Category Archives: theater

theater

I’m Not Surprised

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President Obama got front row seats to hear Elaine Stritch perform in his own living room. But his experience, as it turns out, was much like mine:

With Broadway at the White House, Elaine Stritch Is at Liberty (to Forget Her Lyrics) – ArtsBeat Blog – NYTimes.com

Saturday night, Mr. Ben and I saw A Little Night Music, which is a favorite of mine from way back, starring the ineffable, ageless Bernadette Peters and the ineffable but visibly aged Elaine Stritch. (Reminding me of a classic Sondheim song “I’m Still Here” about women on stage: “First you’re another sloe-eyed vamp, then someone’s mother, then you’re camp …”)

The show was wonderful — the chorus especially good, the music lovely — but hilarious Ms. Stritch could not, for the life of her, remember her lines. Most of the time she covered for herself well, and a fellow in the first row prompted her when necessary. Still, at one point, I shrunk back in my seat feeling awful for her. Even if it is true that she has not seen a sunrise sober in longer than I’ve been alive, she is a professional, and for a professional to lose face in front of a Broadway audience must be devastating.

Worse, though, is losing face in front of a President. Even if he’s gracious about it, as apparently the Obamas were. Regardless, I thought the ad placement on the NYT article about the event was unintentionally hilarious and ironic:

As was the choice of song. The words she forgot while singing in the White House? From “I’m Still Here.” Though she is, of course, and thank God. I’m thrilled I got to see her live, even in somewhat fumbling form, and I’m sure the Obamas are too.
birfday, theater

Whatever happened to the eye of the beholder?

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I remember enough from working in textbooks to say with 92.6% certainly that this Natalie Angier piece about mirrors will be anthologized up the wazzoo. It’s got everything! References to popular Greek myths, a sprinkling of statistics, some fluff, some science, all in two highly-readable pages. My beef with Angier’s latest attempt at channeling Malcolm Gladwell? This graph:

In a report titled “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Enhancement in Self-Recognition,” which appears online in The Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, Nicholas Epley and Erin Whitchurch described experiments in which people were asked to identify pictures of themselves amid a lineup of distracter faces. Participants identified their personal portraits significantly quicker when their faces were computer enhanced to be 20 percent more attractive.

20% more attractive, Natalie? Wow! You mean there’s an objective standard to these things?

The fact that people conceive of themselves as better looking than they are is fascinating. But the idea that readers will take it for granted that there is a concrete way to look 20% more attractive — fewer wrinkles? smaller nose? fuller lips? — makes me want to walk into walls.

Luckily I’ve been in too good a mood lately to let an ideological disagreement get me down. Birfday Saturday was all Food-Show-Food-Show, with friends along for the loopy ride. Show #1, the Dark Knight, was great, as I’m sure you’ve heard: too long — two movies buckled together, really, and played consecutively — but seriously well-directed. Still, my favorite parts all had to do with Heath Ledger. [SPOILERS AHEAD!] He has the most compelling performance and the funniest lines, and he gets to mock one of my least favorite cinematic/psychological conventions, the idea that all crazy adults had a pivotal moment in childhood that made them the way they are. It was my father, the Joker says, and you feel for him, you really think he means it. Then, later, equally seriously, It was my wife. He tries to tell a third story when Batman, who, of everyone, understands him best, cuts him off.

Watching the Joker, I found myself thinking about the line from the New Yorker’s recent piece on Obama: “Who sent you?” But just like that article ends up shrugging and admitting no one sent Obama (there wasn’t much dirt on him to dig up, it turns out) it’s not nearly so simple in the Joker’s case either. He is chaos, manic, like Twain’s Mysterious Stranger. Whether that’s intended to be a commentary on terrorism or God or the weather — whatever we Americans can’t control — is up in the air. But regardless, it works. Throughout the movie, I was scared enough that my hands were shaking. [Okay, spoilers finished. Those were pretty minor/pathetic spoilers too, but I’m trying to be sensitive.]

Show #2 was the very meta, very enjoyable [title of show], which just opened on Broadway. (It moved after running at the Vineyard for a while.) Much like Passing Strange, which Mr. Ben and I saw recently, it’s a smart, self-aware musical targeted at young people. Apparently, in the case of the latter, the strategy didn’t quite work out, which is really too bad. I’m glad we got to support it a little bit and I hope [title of show] has better luck.

faux gender theory, theater, TV

mints. peppermints.

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Two notable New York experiences to add to the books. First, on Saturday evening, two friends and I were on our tiptoes in the Eugene O’Neill theater watching Spring Awakening over the heads of 400 theater-goers (they were seated, the lucky bastards). All of a sudden, during the gay love ballad in Act II, a man stumbled into the darkness directly behind us and, making the most unpleasant noise I’ve ever heard outside the Union Square Subway Station, vomited all over the floor.

Bad theater district calamari? An adverse reaction to musicals made from 19th century German plays? Or maybe the man was Ted Haggard and onstage sight of the older boy seducing the younger one hit a little too close to home.

In any event, it was a testament to the highly entertaining nature of the show that my friends and I threw our hands over our noses and stayed where we were, though the Standing Room area instantly smelled as bad as anything I’ve smelled in the city outside the Fulton Street Subway Stop.

Have I mentioned my commute spans both the Union Square and Fulton Street stops? My mornings are fun.

The show was entertaining, although it didn’t bother to be terribly coherent or original, at least plotwise. (WARNING: SPOILERS!!) As I said to my friend during the intermission, “Those two sweet kids had *sex.* Naturally that can only lead to pregnancy and despair.” And sure enough. In fairness, I should add that in the case of Spring Awakening, it did also lead to more singing.

Seriously, playwrights, moviemakers, TV auteurs — we’ve seen it before. We understand that teenagers must be punished for their libidos (just as professional women must be punished for putting off having children by not being able to have children). Sigh. I’m sure there are punishment paradigms I’ve missed too — help me out, kidlets?

My second memorable New York experience had me sheepishly knocking on a neighbor’s door yesterday morning. We don’t know each other well, though we do share wireless internet through the wall. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to bother you. Can I borrow a cup of HBO tonite?” This was the 3rd-to-last-EVER episode of the Sopranos and damned if I was going to miss it just because I didn’t have premium cable and my two friends who do were both out of town.

Luckily my neighbor said “Sure!” Score! My assertiveness was rewarded. The show itself was chilling: it visually quoted incredibly disturbing scenes from both Shortbus and American History X. Not bad, Mr. Chase. I whimpered a lot and twisted around in my seat, trying to avoid the violence (the effects of which have lingered with me — I can’t stop thinking about my teeth and touching them with my tongue to make sure they’re still intact). My neighbor laughed at me and invited me to return for the next/last two episodes. Must be because I brought chocolate.