Results tagged “patti lupone” from Drama Queen
I reviewed An Evening with Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin for today's Philadelphia Inquirer, which normally wouldn't be so remarkable, except for three things:
1.) Inquirer critic Toby Zinman and I both managed to shoehorn the word "schmaltz" into reviews on the same day.
2.) Apparently, Mr. Patinkin is a fairly close cousin through marriage, which means relatives keep asking me to say hi to "Cousin Mandy," which I might, if he had any idea who I--or they--were.
3.) I reviewed Patinkin and LuPone when they performed together at Philly's Prince Music Theatre last season.
A few folks have asked about the difference between the two shows, but I can't seem to locate the printed version of that review in the Inquirer's online archives. So in the interest of giving the people what they want, here is a link to today's review, and below is the unedited version I turned in to my editor last season. But just FYI, one difference that didn't make it into print is the addition of a heck of a lot of vintage microphone stands dotting the stage, all wired and fitted with colored lightbulbs. Not sure about the purpose for this design adjustment, but its result was, unfortunately, a far more restrained version of their rolling-office-chair pas de deux.
Our weather finally has an autumn snap in the air, and there is hardly a better way to get cozy than to spend time with old friends. And we literally get "Old Friends," via Sondheim, and a host of other songs by Broadway's boldest-faced composers in the Prince's production of An Evening with Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin. LuPone and Patinkin made their names (and garnered Tonys) as Eva and Che in Webber's original Broadway production of Evita, and they seem to have a true affection for one another. The pair radiates their warmth all the way to the theater's back rows, bringing a bit of Lincoln Center to Chestnut Street, as they tear through medley after lovesick medley. From South Pacific, to Merrily We Roll Along, Carousel and more, the duo stops only for a line or two of dialogue from the musicals and a brief intermission.
Directed by Patinkin, the performance is suffused with a sense of ease, but also of rebellion. LuPone once famously sued Andrew Lloyd Webber (and won), while Patinkin recently walked away from his day job on the television show Criminal Minds, citing "creative differences." And both still have an air of the scrappy independent about them. The show feels intimate, as though they simply decided together that they'd rather be doing nothing else, invited longtime Patinkin collaborator and pianist Paul Ford to come along, and grabbed bassist John Beal on their way out the door. There are no fancy sets or big dance numbers, only the singers, their songs, a pair of chairs and the musicians' unobtrusive accompaniment. Still, it seems a waste to have the great Ann Reinking as your choreographer and then to under-utilize her talents. There is a bit too much sitting while singing, perhaps a concession to the performers' age. But when they get moving, particularly during an April in Paris/April in Fairbanks medley, they channel the Fringe Fest and swing each other around the stage perched atop a pair of rolling office chairs, and we enjoy it as much as they seem to. There is little concession to age regarding the choice of tunes, however, with an abundance of ingenues dotting the song list, and both reprising their signature Evita roles (and LuPone's signature song, "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina") without a care for the intervening years. They may croon "Baby, It's Cold Outside," but inside the Prince, Patinkin and LuPone keep the house nice and comfy.
There you have it. Feel free to compare and contrast, and let me know if your reviews differ/agree. Also, I've been remiss about posting my recent reviews here, so if you've got a little extra time and any interest in a snapshot of Philly's early spring theater season, here's what I've reviewed in the last two weeks, and what I thought about it: Honor and the River at the Walnut Street Theatre's Studio 3; the national touring company of Cats at the Merriam Theatre; Arms and the Man at Hedgerow Theatre.
Generally, I'm not a Tony watcher. Yeah, that's a kicker of a confession from a theater critic, particularly one who lives an hour and a half from the Lincoln Tunnel's dirty mouth, but I have my reasons. I'm alright with checking the next-day results, and religiously read NYTimes reviews, but as far as taking the time to plant myself in front of a tv for three hours to cheer on (or grumble about) productions I'll almost certainly never see, forget it. Though the Inquirer reviews Broadway, I don't (please, Howie, give my regards...), and as a parent, I have neither the free time nor the spare change. However, when my city's Barrymore Awards roll around, I'm chewing my fingernails down to the skin until the winners are announced. It's not that I don't care about the Tonys, it's just that generally, for my purposes, they're irrelevant.
But this year was different. Aside from looking forward to next season's Philly productions of The Seafarer and Rock and Roll, I was, for once, fully engaged.
There's change in the Broadway winds, and though I've seen exactly none of the contenders, couldn't wait for this year's ceremony. It was outsiders' night, and just the right tone for Broadway to drum up some outside-the boroughs excitement.
Unfortunately, the Tony Awards' producers weren't in on the vibe. With Whoopi helming an abominable series of skits, the Tonys tried to prove their mass market viability rather than B-Way's rising credibility. The addition of Mario Lopez, the Little Mermaid's ridiculous costume--with its humiliating, scene-hogging tail--or Megan Mullaly's limited effort to divine some of Madeline Kahn's je ne sais quoi, it's little wonder this year's broadcast attracted its lowest audience ever. The Disneyfication of Broadway is what earned it its current lame reputation in the first place.
And yet. Things could have so easily gone the other way, with more of irreverent left-field contender Passing Strange (Stew tried, he really did, with those Groucho glasses and that how-did-I-get-here demeanor); Lin-Manuel Miranda's freestyling and and loose cannon ebullience; scenes from the Fringe-esque 39 Steps.
And how about some acknowledgement that this was the year regional theater flexed its considerable muscle. Chicago graciously bestowed upon us a new, improved David Mamet by way of Edward Albee in the form of Tracy Letts, and when Letts swaggered up to the stage and thanked his producers because "they decided to produce an American play on Broadway with theater actors," it was a swoon-worthy moment. Yeah, he crossed over to film, but he came back, didn't he?
Why wait until the thing was half over to break out Lily Tomlin, Xanadu and Liza? What were they thinking? Still, the array of entertainment was a welcome peek into the tug-of-war for Broadway's soul, and the ephemeral nature of theater being what it is, it's awfully nice to get a taste of what's been going on all season. Since most viewers won't ever get to see Patti LuPone in Gypsy, at least we've been provided with a sample. And since most will never get to the current production of Grease, at least they'll know they're not missing anything.
I don't get the Tonys' Hollywood inferiority complex, and hope that after this season's rejuvenating batch of productions, next year's ceremony won't feel so much like an also-ran to the Oscars. Let "theater actors" (cough, Patti LuPone, cough) host the show. Ditch the crap and bring even more of that stage magic to the stage. This was an exciting year, and it deserved a more exciting framework than this broadcast. Come on, Broadway, you've got a whole lot of writers working for you; next year, use them.