Oscar E Moore

OUR TOWN has a new look.  Integrated.

Dr. Gibbs and family are black.  And fit in just as natural as the white folks next door.  The Webbs.  Color doesn’t matter as we all share the same emotions and problems and solutions.

This three act, three hour plus play has been streamlined down to 105 intermission-less minutes.  And is just the tonic Broadway has needed to reinvigorate itself back to life in this rejuvenated, revisal of Thornton Wilder’s Pulitzer Prize winning drama in 1938.

On a simple, quite functional barn like set by Beowulf Boritt – sit various members of the audience.  In pews.  Stage right and stage left.  Like a town meeting.  Assembled to hear the goings on in Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire.  Years 1901 through 1913.

A few chairs and tables suffice as décor.  A choir sings.  A deaf milkman, Howie Newsome (a terrific John McGrath) delivers his goods using sign language to communicate.   A local drunk staggers home.  The gossipy scene stealing Julie Halston brings a roar of laughter from us.

High above a striking galaxy of golden lanterns glow that seem to be a link to the universe or stars in heaven by lighting designer Allen Lee Hughes.

Director Kenny Leon has worked his magic to bring this period piece right up to the present.  We can all connect with and absorb the words and wisdom of Mr. Wilder of this timeless classic.

As the stage manager/narrator Jim Parsons is extraordinary.  He keeps the momentum going and holds together this entire production.  Keeps it grounded as the diverse company of actors – all superb – relate what should be important in living our lives.  To what really matters.  To connect with one another.  Enjoy the simple things.  To pay attention to one another.  No cell phones.  No internet.  Human face to face contact.  To really listen and to pay attention to one another.  To take notice of what should be important to us as we live and understand and love.

Before we know it, it’s over.  The play.  And life.

A LIMITED ENGAGEMENT.  Through January 19, 2025.  Plan a visit.

At the Ethel Barrymore Theatre

PHOTO:  Daniel Rader

*MY REVIEW OF THE DAVID CROMER PRODUCTION 3/7/2009

Thornton Wilder’s Our Town – Timeless Classic Off B’way

Oscar E Moore from the rear mezzanine for Talk Entertainment.com

What if you were “weaned away from life” while giving birth to your second child and after being buried amongst family and friends in the local cemetery you wanted to return home to have one last look at what happened on your twelfth birthday because you were just not ready “not to wake up”.  That’s Emily Webb’s third act dilemma in the most wonderful production of Thornton Wilder’s OUR TOWN which has been given a remarkable and inventive revival at the Barrow Street Theatre, under the inspired and most original, fluid direction of David Cromer who also appears as the Stage Manager.

The Barrow Street Theatre has been reformatted – audience is on three sides of the small center acting area.  It is akin to attending a community meeting of the population of Grover’s Corner in the high school gymnasium.  Two tables and some chairs make do for the set.  The overhead lights, hardly theatrical lighting, are kept up throughout most of the first act, then they are dimmed.  The actors intermingle with the audience.  Walking between the aisles and you feel that you are an integral part of the intimate proceedings.  Thornton Wilder must be chatting up a storm with his cemetery friends about this one.  It is absolutely astounding.

With searing honesty the cast of twenty four with the able assist of the Stage Manager who breaks the action and the fourth wall – speaking to the audience and explaining and commenting on the action we are transformed into this world where family values come first. Where we witness the lives of Dr. Gibbs and newspaper editor Charles Webb and their respective families.  We feel the emotions that young Emily Webb and her neighbor young George Gibbs are experiencing through homework assignments, ice cream sodas, baseball practice, love and marriage, death and loss.  A vivid time capsule of all their lives – from 1901 through 1913.

A thousand years from now this play will still resonate with its real and heartfelt sentiments.  This is the way they were, living and dying.  This is what is really important.  Being happy with your loved ones.  How life should be valued.  It all passes too quickly.

Every family should see this incredibly moving production where we are told that in order to love life we have to have life and to have life we have to love life and that we should not be blind to what is important.  To really look at each other to really listen to one another and to love one another before it is no longer possible to do that.  It’s a beautifully written, theatrical text that is brought to its full potential by this incredible ensemble cast.

Our Town is a must see.

www.barrowstreettheatre.com   www.ourtownoffbroadway.com

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The less said or written about this latest Lincoln Center catastrophe the better.  McNEAL, starring Artificial Intelligence and featuring Robert Downey Jr. making his Broadway debut.  Anyone remember MOOSE MURDERS?

I was looking forward to this one.  However, I was quick to reverse my opinion while watching this confounding, altogether confusing, pretentious overlong exercise (approximately 90 minutes without intermission) by playwright Ayad Akhtar.

And I am being kind.  What a waste of talent and money.  McNEAL doesn’t seem real.  Almost dreamlike.  Slow.  Morose.  Meandering.  A small story without a plot that is blown totally out of proportion by its set design (Michael Yeargan & Jake Barton) with enormous projections by Jake Barton that stun and confuse.  Here’s that word again!

A ton of pseudo intellectual nonsense.  Loosely directed by Bartlett Sher.  A limited run through November 24^th with any luck.

Perhaps it has been composed/created by AI.  The only AI I know about and like is that dark bottle of sauce used to enhance the flavor of whatever.  This production could use some.

ENRON kept creeping back into my memory.  A past technical heavy show.  All show and no substance.

Back to McNEAL.  It’s main character Jacob McNeal (Robert Downey Jr.) is totally unlikeable.  An alcoholic who won’t listen to his doctor (Ruthie Ann Miles) insisting and continuing to take his booze with his meds.  A suicidal combination.  A famous writer who uses other’s stories as his own.  Plagiarism.

He’s at odds with his agent (Andrea Martin) His estranged son (Rafi Gavron) and all others who cross his path.  However, he has just won the Pulitzer Prize, has a couple of firearms at hand and a slow carefully selected way of speaking that annoys.  He pauses.  A lot.  How can I make this line more interesting than written?

Whatever happened to productions that are supposed to enlighten and entertain?  Not confuse and bore us to death.  A conundrum to say the least.

What’s it all about Alfie?

Better luck next time.  At the Vivian Beaumont.

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Did he say he was from New Canaan or New Haven?  I really can’t remember.  It’s been quite a long time that I cared to speak to someone while minding my own business sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park.

But that beautiful and peaceful day – that day with the clear blue sky and bright sunshine and soft winds that rid my boggled down mind of all that bothered me somehow seemed special.

I hardly noticed him at first.  It was just a low constant mumbling that I heard coming from the nearby bench where he sat with a book open that he constantly kept referring to.  That was what caught my attention.  The book.

And speaking softly to himself.  Gesturing throughout.  I must admit that I kept peeking over to see what this guy was up to.  Attempting to do so without him noticing me doing so.  Squinting and turning my head oh so slowly so that I could read the title on the spine of his book.  Which surprised me.  Long Day’s Journey into Night.  A play.  A classic.  By Eugene O’Neill.

I would have imagined, from his looks and age (about 25) that he would be more likely to be reading a comedy by Neil Simon.  It was his nose.  A prominent nose.  A good looking, classic Barrymore nose.  On an average looking face.  Dark hair.  With excellent concentration.  Not paying any attention to my eavesdropping and unobtrusive glances one bit.  Or so I thought.

I always notice two things about a person.  Their nose.  And their feet.  The nose I have described.  The feet were covered by a pair of well-worn classic Converse high tops.  At least that’s what we called them way back when.

So, my mysterious mumbler had me completely intrigued.  I have a problem hearing.  I admit.  I couldn’t actually hear the words (he was going at a rapid rate) but they seemed important.

It was at that point that he took a swallow of water from his requisite backpack supply and spoke.  Looking directly at me.  I was caught.

“I’m working on a monologue.  I hope I haven’t bothered you with my memorization methods.  It’s for tomorrow.  I need to do this presentation perfectly and so I go over and over and over.”  Said matter-of-factly as if we were the best of friends.  No pretense.  Said simply. I liked him immediately.  Connected with him just like that.

“I used to be an actor.”  I replied as simply as I could.

Suddenly a flood of memories was overflowing out of my mind and into my mouth.  And before I could continue, he was just as intrigued with me as I was with him.  But I was caught up in my past.

There I was sitting on the floor of my rented room from Mr. and Mrs. Cabble on Green Grove Avenue with that infamous red telephone booth at the corner of the street (where I made many calls and cashed in, as every once in a while coins would just flow out of its slot when I disconnected after being asked to deposit a coin to continue) right off the Hofstra College (before it became a University) campus in Uniondale, Long Island where I was speaking aloud with an assumed British accent attempting to learn my lines for a production of The Rivals by Sheridan.  My first part.  Over and over and over…

“Movies?  TV? Soaps?  The mumbler asked, suddenly alert and interested in me.

“Theater.  The stage.  Summer stock.”

“Oh, what was your favorite role?”

Interrupting my memory.  “I had quite a few favorites.  But my all-time favorite was and still is Gaston in Waltz of the Toreadors by Jean Anouilh.  No reaction.  “So, you are a theater student at NYU.”

“I wanted to go to Northwestern.”

“So did I but I wound up at Hofstra with a full scholarship and so I jumped on it.”

“So did I when NYU accepted me into their program.”

“What’s your name.”

“Silas.”

“Silas.  Like in Marner.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m Oscar.”  I don’t know why I asked but I did.  “Could I share a few thoughts with you?  I didn’t wait for an answer but plowed right ahead.  “Slow down.  Don’t rush.  Try to make the dialogue sound as if you just thought of the words.  And believe them wholeheartedly.  And make sure they hear you.  Each word.  It seems now that diction and projection aren’t taught anymore.  They are very important Silas.  And break a leg!”

“Well, I must be off.  Thanks for the tips.  I’ll think about them as he gathered his backpack.

“Nice to meet you.”  We shook hands and he departed.

Break a leg!  Such an odd and old theatrical expression for good luck.  Still works, I hoped.  For Silas’ sake.

Next day I went back to that very same spot, thinking I would see Silas and he would give me an update as to how the monologue went.  I was truly interested to have him share this experience with me.

Only someone had left the remnants of a half-eaten blueberry muffin with some purple cream oozing from its top on the bench but there was still plenty of room for me to sit there without worrying that anyone else would sit next to me.  I waited.  I observed.  I had a weird assortment of people and pigeons pass me by.  But no well-worn Converse high top sneakers showed up.

At least I had a new routine. To follow.  To keep me busy.  Something to look forward to.  So, for the next few days there I sat.  Waiting and observing.  With what remained of that melted muffin to keep me company.  Apparently, pigeons will eat anything available.

Suddenly, I thought that I had imagined this entire episode with Silas. Had I been so bored with inactivity that my imagination took complete control of my reality?  Or maybe “the mumbler” thought I was just some busy-body, lonely old pervert.  I hate to think that.  I would hate for anyone to think that of me.  Especially Silas.

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O woe is me!  Well…here goes.

A mild mannered, mediocre, meandering musical.  Music by Mary Rodgers (daughter of Richard Rogers; mother of Adam Guettel – great musical genes inherited and shared.  Original 1959 book by Jay Thompson, Dean Fuller and Marshall Barer (Lyrics as well) and newly adapted by Amy Sherman Palladino.  The resulting goulash on stage at the Hudson Theatre 140 West 44 Street is perhaps a case of too many cooks.

Nonetheless, a welcome diversion for folks starved for something to laugh at.  To be entertained.  No matter what.  A diversion from all that is horrible plaguing the world today is being offered courtesy of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale The Princess and the Pea and a boatload of zany clowns from comic central in Encores! Production ONCE UPON A MATTRESS.  A little of this and a lot of that.

THAT being everything imaginable (“but the kitchen sink” – an archaic expression) being stuffed into what was a small charming musical by its new visionaries, director Lear de Bessonet and choreographer Lorin Latarro in an attempt to make MATTRESS more palatable, updated and fresh for a new younger Tik! Tok! audience and to tickle our funny bones with puppets, sight gags, and simple magical tricks that are not altogether successful but will sell lots of tickets – they ate is all up at the performance I attended.

And so the latest Encores! Production with its tried and true recipe for showcasing forgotten musicals with STARS has migrated to Broadway.  But what was once a tried and true formula is now a bit tired.

And speaking of stars.  The main reason for seeing MATTRESS is a hardworking, over-the-top Sutton Foster.  A versatile singer, dancer, actor, contortionist extraordinaire who will do anything asked of her.  And she does including an unforgettable scene eating, no stuffing her face with grapes to the extent that she must spit them all out or choke to death pits and all into the front row of the audience.  Not a nice image to be remembered for.

But this one is.  Her entrance about twenty minutes into the sluggish first act as she emerges from the swampy waters of the moat, muddy and bedraggled with a fright wig to end all fright wigs, to great cheering and applause that is a show stopper as well as a show starter.  Everything suddenly perks up and we are off and running.

But it’s an up and down affair as subplots and limp dialogue await her return.

Now the real reason I wanted to see this MATTRESS was that in 1966 I was Dauntless the role now played by Michael Urie in a summer stock production that I remember fondly.  I admire Mr. Urie and he does a fine job but the overall production left me disappointed.  Didn’t cut the mustard (another archaic expression) so to speak.

The orchestra on stage was distracting.  The on-the-cheap-looking costumes (Andrea Wood) tend to be garish attempting to bridge the gap between medieval and modern and only add to the confusion of where we are and when.

The narrator/Jester Daniel Breaker is fine and does a wonderful Soft Shoe number.  Queen Aggravain doing her best in a very annoying role and looking to emulate Meryl Streep finally gets her comeuppance. The King is mute.  Done in by a magic spell.  Sextimus the Silent (David Patrick Kelly) is the only character, the only character I cared for.  Most believable and honest.  The less said about the Wizard (Brooks Ashmanskas) the better.  His fey routine becomes tiresome.  Sir Harry (Will Chase) and Lady Larken (Nikki Renee Daniels – reminding me of Kathleen Battle) as the romantic leads are vocal winners.

Could LITTLE MARY SUNSHINE be next on the horizon?

2 hours 15 minutes One Intermission

CLOSING NOV 30 2024

PHOTOS:  Joan Marcus

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Feeling blue?  Down in the dumps?  Have your tickle bones not been tickled lately?  The extremely talented and wonderfully funny Cole Escola as Mary Todd Lincoln and company might just be the tonic you need.

If ribald humor, zany shenanigans going on in the Presidential household of a praying not to be a homosexual Abe Lincoln (a fine Conrad Ricamora) along with his mad cap frustrated spouse Mary (ex-cabaret star) searching for and sniffing and finding a hidden bottle or two while frantically longing to return to the stage then “Oh Mary!” Escola’s opus could be for you.  And then again…perhaps not.

Extremely loud, pre curtain-up at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, pre-recorded pulsating music harkens one back to those dreary basement gay clubs in New Jersey or the West Village where would be stars would get up and sing their hearts out for one and all.  I had my ears covered in retaliation.

Finally the fun began.

In the grand tradition of Charles Ludlam’s Theater of the Ridiculous Cole Escola shines in the spotlight.  He is a gifted comic and has a way with words.  He just doesn’t know when enough is enough.

There are many laugh out loud moments in the various scenes that remind one of those wonderful Carol Burnett skits.  Here we have skit after skit usually ending quickly in a blackout.  Escola has a delightful audition piece as the Nurse in Romeo & Juliet.

Some of the best moments are with Mary’s Teacher John Booth (James Scully – handsome and quite likable who “rehearses” with Mary to get her in shape for her comeback as a cabaret star and I suppose you guess where this is heading.  And then again you might not.

A gentleman seating next to me nodded off for a short while.  Ummm.

Mary has a chaperone (a fine Bianca Leigh who I thank in a thankless role) to keep her at bay and to report any misbehavior back to Abe.

Tony Macht is Mary’s Husband Assistant – faithful and obedient and taking part in one of the funniest sight gags with old Abe.

But after the assassination trouble brews.  And we are back in cabaret land.  Which does go on and on till the end of said play which is swiftly directed by Sam Pinkleton.  Lovely period costumes by Holly Pierson. Ditto scenic design by DOTS.

But it is COLE ESCOLA’S show all the way.  After all he wrote it.

www.ohmaryplay.com  80 minutes no intermission

Photo:  Emilio Madrid

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As we bid a not so fond farewell to the most recent Broadway season with this car wreck of a musical THE GREAT GATSBY we ask ourselves why?  Why import a mediocre musical from New Jersey’s Paper Mill Playhouse?  Why spend a huge amount of money on an adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s sprawling novel THE GREAT GASBY – a most complicated compilation of characters from the roaring and corrupt 1920’s.  Why bother?

Unless you can create a world with characters that are interesting with music and lyrics to match.  With a clear and developed book that isn’t one big bore.  It is a difficult task that the creative team is just not up to fulfilling.   Mostly superficial.  They sure do try hard though.

But huge sets and glitzy costumes with lighting effects galore do not a hit musical make.

Even with a yellow Rolls Royce and midnight blue Pierce Arrow thrown in for good measure.  Oh and an orchestra pit pool.  Needed for a very important scene.  It’s all glossed over.  All effect and no substance.   Spectacle.  We need to care about someone.  And we don’t.

I won’t bore you with the plot.  A quick look at SparkNotes’ synopsis of the novel will suffice.  And if you so desire to spend your hard earned bucks on a ticket, a reading of said notes will help tremendously as the sound system is just as awful as what they are attempting for your ears to absorb.

The rich and the rotten.  Unfulfilled and unhappy.  With a dash of crime and loose sex.

Looking to connect with a love that once was.  I speak of Gatsby and Daisy.  Jeremy Jordon (a long way from charismatic) and Eva Noblezada.  She is now married and has a baby.  Trouble is they have no romantic chemistry at all and are given unmemorable and unmelodic songs to sing in a very odd way.  The range for him goes from a soft falsetto to bombastic and hers fare no better.  It’s the new style of singing on Broadway.

If you can’t root for these lovers the ball game is over.

Now for the better news.  I did like our narrator Nick (Noah J. Ricketts) who gets lost in the shuffle of quick changing sets and foggy plot.

Also Samantha Pauly who seemed natural and fun and sang well.  She fortunately or unfortunately was made to appear to look like a young Streisand, whose birthday it was 4/24/24 and yet she held her own throughout.

The young audience high above in the Broadway theatre whooped and hollered loving every minute of it.  Seemed like a lot of high school theatre loving kids out to enjoy a show.

Director Marc Bruni and choreographer Dominique Kelley have opted for a quick pace throughout.  At times the too quick succession of song and dance reminded me fleetingly of Bob Fosse’s CHICAGO, RAGTIME, PHANTOM, GUYS AND DOLLS, PLAZA SUITE, 42^nd STREET, SOME LIKE IT HOT and SUNSET BOULEVARD – reminiscent of the Old Ed Sullivan TV variety show.  Entertaining yes but not in the context of the tangled affairs of the rich and rotten in GATSBY.

www.broadwaygatsby.com

PHOTOS:  Matthew Murphy & Evan Zimmerman

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London, Elizabethan England, 1601

For some, forsooth, I am merely a vagabond – a worthless novelty.  I have been accused of wasting my time and the time of others – attempting to elicit laughter, a few giggles perhaps? or at the very least some smiles from the populace as I ploy my developing talents on the filthy streets of London for a paltry pittance as Elizabeth pampers herself in the palace.

Usually ignored and splashed with mud and dung I dream of securing a part and performing on stage at the Curtain or better still the almighty Globe.  In a role, any role.  In a play, any play – either comic or tragic (with an emphasis on the former) by our most prolific and popular William Shakespeare.

For this I have been preparing myself for months.  In training.  Hoping to secure a spot alongside my best friend and fellow thespian Tomas Kinkaid who is already one of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men.  And ever since the announcement of a forthcoming production of TWELFTH NIGHT (which Tomas was able to sneak me an advanced copy) I am in expectant ecstasy.

A few coins here and there on a good day help me to survive and give me the courage to persevere.

I love to create laughter.  To help others to temporarily forget the drudgeries of a most difficult life that we commoners must bear.  Am I not allowed to share a bit of laughter with my fellow man, even though I might be arrested for loitering?

After all I am a jester, a clown if you prefer:  Jasper Finkelsteen.  Has a certain ring to it, does it not?

Finkelsteen.  That’s with a double “e” – not an “ie” nor an “ei”, which is much too confusing to remember and not as eye-catching on a theatrical program.  And so I remain His Right Honorable Jasper Finkelsteen while I anxiously await, not so patiently, to be cast in the aforementioned TWELFTH NIGHT for which I am preparing most diligently to display my talents.

Advance rumor has it that I would make a fine Feste with my large expressive hands, light-footedness and more than ordinary profile.  To be honest, a rumor perpetrated by yours truly.

And so in the privacy of my squalid quarters I attempt to improve my movements.  Pretending to fence.  Pretending to gracefully dance.  And developing my voice so as to be able to be distinctly heard in the stalls – speaking the speech “trippingly on the tongue” so to speak.  And to restrain myself from being too flamboyant.  Easier said than done I might add!

All the while, forsooth, remaining an unhappy soul putting forth a fake façade, with what many say is my winsome smile, hiding the sad inner depth of my person that houses my predilection for the companionship of what is considered forbidden – the companionship and love of another male.

It is not that I find the female form offensive.  With all due respect to our sovereign Elizabeth the Queen.  Whose sartorial splendor travels well beyond what is needed or tolerable.

Indeed, it is simply that I prefer men.  A feeling that I have no control over.  A mystical sensation deeply felt within this hirsute and limber body of mine.  And if the truth be known, which is why I am confessing these truths, then I should not be annoyed when being made fun of when I would rather be making fun for others!

Worse yet, I surely would be tortured or hanged or dismembered if discovered.  Sodomy, a most detestable description of an act of love is punishable by death.  Not a pretty picture to imagine to be sure.

Recently I have heard a rumor (one that I did not start) that one can change.  If one so desires.  Something about medieval hocus-pocus – alchemy by name.  A philosopher’s rock or stone or something like that.  Perhaps a bag of good fortune pebbles?  Methinks I shall call it rubbish!

The point is that I could change if I truly desired.  That I am my own controlling force.  That I am in control.  Could this be true?  And if it is so, would I truly want not to be who I am?  Japer Finkelsteen with a double “e”?

But then I espy a charismatic Romeo.  Or a troubled, handsome Hamlet.  Even a Juliet who is portrayed by a most alluring young boy.  All extremely mattress-able (a sweet term I picked up in the backstage area while visiting Tomas) and I am right back to square one.

Men.  And my so called mystical sensation.  Ergo, that is my dilemma.  I want so not to change.  I want to be me. To enjoy my feelings.  To be accepted for who and what I am on my own terms.  So, what is the solution pray tell?   To change or not to change?  That is my dilemma.  Alas, I am at a complete loss.

A full moon had me feeling out of sorts as I repaired my threadbare outfit (which is not as easy as it sounds considering I am partially blind with an unsightly hump to boot) for my most important audition at the CURTAIN when an exhausted albeit beautiful Tomas came a calling after hours of rehearsing with an offer to introduce me to a gypsy friend that dealt with or rather fiddled around with the magic of this so-called alchemy.

She will help you.

She?

Why do you suddenly look so pale Jasper? As he caressed my hump knowing his touch always arouses me.

You know…

No, I do not know!  Surely you fear not females to the extent that you cannot feel free to allow one to help you.  One who only pretends to be female.  She is one of us.

Handsome?

Really Jasper!

And how long have you been seeing this masquerader?

You are far too jealous for your own good Jasper!

Casandra is only attempting to use his knowledge and intuition to help you.  I wouldst hope that you wouldst appreciate my attention to your career.

And with those words he placed one of his most delicious kisses upon my lips, softly whispering – I kiss thee with a most constant heart Jasper Finkelsteen with a double “e”!

Tomas, I am as usual swept away by your charm and logic.  Nay do not interrupt.  Please hear my soul speak.  The very instant I saw you, my heart did fly to your service and has made me a slave to it.

Another kiss with his precious words – I wouldst not wish any companion in the world but you my sweet Jasper.  You know how I adore you.  But we must be discreet.  There is danger in our affection for one another.  There are eyes and ears lurking everywhere that we know not of.  I doth believe Casandra can help.

I doth hesitate Tomas.

You must trust me. And decide what it is you want.

I know not what I want.

Of course you do, my love.  You want to act.  To amuse.  To appear on one of our great stages.  To be famous.  To bed me.

Soon after I came face to face with my audition at THE CURTAIN.   Without scenery or costumes or special effects the theatre was dank, cold and dreary.  Casandra had sold me some golden trinkets that I could ill afford but which Tomas swore by promising that when carried on my person I would succeed beyond all measure in whatever it was I desired.  At that moment all I wanted was not to smell all the foul odors that had been attacking my nose.

Someone shouted at me from across the stage.  You.  Over here!  So’s I can get me a better look.  It was then that I met the source of all those foul smelling odors.  The esteemed director.  Sir Andrew Tobias.  Unshaven, obese and crude.  He circled me.  Viewing me from every available angle.  Prodding and poking to his heart’s desire.  You appear to be a bit nervous Jasper Finkelsteen.  Finkelsteen!  You might think of changin’ that.  That is if you get cast.  Depends on how agreeable you is to me.  No need to be anxious my boy.  A fine specimen you is.  I’s sure you’ll do me fine.

As I listened to him I could only think of all the stories I had heard about such men.  Surely he wanted to bed me but I would have none of it.  Even to satisfy my desire to be in his play.

You appear to fill your tights quite adequately Jasper.  Loosen up, me boy!  Are you adept at performing acrobatics?  Would you mind shaving that hairy chest of yours?  Did not the manager explain about the nudity?  No?  Pity!  Do you play any instruments? Your voice and appearance?  Quite agreeable.  On and on.  Over two hours of interrogation.  I’ve had my eyes on you Jasper for some time.  Do not deny me.  I am aware that I am not as charming as Tomas – but I am much more important.  Yes, do not be shocked.  I know all about you two!  And then finally, how desperately do you want this part?

Not enough to exchange a bit of myself to get ahead, Sir.  Taken somewhat aback he replied, No need to be hasty.  Think hard my dearest.  I believe you are just what I need.

Balderdash!  I do not care!  You are a letch!  I refuse to give into your endeavors to do me harm.  Even if you were somewhat decent in appearance I would have to hesitate and then refuse.

But I could not and should not and dare not say any of those words as it would certainly end my career even before it has begun.  And so I fumed silently deciding to seek advice from Tomas.

Is this what one needs to do to get ahead?  Or did you use Casandra’s trinkets as well.  Well, did you?!  The reply from Tomas startled me.  ‘Tis not so bad, my love.  ‘Tis meaningless.  Just part of the game.  Part of the discipline.  Come, let me ease your stress.

Nay! I wouldst have none of you at the moment.

Sadly, seven excruciatingly long and anxious days later, I learned from Tomas that I had not been selected, in fact rudely eliminated for the role I had so desperately desired.  ‘Twas my greatest disappointment of unfulfilled expectations, as you can well imagine.

A new face.  A comely fellow comedian was cast in the role I coveted.

He shall remain nameless lest I cause any trouble.  How I despise him!

After all I had done – following the advice of that witch Casandra that my lover had foisted on me.  Alchemy!  Trinkets!  All lies!  Promising false hope to those who are foolish enough to believe in such dreck.

It would be nine years hence that I wouldst once again encounter Sir Andrew Tobias.  But I had risen in the theatrical world, was highly respected and was not about to be intimidated by this letch who was no longer powerful.

Meekly he arrived backstage at The Alchemist with a bouquet of wilting lily of the valley (which did little to mask his still awful stink) to praise my starring performance – which by the by has received unanimous glowing reviews – in this absurd ribald farce (right up my alley) by that new Bard on the block – Ben Johnson.

‘Tis wondrous strange, is it not?

And thus I leave you with these parting words:

If talent were all

Many actors wouldst fall

By denying to play ball with one’s selector

Forsooth be fired

Before being hired

Refusing to exchange a bit of themselves

To get ahead

If only they couldst say Nay! Rejecting the bed

Many a dilemma wouldst thus be avoided!

With all serious and good intentions I remain, very truly yours,

Jasper Finkelsteen with a double “e”

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This a short somewhat strange take of a new and original musical titled LEMPICKA – not a review – that I had cancelled by the PR folks shortly before I was ready to head out to see it as one of its main stars/characters would not be performing – name withheld.  Wednesday matinee 4/17/24.

It is about a relatively famous female Polish art deco/cubist bisexual artist that is relatively unknown by many.  Unlike Andy Warhol and/or Toulouse Lautrec.  It takes place during the Russian Revolution and travels back and forth in time and locations.

As I only venture out to theatrical productions when I can get a matinee these somewhat dangerous days it is more difficult to schedule a date to review said shows.

And LEMPICKA was a production that interested me.  Not a revival.  Not based on a movie that was based on a book.  An original.  Plus I knew a bit about this artist.  Rather I should say I saw a couple of her paintings at the Bridgehampton home of two gay guys who were extremely nice to myself and my partner that I found intriguing.  It was at a lavish party.  In the basement of their lavish home.  Yes.  The basement so as not to upset the furnishings and décor of all the lavish rooms above by all those flamboyant somewhat awful rich pretentious folks in The Hamptons.

The paintings were large.  Strong.  Vibrant.  Sensual.  We were told they were copies.  If so they were extraordinary copies.  John knew some artist who could reproduce and did many of the paintings in the large house.  Not exactly a mansion.  Just pretending to be.

So I was extremely eager to book and to see the show.  Which I did immediately upon receiving the invite.  Then no news.  Then I discovered that my laptop had erased a slew of emails.  This is how I discovered what is called SPAM mail.  I never knew that it existed nor did I ever need to use and or empty it.  Long story short.  Voila!  There was my confirmation in the SPAM file.  Which made me happy.

Which brings us up to today when said star was indisposed and my trip up to the Longacre Theatre was aborted.

I had also read about the star portraying Lempicka who was making a return from her standby starring role in WICKED a while back circa 2003.  A huge hit.  Still running.  That I did not care for.  I think it was the start of the screaming, screeching give ‘em all you got belting numbers that every musical must now have.

So I await to see the outcome of LEMPICKA AND I or is it LEMPICKA AND ME?

For the moment I know nothing new about TAMARA DE LEMPICKA.  Just that I still love her art.

www.lempickamusical.com

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In the land of anything can happen, which could be just about anywhere these days, we begin.

Sunlight had started to disappear.  A dullness at first.  Then grayness.  Then little or no light that one was accustomed to seeing at daybreak.  And then those gorgeous blue skies (even cloudy skies) slowly but progressively disappeared as well.  And finally to make matters worse the forests with their bounty of beautiful green trees and wild flowers and berries began to be drained of all color.  What was happening?  What has caused this disappearing act brought about by our dear old Mother Nature?

It was time that Simi Farkel Holmes, our baffled Private Investigator, once famous Girl Scout crusader and all around smarty-pants got to work.  After all, her prized majestic bed of gorgeous delphiniums was being endangered.  Time to put on her thinking cap, use her infamous grey cells and favorite Ouija board to solve these strange and perplexing occurrences.

Simi was troubled and disturbed.  She asked her artistically inclined friends.  They were equally frustrated and bewildered with the ever increasing darkness.  Do I dare say they too were in the dark as to coming up with a solution?

Ummm…

She asked her parents.  Separately.  To no avail.  They were divorced, living apart and made it obvious that they had other more important problems and could offer little or no information on the mysterious happenings that they hardly even noticed.

Frustrated, Simi went to the small neighborhood library to do research only to discover that it had been temporarily shut down due to lack of use.  No one seemed to read hard cover books these days in the land of anything can happen.

Real books had become too heavy, too long, too wordy and much too boring for its intended readership as opposed to the awful “breaking now” news (24 hours a day) syndrome that spread like some contageous virus –  regarding the frightening “dark ages revisited” alerts.

All this before the advent of the instant information internet and cell phones and whatever else was waiting in the future to isolate humans from each other while bringing them immediately in contact with a lot of junk.

Isolation of individuals.  Each and almost every one staring into a small gizmo and pressing buttons and letters and numbers to while away the lonely hours that resulted in not having a real cause to deal with or a real friend to share with –  that personal touch called communicating face to face.  Not face to image.  Just lots of sore thumbs.

BACK FROM THE FUTURE

So our determined but totally confused heroine returned home to her very adequate studio apartment that her feuding parents had bought for her prior to their divorce – just in case – and wasn’t that a good thing as she preferred living alone anyway away from all their bickering and complaining about each other and she had enough money from her trust fund.  Ah, the magical trust fund.  Solves lots of problems.

Simi was widely known as a philanthropist – although many couldn’t even spell the word.  In any event, money – unlimited funds – were handily at her disposal.

What did she do? You may ask.  Go right ahead.  I’ll wait.  No?  Here we go.

Simi is trying to solve this darkness problem knowing she will eventually see the light (couldn’t resist) as she tends to the gardens in the park spending lots of free time with her friends.  Mostly animals.  And doing a lot of good deeds for a lot of needy people in private to boot.

BACK TO NOW

So our determined albeit confused heroine went home and baked a batch of delicious cookies – of her own closely guarded recipe that by far outsold and still does all the other Girl Scout members in her troop that she still stayed in contact with.

Simi Farkel Holmes Private Eye, her card read.  And that’s how she was famously referred to and respected in the small town of Kaplunk where she tried her best to be interesting, kind and generous and to do deeds worth her while, while on this planet that was so suddenly beset with so many problems.

Simi Farkel Holmes Private Eye had a reputation.  A rather fine reputation for being intelligent and for using that old fashioned “common sense” method that seemingly had gone out of style to solve any problems that crossed her threshold.

Take for example the slaying of Dendle the friendly neighborhood dragon whose home was in the rapidly drying up and slowly disappearing body of water so aptly named Lake Bygone.

A kindhearted shy dragon he was but someone somehow slew him as a trophy.  A trophy!   And that was not correct.  But she figured out who did him in – with the aid of her trusty Ouija Board and then she did that person in and in return she was awarded her twentieth Girl Scout Merit Badge for Detection.

Her prized possession.  Added to the many others which she had received for Science and Technology, Baking, Citizenship Improvement, First Aid, Forensics and last but not least Environmental Maintenance to name but a few.

And then one day while tending her drooping delphiniums Simi had an instantaneous thought race through her mind.  Completely out of the blue – which was a bit pale but still blue.  Like so many of her successful far out ideas she had received in the past.  The thought was a single word.  A name.  Pandora.

YIKES!  Not again!  Pandora, for those of you who have never heard of this all too curious woman, was responsible for unleashing all the evils of humanity when she lifted the lid of a gift that she was told never to open.

Hatred.  Revenge.  Disease.  Despair.  Greed.  Envy.  Famine.  Gluttony.  Lust.  Arrogance.  And all of their many sordid relatives.  The list seemingly endless.

We know that history does have a predilection for repeating itself but this is ridiculous thought Simi.  This blast from the past is certainly not welcome.  But perhaps this is just what we need.  A wakeup call to pay attention.

To the air we breathe.  To the clear blue skies.  Our trees.  Our flowers.  Our food.  Ourselves.  Can you imagine if all that goes down the drain?

Suddenly another word exploded in Simi’s thoughts.  Hope.  Yes.  Hope was still available.  The only thing that remained entrapped under the lid of the vessel when all those horrors were released by Pandora’s disobedience and curiosity.  Hope remained protected.

That is why Simi’s delphiniums survive.  Representing joy, happiness and kindness.  Acting as protection against the multitude of dangers lurking and waiting to destroy us.

So please stop thinking and worrying about so many unimportant matters while ignoring what might be the end of our beautiful world if we fail to take action immediately.  While we can.

And so Simi Farkel Holmes leaves us with a possible way of dealing with these difficult problems.  To pay attention.  To be kind.  After all, kindness is contagious.  A thought on a card that she hands out to one and all.

H.O.P.E.  Happiness.  Optimism.  Peace.  Empathy.

Spread the word.

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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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