought us "Evil Dead: The Musical: last year, Charles Busch's 1999 play is finally here for New York viewers. With melodramatic mugging, intentionally cheesy effects and suggested incest-o-plenty, fans of Busch, and "Evil Dead" for that matter, won't be disappointed. While it's always fun to see Busch bring one of his anti-heroines to life--in this case, faded chanteuse Angela Arden--the real discovery here is "As The World Turns" star Van Hansis as Arden's dopey, psychopathic, nymphomaniac son Lance. No, I'm not just saying that because he's cute. Hansis does the best job here of keeping up with the show's over-the-nature, without which, the "in a good way" that follows "bad" would disappear.

Success!

It worked! One day after I hatch a scheme to boost international readership, I've made a breakthrough. I've been translated into German! At first I thought it was a death threat -- die Lunar Gemini -- but no, it's a German translation of my reviews from the other day. And from what I can tell, it's a travel site looking for information on the actual island of Mauritius, so my post is not at all relevant. But, it's a step. And I learned how to say matricide in German (muttermord).

Oh, and I also must give special credit to the Californian who found this spot with the Google search: "Would Tom Cruise love to get a hangover in Iraq if a car bomb went off while he was on marijuana." I can only assume you read the same news story that I did. Or you're really, really disturbed. Either way, bravo.

Building an international readership

In an effort to get this blog on the world map, I'm going to utilize the latest search result news from Google and try to appeal to Web-searchers across the globe. Let's see if this works!

To Mexico (favorite key words: David Beckham, Britney Spears, Hitler, gay)
Actually, I'm not sure which gay sign hit first for me: the love of Beckham, or the love of Britney. But I'm pretty sure Hitler wasn't a catalyst in that awakening.

To Colombia (favorite key word: gay)
I'm single, boys!

To Chile (favorite key words: gay, homosexual, Nazi)
I'm really, really single, boys! And I watch "The Sound of Music" every year.

To Italy (favorite key word: Viagra)
Sono singolo, uomini. And very patient.

To Germany (favorite key words: Hitler, Viagra)
Um, guys? You might want to broaden your horizons. And that might help with the other problem, too. Just sayin'.

To the Czech Republic (favorite key word: dolly buster)
What the hell's a dolly buster?!

To Slovakia (favorite key word: dolly buster)
Well, whatever it is, could it be the key to once again creating a reunified Czechoslovakia?

To Iran (favorite key word: IAEA)
Um, guys? See my above advice for Germany? That applies here, too. Just sayin'.

To the Philippines (favorite key words: terrorism, homosexual, love)
Oh, I'm, uh, not single anymore. No, it wasn't the terrorism thing. It was that last word.

To Pakistan (favorite key words: jihad, terrorism, IAEA, Taliban)
Uhhhhh............

To the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (favorite key words: like they're gonna tell)
I'll soon be posting photos from my visit to Islamabad!

To Ireland (favorite key words: Kate Moss, hangover)
Actually, guys, I'm not sure that's the right word for cocaine after effects.

To my fellow Americans (favorite key words: hangover, burrito, Iraq, Tom Cruise, love, Botox, Car Bomb, Marijuana)
See, any one of these things -- except Iraq -- could probably be found at a Taco Bell at 2 a.m. God bless the U.S.A.

And finally, to our neighbors to the north (favorite key words: burrito, Iraq, Taliban, Tom Cruise, Britney Spears, Car Bomb, Marijuana)
Wow. Pretty much the same fun as the U.S., but without the hangover. Damn your superior health care system!