Archives for April 8, 2005

It’s Friday, and the fruits of my recent nonstop playgoing are on display in this morning’s Wall Street Journal drama column, which contains reviews of four New York shows: Julius Caesar,
On Golden Pond,
Steel Magnolias, and the Lincoln Center American Songbook concert version (now closed) of Stephen Sondheim’s Passion.

Julius Caesar is a toxic waste dump:

According to the posters, Denzel Washington is the star of “Julius Caesar,” which opened Sunday at the Belasco Theatre. The fine young ladies in the balcony signified agreement by squealing when he made his entrance in a sharp-looking business suit, this being a modern-dress version of Shakespeare’s classic tale of dirty work in ancient Rome. Don’t let appearances fool you, though: The real star of this mostly horrible show is Colm Feore, who is high-strung and lustrously precise as Cassius. Next to him, Mr. Washington comes off like a well-meaning amateur, standing stiff as a weathervane and gabbling his way through Brutus’ lines. Sometimes he snaps into focus, but for the most part he stalks haplessly through Daniel Sullivan’s hopelessly confused updating, which is set in some unknown country–perhaps the one where modern-dress Shakespeare productions go to die….

On Golden Pond is a terrible play, unredeemed by the very best efforts of James Earl Jones:

Needless to say, it’s great to have Mr. Jones back on Broadway, from which he has been absent since 1987. Would that the vehicle for his return were worthy! He’s still got the best pipes in the business, but to hear them, you’ve got to sit through the damn play. I gather from the press release that this is “the first major production to feature African-American performers.” O.K. by me, but no matter what color you paint the Thayers–or how well you act them–they’re still phony. My reluctant advice: If you feel the need to be manipulated, go see a chiropractor….

Steel Magnolias, making its Broadway debut in this revival, is an unpretentious commercial charmer:

Robert Harling’s 1987 play about the comical clients of Truvy’s Beauty Spot is, of course, actor-proof. I last saw it performed by a stageful of Orthodox Jewish schoolgirls, and it was still funny. Nevertheless, it profits from the attentions of professionals, and this cast is nothing if not professional. Don’t ask me why Marsha Mason was cast as a grumpy Louisiana broad, but everyone else, Frances Sternhagen very much included, is just right or close to it. Christine Ebersole gives a nicely lemony performance as M’Lynn (think Eve Arden), Delta Burke shrewdly underplays Truvy (don’t think Dolly Parton), and Broadway debutantes Rebecca Gayheart and Lily Rabe are charming as Shelby and Annelle….

And Passion was predictably fine, with one unexpected qualification:

Patti LuPone was especially fine as the sickly, unbeautiful Fosca, whose desperate obsession with Giorgio (Michael Cerveris) pulls him inexorably away from his married lover Clara (Audra McDonald). Paul Gemignani, Mr. Sondheim’s preferred conductor, made Jonathan Tunick’s orchestrations sound more luscious than ever. As for the score, it’s beyond praise, a musical achievement comparable in quality to “Sweeney Todd.” I can’t say better than that.

I had only one reservation about “Passion,” which is that Ms. McDonald’s singing is becoming infested with scoopy mannerisms that have no place among Mr. Sondheim’s spare vocal lines….

As usual, no link. Buy today’s Journal and look me up in the Weekend Journal section, or go here and subscribe to the Online Journal, which gives you access to all the paper’s cultural coverage (highly recommended, if I do say so myself).

“Mr. Miles was the Mathematical master, and for that very reason especially detestable to me, for whom mathematics was anathema. He was also a prig, the type of pedantically superior, insular prig which England, above all other countries, manages to produce in its perfection. Nearly every sentence that proceeded from his lips had so exasperating a flavour that it excited a wild sense of irritation, even when one agreed with him.

“I have recently discovered his exact counterpart in an English musical critic, whose name cannot be mentioned, as he is unfortunately still alive. In this man’s articles and books I noticed a certain tone that reminded me forcibly of Mr. Miles, so that I was curious to meet him to see if the resemblance went any further. It did indeed; and I was confronted with an almost perfect replica of the Mathematical master at Elmley. I was taken back to those far-off days and my memory was refreshed as effectively as by any of the scents, tastes and tactile aids to recollection discovered by Proust. There was the same anaemic earnestness, the same superior disparagement of things that escaped his comprehension, the same milk-and-water voice upon which a University twang lay like a thin layer of vinegar. His personality, just like that of Mr. Miles, excited all those sentiments of irritation that can only be relieved by the application of a well-aimed kick. If it were not for the fact that the respective dates of births and deaths overlapped I should be inclined to believe in a reincarnation.”

Lord Berners, First Childhood

I read in the morning papers of the death of Neil Welliver, who is represented in the Teachout Museum by the woodcut Night Scene, which I took to Washington with me last month to show at my Phillips Lecture. I met Welliver by chance a few years ago, and wrote about the encounter in “Second City,” my Washington Post column:

Tibor de Nagy Gallery is showing a singularly beautiful retrospective of prints by Neil Welliver, who lives in Maine and paints cool-colored, thickly brushed backwoods landscapes that have a touch of the “all-over” canvas-covering abstraction of the New York School. When I went to the counter to buy a copy of the exhibition catalogue, there was no one there to help me but a crusty, bald-headed gent who was grumbling amiably to another visitor about “goddamn snotty New Yorkers.” I picked up a catalogue and pulled out my wallet, and he peered suspiciously at me. Then he grinned. “Would you like me to sign it?” he asked.

To read the New York Times obituary, go here.

Speaking of brushes with greatness, here’s Laura Lippman:

So when I saw Stephen Sondheim a few months ago in a midtown restaurant, what did I do? Absolutely nothing. Oh, I looked. I agree with Nora Ephron’s definition of celebrity–someone you would stand up in a restaurant to see–but I was already standing. I looked and I beamed and I thought: Hey, I just saw Pacific Overtures! But it never occurred to me to try and approach him. Not because I was embarrassed to be a fan, but because I was content to be one, if that makes sense.

Fandom is a complicated, often reviled state. I’ve heard people speak derisively about someone going “fan boy” or “fan girl,” but I’ve never been able to share the derision. Sometimes, I even go out of my way to do something nerdily fannish–sending an (unanswered) e-mail to Zilpha Keatley Snyder, shaking Clint Eastwood’s hand, going to a State House press conference to see Cal Ripken Jr. in the flesh. One advantage to never having been cool…is that it frees up a lot of energy that otherwise would be invested in pride. Plus, I have to think it’s good karma, sending one’s gratitude out into the world. And, sure enough, sometimes it comes back, in the most rewarding and surprising ways.

But I also know that I can’t, in a restaurant encounter, say anything uniquely meaningful to someone whose work has meant so much to me. I cannot make Stephen Sondheim my new best friend, no matter what clever, obscure references I make. (“I became a mystery writer because of The Last of Sheila.” Not true, but it would probably get his attention.) So I settled for being just a fan, although I always tell people who use that phrase in front of me to leave out the “just.” It’s not a state that requires modifiers or self-deprecation. Isn’t everyone a fan of someone or something? I hope so.

I felt the same way about Jerome Robbins, passing up several opportunities to speak to him on the street. And if I were to find myself seated two tables away from Sondheim, I’d do–or, rather, not do–exactly the same thing.

(Part of what brought Laura’s posting to mind, by the way, is that I had lunch yesterday with a musician friend of mine who has reached a point in her career when people occasionally recognize her on the street. That must be an interesting sensation….)