Oscar E Moore

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IBSEN’S GHOST – a disappointing drag PRIMARY STAGES

March 15th, 2024 by Oscar E Moore
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To be perfectly clear this is not GHOSTS by Henrik Ibsen.  This is Ibsen’s Ghost by Charles Busch infamous Queen of drag who can sometimes, most times be a riot on stage in his many portrayals of women on the verge.  Sad to report not this time.

Mr. Busch has written a disappointing, convoluted plot that has him starring as Henrik Ibsen’s widow (Suzannah Ibsen) soon after his demise, attempting to cash in on her “intimate” letters with her husband.  Publisher George Elsted (Christopher Borg, sporting a memorable mustache) finds them dull as is most of this production that originated at The George Street Playhouse in New Jersey.

The confusing plot, as is, goes on for almost two hours with an intermission that could be condensed into one act with a lot more clarity thrown in.

Almost everything else is including the much admired silent movie-like mugging of Mr. Busch (with a wink or rolling of his eyes, or his prissy mouth just waiting to skewer with some nasty repartee, a nod to Chekhov with a pistol that misfires as does Act II and some sexual innuendos that fail to titillate.

The cast is delightful.  Especially the infirm, limping across the stage maid (Jen Cody) who tripping and falling now and then steals every scene she is a part of.

Jennifer Van Dyck is as usual right on target as her portrayal of another of Ibsen’s amours Hanna Solberg who is attempting to publish her own collection of memories of dearly departed Henrik.

Then there is Judy Kaye as Magdalene Thoresen.  What a pleasure and treat to see her once more even though I wasn’t quite sure who or why she was there.  My mind kept wandering (thinking of Florence Foster Jenkins) so I must have missed some vital connection.

She is the only one on stage at 59 East 59 who I cared about.  She is real and funny and looks beautiful in her costumes and wigs where one can see where all the money was spent on this production.  Mr. Busch’s wardrobe (Gregory Gale) is also quite stunning.  If only his writing here were that impressive.  Visually the show works beautifully.  Bobbie Zlotnik designed the hair, make-up and wigs which are standouts.

Thomas Gibson appears mysteriously as Wolf, Henrik’s illegitimate sailor son who hitches up with the not so merry widow.

And finally Christopher Borg reappears in drag as The Rat Wife a clairvoyant and is excellent.

This entire mish-mash is directed by longtime collaborator Carl Andress.

Ibsen’s Ghost is billed as “an Irresponsible Biographical Fantasy”

They got that right.  Limited engagement.

Through April 14  PHOTO: James Leynse

 

www.primarystages.org

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MAVIS THE MOSQUITO – A FLIGHT OF FANTASY

February 14th, 2024 by Oscar E Moore
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I have a cousin.  She’s a mosquito.  I am a fly.  A reincarnated fly.  Oh, the stories I could tell – this being one of them…

Matthew by name.   Our families somehow, somewhere had some inter-mingling, so-to-speak and we wound up cousins.  Funny how things like that work out.  Or don’t.

Mavis and I do not think alike.  Nor do we look alike.  We couldn’t be more different if I were a fly and she a mosquito.  Which we are.

We sometimes fly into one another at the local swamp or city dump.  Not often, mind you.  Those places are much too humid and smelly for me.  I prefer to find a nice, quiet comfortable apartment that I can sneak into and set up home.  Come and go when I want.  Just as long as there is plenty of cool clean water available to quench my incredibly unquenchable thirst.  And an open window.

Mavis needs a crowd.  Adoring fans so-to-speak according to her long suffering, living way beyond his expected life span dad Melvin.  Poor Uncle Melvin.   Once a month he has to have his eyes examined.  Keeps bumping into walls and windows.  Not seeing them until it’s too late.

His vision hasn’t gotten any worse nor has it gotten better.  He has learned to adjust to the few bruises here and there and his ever present bent stinger.  Thankfully his buzzzzzz still works when needed.

He manages.  Both with his eyesight and his demanding daughter who never stops complaining.  Looking for a better life.  Always plotting ahead.  Thinking primarily of stardom.  Granted she has the most beautiful legs.  Gorgeous she would correct.  Each and every one.  But she can be a nuisance.  Prone to sting when least expected.  And.  It’s always.  About her!

So I was not surprised when I heard through my private grapevine (Uncle Melvin) about her insistence to audition for the world famous Bumble, Bee and Bailey Flea Circus.  The all-important word is flea.  Something that Mavis is definitely not.  Persistent and pushy yes.  A flea?  No way.  Is she talented?  That remains to be seen.

Mavis, not to be discouraged by anyone or anything set forth in becoming its newest and greatest star attraction.  “I will never be out of the spotlight” was her mantra.  “Never!”  With pure determination and will power.  And those six, count ‘em, six gorgeous legs.

MOSQUITO ON THE RISE –

Matthew Presser reporting for FLY ON THE WALL NEWS

Undoubtedly you have heard of Mavis.  Or I should stand corrected and say Marlene as that is who she insists on being called after officially changing her name as a result of being hired as Bumble, Bee and Bailey’s newest novelty attraction with her fantastic jazzy rendition of VOLARE – that number one catchy tune sweeping the swamps here and the hinterlands there performed with Fosse inspired movements showcasing her newly multi-million dollar insured gams that will surely enthrall audiences looking for a good time.

And I quote – “I wanted something exotic.  Mavis sounds like some rinky-dink rent-a car company.  But the one and only Marlene also known for her glamorous gams was more to my liking.  And I have four more than she.”

Rave reviews for FLY BY NIGHT FOLLIES.  Standing room only!

SOLD OUT– SOLD OUT, flashed repeatedly on a flea-sized marque in bright tiny multi-colored neon bulbs welcoming Marlene at every sold out performance; attracting all sorts of flying creatures – paying and non.

And then Delilah the demon dragonfly showed up.  At the stage door.  With her iron-clad contract that had a tiny iron clad clause that was conveniently overlooked by Messrs. Bumble, Bee and Bailey which clearly stated that the semi-retired Delilah Dragonfly could at any future time return to her starring status at the circus.  And that time was now.

Marlene formerly Mavis was not amused as the saying goes.

She had those glamorous gams and brazen gall but devious Delilah had those spellbinding gossamer art nouveau like double wings plus three pair of lovely legs that out-shown Marlene under the all-important spotlight.  Not to mention she was the recently divorced mate of one Mr. Bee.

It was reported by yours truly that soon after this incident Marlene met with yet another more unfortunate incident.  Somehow backstage, in the wings of all places, a simple sand bag hanging from the rafters mysteriously fell just as Marlene was about to make her entrance hitting her dead center where she and her glamorous gams met their tragic demise.  Stage Center!  In the spotlight of course.  Splat!

But as the saying goes – the show must go on.  And so it did.  Starring the one and only Delilah the Demon Dragonfly.

 

 

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THE AUDITION

December 21st, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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So what!  So I haven’t got any professional experience.  Just loads of school stuff.  Starring roles, by the way.  I keep telling myself over and over it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter at all.  Even so – No. Wait.  Maybe I could include that business with Tom Sawyer at Carnegie Hall Rehearsal Studios that was somewhat semi-professional where I sang “Beautiful Ohio” solo!  Why not?!

So I haven’t got an agent.  Don’t even know what an agent is or does or doesn’t do as the case may be.

An agent – quote, unquote – supposedly, I hear tell, gets you a job.  I thought talent did that.

Unfortunately I can’t read music.  Fortunately I have a great ear and can pick up a tune and memorize it immediately with my natural tenor/baritone tones that have caused some to swoon.  Just don’t ask me to harmonize.  I get lost.  Quickly.  So there.

But this is a job that I desperately want.  My very first professional audition.  On the sly.  To be completely explicit I intend not to tell a soul and that includes my best buddy Irwin anything until I am chosen.  At age sixteen!  Amazing.  Isn’t it?

Oh, yeah.  I want to be respected.  Not made fun of.  Be a somebody on Broadway and maybe just maybe my classmates, not the idiots that laugh and jeer when I sing in the auditorium but the others that tell me I am destined to be a star on stage especially after my breakthrough comic performance of Henry Spofford III in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, directed by our so called acting coach – overweigh, horny, jovial but not the neatest of guys – Mr. Perkins.  Whew!

Boy did I surprise all of them, myself included.

All of a sudden during after class rehearsal something overtook me.  The part was strictly dullsville.  And so the – “I don’t know what happened” happened and I was took.  And I was funny.  Really funny.  I never knew funny was in me.  I was a success and those idiots that made fun of me and my singing had a rude awakening.  I was all of a sudden taken seriously.  Seriously funny I mean.  Whatever.

So why did I wind up in tears at the automat at 42 Street and Times Square on that rainy day in May at four in the afternoon?  That is some tale to tell.   So here goes…

My mismatched, taciturn parents (except for their occasional battle cries with each other at 3 am, awakening me and disturbing my slumbers with pots and pans rattling between screeching) purchased a trio of tickets to the new Rodgers and Hammerstein musical FLOWER DRUM SONG as a gift for my birthday.  This once a year gift was most welcome.  However high the seats were and they were always the highest, one could still make out what was on stage and could hear the beautiful words and music.  One song caught my attention immediately.  “Don’t Marry Me” – I had to learn it.

Somehow I finagled Mr. and Mrs. Taciturn to buy me the sheet music at The Colony after the performance.  I already planned during intermission to buy the original cast recording at my local record shop in Astoria.  With my saved up meager allowance.  Which I did post haste.  I always bought the LP of any new musical.

It did not matter that I couldn’t read the sheet music, I mean understand all those funny tiny black notes? – it was only to accompany me as I sang along with the album in the privacy of my bedroom.  Over and over until I had it down pat.

Now the plot thickens.  I had seen a notice in The New York Daily News regarding the forthcoming production of WILDCAT staring Lucille Ball and that they were searching for a young adult singer/actor/dancer OPEN CALL for a particular role.  Me.  I would be perfect.  Why not?

Oh, before I forget I must tell you that my dad mistakenly thought himself a dapper song and dance and teller of snappy stories sort of guy.  He wasn’t.  No way.  Except in an embarrassing way whenever he tried.  Which was every opportunity he could squeeze in at card parties that I was at times forced to attend.  Sad.  Mom knew to remain silent.  Sadder still.  She had heard them all.  Too many times.  Enough of that!  Back to WILDCAT.

It was raining.  No it was pouring.  Like in that Lana Turner flick – The Rains of Ranchipur.  Raining, like in torrential!  Actually it wasn’t that bad. I sometimes tend to exaggerate.

I cut class.  Got into New York by subway and found myself at the stage door of the Alvin Theatre soaking wet where a long line of other hopefuls, equally soaking wet, awaited its opening.  Standing in puddles and dripping with anticipation.

Had I rehearsed over and over to stand in line?  You bet!  So I waited.  Me and my damp sheet music.  I knew all the words.  Just didn’t know what would happen.  Could it really be me being chosen among all these hopefuls?  Why not?  After all I always was cast as the lead as I have already previously mentioned in all the school shows.  Elementary through High.  Hansel.  Curly.  Danny Churchill…refusing to wear some pink sequined toreador outfit that…

My crazy thoughts were racing through my head when the stage door opened and we were herded in.  Single file.  Like we were going to face a firing squad.

I was actually, really unbelievably inside a Broadway theater.  Not outside waiting for some star to autograph my program.  Inside.  Dark.  Empty.  Exciting.  Smelly.

One silly skinny lonely lamp lit by a caged bulb on the barren stage.  Barren except for a rickety upright piano and its worn out player and all us damp and nervous would be wannabe stars.

We were put in groups.  Like cattle.  Awaiting our chance to sing.  I was terrified.  Some guy kept moving us around and changing what group we were in and lots were let go – not even a thank you and then it was my turn to audition.

“NEXT!”  Yeah you dreamy eyes!

Where was all the magic? I wondered as I handed over my sweat dampened sheet music from under my shirt to the pianist who, stifling a yawn, seemed bored stiff from hearing what sounded like bits of every song ever written.

Petrified but fighting the feeling every step of the way I with a clear and firm voice stated my name and age – so far so good – adding my aspirations at winning the role I was here to win and that my Aunt Fanny who lived in Fort Lee had the highest of hopes…

“Please.  Young man.  Just sing.”  The mature and deeply resonant voice emanated from the darkness of the theater.

Yes, sir.  Sorry.  Thank you.  I nodded at sleepy eyes to once again begin my intro.

And so we began.  But something was off.  It just didn’t sound like the recording.  It was way different.  But I started to sing anyway and it was worse.  “Can we start over?  Please.”

I guess because I was sixteen and good looking and polite they all were so nice to me and so off we went.  “Off” is the operative word here.  Sleepy eyes and I were not in tune together and so I asked them if I could sing without the piano which they agreed to which I do not understand to this day why they agreed with so many others impatiently waiting to be next.  But they did.  And I sang.  It felt terrific.  All that I thought it would be.  Irwin would be proud.  Complete silence.

And then I got a very polite “thank you” from that deep resonant voice out there in the dark, retrieved my sheet music, smiled at my pianist and slowly left the theater, out through the stage door, barely holding back tears.  And headed straight to the Automat.  It was still raining.  But I had made it onto a Broadway stage with an unforgettable audition.

HE TAKES A BOW

To wit –

Don’t put the cart before the horse.  Do not audition until you are absolutely ready.  Let a smile be your umbrella.  And remember that a recording can be in a different key than what is on the sheet music where never the twain shall meet.

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‘TIS THE SEASON

December 20th, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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There have been many a Christmas tree in my life.  Even a Hanukkah Bush.  But few were chosen.  And so, I take this time to reflect.  A very personal view.

From the ridiculous – does anyone remember EVERGLEAM?  Hard to forget those easy to assemble aluminum monstrosities – rotating color wheel included!  To the sublime – a revelation!  A glowing, aromatic real candle lighted Scotch pine shared in the cozy Upper West Side apartment – Eighty fifth off Central Park West – with my first infatuation and The Pearl Fishers, culminating with a very personal bittersweet remembrance when I was ten.

Humor me.

Thanksgiving has come and gone.  Again.  The overlong, boring and seemingly endless Macy’s parade is now on endless repeat.  Football games overpopulate the airways.  I don’t get that game.  Never did.  And we are being force fed the traditional expectations of that miraculous birth of that poor carpenter who was crucified for all those that believe in such glad tidings.  All to the sound of the cash register.

I remember when all things were simpler.  I remember eagerly anticipating having my father with me tagging along carefully selecting and bringing home a perfect Blue Spruce (the only acceptable) tree to decorate for the Christmas holiday.  Oh, its wonderful smell.  And all that snow.  If we were lucky.  Hundreds of tiny flakes peacefully drifting down into our meager back yard.

Taking out the few dusty cardboard boxes of old fragile glass finely decorated ornaments hidden away in a hallway closet.  Carefully.  Enjoying their glistening beauty.

Look!  A string of colorful plastic lights resembling candles that when untangled (not so easy) and plugged in, their encased liquid would mysteriously start to bubble-up from within.  Magical.

Don’t forget the Tinsel!  Not too much.  Be careful.  Don’t throw it on.  Place it gently and with purpose.  Like icicles.  And my favorite camel.

Part of a Nativity set.  The only survivor.  Made of chalk.  I loved it and still do.  Omar remains close by on view all year long.

Christmas Eve.  I must have been about ten.  Aware but not fully of how things really were between my parents.  Not much communication.  Each of us in our own world.  I was happy enough just to enjoy the beauty of the snow that kept falling all day long and looking forward to decorating the Blue Spruce that was outside in the yard in a bucket of water keeping it fresh.  Awaiting its entry into the living room.  Mom sat in our Christmas tree less living room quietly smoking a cigarette and silently fuming.

The snow kept falling.  Beautiful and peaceful.  It seemed like hours passed as the snow drifted and I kept going down the hallway to look outside for any sign of my father.  What could be keeping him?  Why is he so late?  Where is he?  Who is he with?  So many unanswered questions.  Perhaps it was better not knowing.

I bet it’s Frank.  Well, it’s Friday.  My father’s official night out.  Always arriving home between nine and ten with a roasted chicken that he plopped down on a small folding table and proceeded to eat, down to the bones watching the fights on TV.  The ones between my parents I guess weren’t fulfilling.  Hearty appetite he had.  No talking necessary.  Never an explanation.

So I figured it was Frank.  Who else?  Frank – his demanding stepfather Frank.  An obese, oafish thug-like creature from the Westside waterfront docks and bars.

I have been trying to remember his last name.  Pracht?  Yes.  Pracht.  He made me nervous.  Our personalities clashed.  So I shut up.  However, he was in possession of a Model T Ford that I loved riding in.  It had a grey flannel interior and some small glass vases near each window.  They didn’t seem to go together.  The thug and the car that is.  Anyway…

My father’s original father (I had overheard) was shot dead in a Westside bar.  That’s all I heard.  Not one word more.  Ever.  Oh yes, supposedly he was a boxer!  Sadie the bereaved widow somehow, somewhere met up with Frank.  In a saloon?  They, I suppose, got married (yes I did see a wedding photo of the contented couple) and she soon took to her bed with a never empty glass of whiskey at her bedside.  Ordering Frank to do this and to do that all the while smiling happily with her most recent refill.  She had a nice happy laugh and twinkling eyes.

Across from their Forty Second Street walk up railroad apartment stood an imposing hotel (the name escapes me for the moment – the Harlan Hotel? No, the Hotel Holland) that housed an intriguing assortment of midget wrestlers that I could see out of Frank and Sadie’s not very clean windows just beyond the player piano and a collection of eerie looking dolls dressed in faded lace.  Extremely dead like.

So there I stood.  Once again.  In the doorway.  Like Snoopy faithfully greeting Charlie Brown.  Or should I say like Charlie Brown awaiting his faithful Snoopy?  Shivering and looking and waiting for my father (I seem not to ever remember calling him dad) and enjoying the snowfall along with its accumulating drifts.

He arrived.  Without a word and without his roasted chicken.  Mom smoked another cigarette trying her best to avoid the inevitable battle.

Without removing his coat he slurred, “Well, Butch what are we waiting for?  Let’s get that beauty and put her up and decorate the halls with boughs of holly.”  And so I dutifully followed him out into the yard where we discovered that this year’s beautiful Blue Spruce was frozen stiff.  Stuck in its solid bucket of ice.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

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THE SHARK IS BROKEN – or how JAWS was almost not made – sort of

August 18th, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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Disclaimer #1 I never saw JAWS the movie nor did I ever want to.  Disclaimer # 2 I read the script the night before I saw the production at The John Golden Theater on West 45th Street.  Not at all what I expected.  I liked it.

Not so during or after squirming in my seat for 95 minutes (no intermission) watching three able actors racing through their dialogue, cavorting themselves as the replicas of the original stars of said film that was directed by a very young Steven Spielberg who insisted filming at sea off Martha’s Vineyard and not in a studio water tank – for verisimilitude (thank goodness for spellcheck).

It’s sort of like Four Jills in a Jeep (anyone remember that one?)  This time ‘round it’s Three Guys on a cut-away tugboat (a boat that seems docked in cement) that has our three heroes Roy Scheider (a fine Colin Donnell) Richard Dreyfuss (a manic and quite frankly annoying Alex Brightman – an exhausting performance – true to form I suppose) and last but not least Robert Shaw – herein portrayed by none other than his son Ian Shaw with such a heavy accent that even with ear-phones much of his dialogue is garbled.  Not to mention his heavy drinking.

Shaw needs his booze.  Dreyfuss needs his women, drugs and reassurance and Roy needs his NY Times and some sunshine to work on his tan.

Speaking of which he, at one time, out of the blue, strips down to his black speedo and sits with a sun reflector.  Despite his glorious body as a relief from the flying gulls and animated seascape this gratuitous gimmick doesn’t help the story one bit.

Mr. Shaw also co-wrote the script with Joseph Nixon who I imagine is no relation to “that” infamous NIXON featured on the front page of the NY Times that the calm, level-headed and smart Roy quotes from.

This play does have its moments of comedy.  A bit of a song.  A bit of Shakespeare.

However, it is not about the filming of JAWS but about these three guys having to put up with each other for a rather long time.  Weeks not 95 minutes as I had to as they await the magic cinematic word “action” which our director Guy Masterson (and I use the term loosely) is at a loss to supply in this wishy-washy exercise.  Interesting idea.  Faulty execution.

Mr. Masterson seems to be at sea literally as to what to do with his three stars who while away the days and days and days as the production is delayed all because BRUCE the shark in question keeps breaking down.

Drinking, drugging, bickering like school girls, complaining, comparing past childhoods and playing cards and an English penny pushing game on a table that leaves you time to admire the Cinerama like projections of the sea and sky and gulls and waves that never seem to rock the boat even a bit.

Describing the film that they are trying to finish (do the job, get paid, go home) as “a trifle, an entertainment” sums it up for THE SHARK IS BROKEN as well.  I felt that they hit the nail right on the head.

www.thesharkisbroken.com

PHOTOS:  Matthew Murphy

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THE COTTAGE – at long last Broadway

July 28th, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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An overwrought, disappointing production.  Hardly worth all the effort that the participants are so forcefully putting forth to be quaint, amusing, sexy and unbelievably outrageous.  Unfortunately to no avail.

No consistent style.  Accents all over the place.  The place being England, 1923 where the deer and the squirrels are pictured fornicating on the bucolic countryside show curtain (look carefully) as well as the hodge-podge of inhabitants of said cottage.

16 weeks only.  Better be quick.  Catch the shenanigans of this trio of couples.  Married and or sleeping with each other in various combinations.  Too bad none of them appear to be remotely interested in one another.  Not particularly witty or mildly funny.  Just not my cup of tea.

Back in the heyday of primo 60’s summer stock (regional theater) in places like Allentown, Pennsylvania – Kennebunkport, Maine and Canal Fulton, Ohio – for one week only – television personalities and semi-retired Hollywood stars would venture forth for a relatively inexpensive price of a ticket to see a revival of a Noel Coward comedy or a recent Broadway musical or an old British farce.  Farce being the operative word here as THE COTTAGE is billed as such; put together by Sandy Rustin who has also written an adaptation of CLUE – one of the most-produced plays in the U.S. according to published sources.

Summer Stock.  A play a week.  With a resident company surrounded by real Stars!  Where one could learn their craft.  Speaking to be understood.  Projecting.  No microphones thank you very much.  Learning to be believable.  A lost art.

And so we have THE COTTAGE at the Hayes Theater.  Helen Hayes might very well be embarrassed.  And rightfully so.  Various productions of this farce have been bopping around for years and THE COTTAGE has finally opened on Broadway, of all places!  The skills Helen Hayes mastered go unseen by the current company of thespians.

Since 1917 Sylvia aka Tulip (Laura Bell Bundy) and Beau (Eric McCormack) have had an annual tryst at Beau’s widowed mother’s cottage (elaborate set by Paul Tate dePoo III) where she has decided to tell all to her husband Clarke (Alex Moffat, Beau’s brother) and Beau’s wife – the very pregnant Marjorie (Lilli Cooper) who have been getting in on together.  One other odd couple Dierdre (Dana Steingold – Beau’s other lover) and her jealous husband Richard (Nehal Joshi) is thrown into the mix for good or bad measure as the case may be.  Complications ensue.

Audiences today, it appears, are not so demanding.  Especially during a heat wave.  Air cooling does wonders.  As do silly sight gags.

Oddly placed secret hiding places for the too many cigarettes inhaled, too loud music cues and knocking at the door as each character makes an entrance, and the all too loud delivery of dialogue at a level to make words incomprehensible.  Not to mention the elongated “fart” sequence in Act II.  Unbelievable.

Speaking of which in a farce or any play for that matter actors must be believable.  We must care for them to be involved.  Even in unbelievable circumstances so that we believe in what they are called upon to do.  Unfortunately in THE COTTAGE directed by Jason Alexander this is lacking.

I did have one laugh out loud moment.  The final line of the play is delivered by Oscar (Tony Roach) the hitherto unseen gardener (and understudy for all three lead male roles) and Tulips’ reaction to that line is priceless.  So stick around for it.

Hayes Theater 240 West 44 ST.  Through Oct 29th  www.TheCottageOnBroadway.com

Photos:  Joan Marcus

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New York, New York – a beautifully cobbled together newish musical

May 2nd, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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Thank you Susan Stroman!  Thank you for keeping alive the musical theater traditions so dear to many.  For your dedication and artistic vision.  Your creativity.  For your honesty and for doing your homework in digging deep to find the truth and heart of all you conceive.  Your creative mind is working at full blast with NEW YORK, NEW YORK.

As director and choreographer you have managed to bring together a melting pot of fellow creative forces to bring to life the melting pot of New York City circa 1946 thru 1947.

Beowulf Boritt (scenic design) Donna Zakowska (costume design) Ken Billington (lighting design) Christopher Ash/Beowulf Boritt (projection design) and writers David Thompson, Sharon Washington and Lin-Manuel Miranda.  What a team!  What a wonderfully entertaining show!  And of course those songs from Kander & Ebb with a side order of salsa sauce from Lin-Manuel Miranda.

Let’s start at the end.  The finale.  Your penultimate and breathtaking creation.  Your piece de resistance so to speak.  As the orchestra rises from the pit of the St. James Theatre – creating goose bumps throughout – we hear the all too familiar vamp for one of the most popular and loved songs – “New York, New York” by John Kander and Fred Ebb sounding as fresh and invigorating as ever.  Terrific.  Instantly becoming one of the best classic finales ever, featuring Francine Evans (Anna Uzele) who has finally made the big time along with the mismatched love interest of a husband Jimmy Doyle.

This by no means is meant to belittle what has come before.  The production is sumptuous and must have cost a pretty penny.  Lots of pretty pennies considering the vast list of producers listed in the Playbill.

Next up – your show stopping, construction worker tap concoction high up in the sky.  Totally brilliant with our hero Jimmy Doyle (a soon to be full-fledged star Colton Ryan) a bit dizzy (perhaps from a hangover) looking for work musician as he joyously taps to the tune of “Wine and Peaches” an old trunk song along with his best buddy Tommy (Clyde Alves) a stupendous dancer.

How cleverly you combined the most well-known songs with their lesser-known counterparts.  “Let’s Hear It for Me” “But the World Goes Round” and “Quiet Thing” – exquisitely sung by Jimmy with his crystal clear falsetto along with his surprising full powered voice.

“Light” a new number gets a full choral treatment that brought to mind that moving number from Candide – “Make Our Garden Grow” – so many magical musical and visual moments.

And before I forget.  Emily Skinner (Madame Veltri) as the music teacher with her Polish protégé Gordon (Oliver Prose) with his violin and desire to be accepted at Juilliard share some of the most touching moments in this production.

Just part of the patchwork of human stories – the girl who wants to sing opera, the cook Jesse (John Clay III) who wants to play trumpet, the gay Cuban boy Mateo Diaz (Angel Sigala) who wants to be in a band with his bongos.

They all strive for a better life and a happy ending and Susan Stroman and Company deliver the goods for one and all.

Special mention for upright bass player Jim Borstelmann who with one look and a strong attitude garners immediate attention and Allison Blackwell who wows with her operatic aria.  Thank you.

There are some so-so moments that pass by quickly with the aid of cinematic dances covering transitions.  Nothing is perfect.  But all in all Susan Stroman’s powers are in full bloom.  Like an Ivory soap vintage ad used to say 99 44/100% pure – NEW YORK, NEW YORK is 99 44/100% pure delight.

Inspired by the Martin Scorsese 1977 film, starring Robert De Niro and Liza Minelli

St. James Theater 246 West 44 Street 2 hr 45 min including Intermission

Please wear masks

www.newyorknewyorkbroadway.com

Photos:  Paul Kolnik

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SHUCKED a new musical comedy – from Hellzapoppin! to Cornzapoppin!

April 21st, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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Go-o-o-ollee!  It’s been said that “laughter is the best medicine” – that is, second only to corn whiskey.  So perhaps it is, in such a lackluster theatrical season we get SHUCKED.  An attempt at the combination of both.

Billed as a new musical it couldn’t be further from the truth.  We have been here before.  Many times over.  This type of musical comedy has seen better days.  For example Head Over Heels and Romeo and Bernadette.  I laughed my head off silly with both.  Shucked on the other hand, for whatever reasons, failed to tickle my funny bones.

It’s a pleasant stroll down memory lane as to what was funny, what still is and what is not.  Go figure!

Songs (Brandy Clark & Shane McAnally) written in a country-western Nashville style with Hee-Haw humor chuckling at itself until the cows come home as a lone rooster is spared its life.  Corn on the cob one liners in rapid fire succession.  Gags!  Gags!  Gags!  Groan inducing and uncensored.  And often quite funny.  Inwardly I kept expecting at the punch line of the many jokes – Ba Da Boom!  Outwardly I heard the audience roaring with laughter.  Go figure.

The barn set (Scott Pask) looking like it has a hangover, ready to keel over at any minute is just fine and serviceable along with the tattered costumes by Tilly Grimes giving us an easy, comfortable feeling as the two storytellers Grey Henson and Ashley D. Kelley narrate the goings on.  Warming up the audience in confiding tones and enjoying their own jokes immensely.

Problem is the money making corn crop is dying.  Interfering with the marriage plans of Beau (Andrew Durand) and Maizy (Caroline Innerbichler) – both excellent in character and voice.

Beau has an Act I showstopper “Somebody Will” which is followed by Lulu (Maizy’s best friend/cousin) the real star of Shucked – Alex Newell, a zaftig distiller of her own whiskey with a tart tongue, a self-satisfied libido and a heart of gold who brings down the house with “Independently Owned”.  She knocked me for a loop with attitude to spare.  But I digress.

Maizy is dumb in the Dody Goodman style of dumb but decides to go off to Tampa to find a cure for the corn.  And so she meets up with Gordy a “corn doctor” (a podiatrist).  Now he owes lots of dough to some gangsters due to his gambling and is a major con-man who gives Maizy “the line” goes back with her to cure the corn – discovering some large buried purple rocks are cutting off the water supply and need I go further?

It’s all silly fun if you are a sucker for this type of humor.  Oh yes.  Gordy (an excellent John Behlmann) makes a play for Maizy but eventually falls in with Lulu as the befuddled brother of Beau – Peanut (Kevin Cahoon) immediately bringing to mind Don Knotts – often interrupts the crazy proceedings with his own low key comments/puns to the delight of the audience.

Director Jack O’Brien is up to his old skillful tricks.  Sarah O’Gleby shines with her “Barrel” choreography and Rockette line of corn husks.  But a little hokum goes a long way.

That’s all folks.

At the Nederlander Theatre.  Masks suggested.  208 West 41 Street 2 hours 15 minutes with one intermission.  www.shuckedmusical.com

Photos:  Matthew Murphy & Evan Zimmerman

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CAMELOT – Powerful, brave and moving. Seriously entertaining. Go.

April 17th, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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In this impressive revival/revisal of Lerner & Loewe’s melodious and witty musical first produced in 1960, based on T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, director Bartlett Sher and Aaron Sorkin (responsible for the up-to-date new book) are the true magicians at work at the Vivian Beaumont Lincoln Center Theater.

Creating romance, intrigue, revenge – and yes – Merlyn type magic, superimposing their own impressive concept that bring the young Arthur (Andrew Burnap), Princess Guenevere (Phillipa Soo) and Sir Lancelot (Jordan Donica) right down to earth baring their most human emotions.  Truthfully.  Bringing us into the stark reality of their lives so that we truly care for them.

Well thought out.  Well-constructed.  Extremely well cast.  Beautifully staged on a stark Macbeth-like set (Michael Yeargan) that is incredibly lit by Lap Chi Chu enhancing the period costumes by Jennifer Moeller.  Everything and everyone is consistent with Bartlett Sher’s concept which, surprise to tell, absolutely works.

Focusing on character.  On what makes this young, congenial Arthur tick.  Maturing before our eyes, creating the Knights of the Round Table, dealing with his illegitimate son Mordred (a deliciously viciously evil Taylor Trensch) all the while singing some of the smartest lyrics of Alan Jay Lerner with memorable and melodic music by Frederick Loewe while a strong-willed, sarcastic and excellent chess playing Guenevere progressively falls in love with her French compatriot – possible matinee idol contender – Lancelot du Lac’s hesitant, subtle wooing.  It’s not easy being King.

Accompanied by a full pit, thirty strong orchestra that sounds terrific.  It’s been a too-long-wait since I could state that!

Dakin Matthews as a doddering and confused Pellinore provides much of the humor.  And fight director B.H. Barry has created some of the most realistic sword fights imaginable.  Breathtaking.

Romantic love.  Gained and lost.  Honesty and integrity at stake – almost lost.  But in the end there is hope.  Always hope.  For our future generations and the fate of future musicals.  Take a trip to CAMELOT.  You may learn something or have something you have forgotten about rekindled.

“Camelot.  Camelot.

I know it sounds a bit bizarre.

But in Camelot, Camelot

That’s how conditions are.”

2 hrs. 55 minutes.  One intermission.  Extended through September 3rd.  Original cast recording soon to be available.  www.lct.org

Photos:  Joan Marcus

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BAD CINDERELLA – a screw-ball, frantic, nonsensical, compound fractured fairy tale production led by producer NO GUARANTEES – says it all

March 28th, 2023 by Oscar E Moore
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Poor Cyndi!  Forced to being an outcast ‘cuz she doesn’t conform to the standards set forth in Belleville where “beauty is a duty” – just one of the not-so-nifty lyrics of David Zippel’s disappointing words set to the not-so-nifty music of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber in this not-so-new musical in search of its story and style by the not-so-terrific director Laurence Connor.

As I arrived at the Imperial Theatre expecting to see the “bomb” with bad word of mouth and a slew of unanimously bad reviews of BAD CINDERELLA dancing through my head I was unexpectedly surprised to see a horde of people, mostly pre-teen and teen girls eagerly awaiting to enter.

After viewing this inconsistent, over the top show I understood.  This is BAD CINDERELLA’S core ticket buying audience.  This is the new mean girls musical geared to get them screeching and hooting from their expensive seats at the spare no expense vulgar tourist trap spectacle set before them.

This is a new type of musical for a new audience.  Little do they know what a real musical should be – and they won’t learn from this one.  This is a little bit American Idol, a little bit of hold that last note out for as long as possible and get those hoots and screams.  A little bit So You Think You Can Dance.

A dumbed down musical.  Cruise ship and/or ice arena extravaganza material.  A Carol Burnett satire.  But without wit.  Without focus.  Without the necessary talent to pull it off.

Lavish, garish, swirling gaudy gowns.  Bare chested hunky men extolling their “hot buns” and enticing tempting pecs straight (and I use the term loosely) out of Chippendales.

There is a trade mark Lloyd Webber ballad.  Oft re-echoed.  Sounding like a tune from BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.  There is a barbed duet between the Queen and Cyndi’s stepmother bringing to mind Jerry Herman’s “Bosom Buddies” from MAME but without his flair for words and music.

For most of the show my mind kept wandering and wondering what I was seeing reminded me of.  Not a good sign.

A fast revolving turntable where a half a cow is being milked and storybook sets reminiscent of Disney and INTO THE WOODS (that other far superior fairy tale inspired musical by Sondheim).  Mr. Stephen Sondheim knew exactly what he was creating.  Poor Cyndi is another story altogether.  Fresh juicy oranges vs rotten peaches.

I shan’t bore you with the story as is.  They do that for you.  Except for the clever updated twist as its grand finale.  The last twenty minutes suddenly became alive.  I was finally interested in these characters and what happens to them.

As if the fairy Godmother (resident plastic surgeon) waved her magic wand (a hypodermic needle) for an all-inclusive out-of-the-closet-happily-ever-after inspiration.

It almost saved the show.  But almost doesn’t count.  Cast names withheld to protect the innocent.  They are courageous and work their tails off.

Photos:  Matthew Murphy / Evan Zimmerman

Imperial Theatre 249 West 45th Street

2 hrs. 30 min.  One Intermission.  Through Sept. 3rd 2023

PLEASE WEAR MASKS

 

www.badcinderellabroadway.com

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