Here’s my list of recommended Broadway, off-Broadway, and out-of-town shows, updated weekly. In all cases, I gave these shows favorable reviews (if sometimes qualifiedly so) in The Wall Street Journal when they opened. For more information, click on the title.

BROADWAY:
• An American in Paris (musical, G, too complex for small children, virtually all performances sold out last week, reviewed here)
• Fun Home (serious musical, PG-13, all performances sold out last week, reviewed here)
• A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder (musical, PG-13, reviewed here)
• Hand to God (black comedy, X, absolutely not for children or prudish adults, many performances sold out last week, reviewed here)
• The King and I (musical, G, perfect for children with well-developed attention spans, all performances sold out last week, reviewed here)
• Matilda (musical, G, most performances sold out last week, reviewed here)
• Les Misérables (musical, G, too long and complicated for young children, reviewed here)
• On the Town (musical, G, contains double entendres that will not be intelligible to children, reviewed here)
• On the Twentieth Century (musical, G/PG-13, virtually all performances sold out, closes July 19, contains very mild sexual content, reviewed here)

OFF BROADWAY:
• Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (comedy, G, ideal for bright children, remounting of Broadway production, original production reviewed here)
• The Fantasticks (musical, G, suitable for children capable of enjoying a love story, reviewed here)
• The Flick (serious comedy, PG-13, too long for young people with limited attention spans, closes Aug. 30, reviewed here)

IN GLENCOE, ILL.:
• Doubt (drama, PG-13, closes Aug. 2, reviewed here)

CLOSING SATURDAY IN BOSTON:
• Light Up the Sky (comedy, G, not suitable for small children, reviewed here)

CLOSING SUNDAY IN CHICAGO:
• Sense and Sensibility (musical, G, reviewed here)

CLOSING SUNDAY ON BROADWAY:
• The Visit (serious musical, PG-13, far too dark and disturbing for children, reviewed here)

an optimist is a guy
that has never had
much experience.

Don Marquis, archy and mehitabel

Ray Charles performs “You Don’t Know Me” and “What’d I Say” on The Dinah Shore Show in 1963:

(This is the latest in a series of arts-related videos that appear in this space each Monday and Wednesday.)

“Delay is the deadliest form of denial.”

C. Northcote Parkinson, The Law of Delay

• If you visit this blog with even modest regularity, you know that the next stop for Satchmo at the Waldorf is San Francisco’s American Conservatory Theatre, where the John Douglas Thompson-Gordon Edelstein off-Broadway production will be transferring in January. On Friday A.C.T. ran a full-page ad on the back page of the San Francisco Chronicle announcing its 2015-16 season, and my agent e-mailed me a photo that morning. It is, if I may say so without undue immodesty, way, way cool.

Later that same day, the South Florida Sun-Sentinel ran a story about Palm Beach Dramaworks’ 2015-16 season that contained, among other things, reproductions of the posters for the five plays being produced there this coming season, all of them created by New York’s Fraver/Fraver Design, a major name in theatrical poster art.

I saw and approved the Satchmo at the Waldorf poster a few weeks ago, and since then I’ve been boiling over with eagerness to show it off. Now that it’s been released for publication, you can see it for yourself. I hope you like it as much as I do.

• I know not how or why, but Duke, my 2013 biography of Duke Ellington, unexpectedly turned up on the New York Times’ list of best-selling books about culture for June 7, 2015. Among the other books on the list: Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Pioneer Girl, Anne-Marie O’Connor’s The Lady in Gold, Harold Bloom’s The Daemon Knows, and Reynold Levy’s They Told Me Not to Take That Job.

To see the complete list, go here.

From 2005:

Perhaps my powers of concentration have been diminished by advancing age, or maybe I’ve simply become more sensitive to the emotion-evoking power of music. (I cry more easily now than I did a decade ago.) Whatever the reason, I now find music more distracting than I used to, and I no longer listen to any kind of music while working on first drafts. Editing is different, and unless I’m doing battle with a tight deadline, in which case I prefer to struggle in silence, I sometimes listen to music when I’m polishing a piece, though I don’t really hear it….

Read the whole thing here.

“The only ‘ism’ that has justified itself is pessimism.”

George Orwell, “The Limit to Pessimism”

An old college friend of mine who visited Los Angeles with her husband last week made a special point of going to see a performance of Satchmo at the Waldorf, my first play, which closed there yesterday. “I’m so proud of you,” she wrote to me afterward, adding that John Douglas Thompson’s performance had “brought us to tears.” What touched me most about this message was that it came from someone who knew me when I was young. Until then, the only people to have seen Satchmo who’d known me before I moved to New York from Kansas City, where I lived from 1975 to 1983, were my brother, sister-in-law, and niece.

That move was the great divide of my life, far greater and more consequential than my departure from Smalltown, U.S.A., in the fall of 1974. After an unhappy and abortive semester at St. John’s College in Annapolis, I transferred to William Jewell College, a school not far from Kansas City, where I felt completely at home. Many of the friendships that I forged in Kansas City remained alive when I moved from there to Urbana, Illinois, in 1983. But once I left the Midwest for good two years later, I left my friends behind, and my subsequent contacts with them would be sporadic at best.

This break wasn’t deliberate. I loved Smalltown and Kansas City, and I Ioved the friends I made in both places. But it happened that none of the members of my family lived in or near Kansas City, making it all but inevitable that my visits there would grow increasingly infrequent. In time they ceased entirely: I didn’t go to Kansas City at all between 2000 and 2009, when I went there to review a play for The Wall Street Journal, an experience that I found to be overwhelmingly moving. Even then, though, I didn’t seek out anyone I knew.

As I explained in this space immediately after the fact:

I still know a number of people in Kansas City and its environs, and it would have taken no more than a half-dozen phone calls for me to come up with someone to share every meal I ate there last weekend. Instead I kept my presence strictly to myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my old friends–I miss them very much–but I knew that I urgently needed to spend some time alone with the past.

I’ve since gotten back in touch with several of the people whom I knew in high school and college, a process much facilitated by the coming of Facebook, and I’ve visited Kansas City several more times, always with the greatest of pleasure. I went so far as to take Mrs. T there in 2011. (She loved it.) Alas, my ties to the past continue to live mostly in memory. Not only do I know no one in New York who comes from Missouri, but I’ve made most of my present-day friends in the past decade and a half. Except for the members of my immediate family and Our Girl in Chicago, whom I met in 1988, there is only one person whom I now see other than occasionally whose friendship with me dates from my earliest years in New York, and none whom I knew prior to 1985.

More than anything else, the absence from my present life of my older friends is an accident of geography. America is a big country, and long-distance friendships are even harder to sustain than long-distance romances. But whatever the reason, this absence has deprived me of an experience that Robert Penn Warren described accurately and beautifully in All the King’s Men:

The Friend of Your Youth is the only friend you will ever have, for he does not really see you. He sees in his mind a face that does not exist anymore, speaks a name–Spike, Bud, Snip, Red, Rusty, Jack, Dave–which belongs to that now nonexistent face but which by some inane doddering confusion of the universe is for the moment attached to a not happily met and boring stranger. But he humors the drooling doddering confusion of the universe and continues to address politely that dull stranger by the name which properly belongs to the boy face and to the time when the boy voice called thinly across the late afternoon water or murmured by a campfire at night or in the middle of a crowded street said, “Gee, listen to this–‘On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves–’” The Friend of Your Youth is your friend because he does not see you anymore.


And perhaps he never saw you. What he saw was simply part of the furniture of the wonderful opening world. Friendship was something he suddenly discovered and had to give away as a recognition of and payment for the breathlessly opening world which momently divulged itself like a moonflower. It didn’t matter a damn to whom he gave it, for the fact of giving was what mattered, and if you happened to be handy you were automatically endowed with all the appropriate attributes of a friend and forever after your reality is irrelevant. The Friend of Your Youth is the only friend you will ever have, for he hasn’t the slightest concern with calculating his interest or your virtue.

That’s why it meant so much to me to learn that a Friend of My Youth had seen Satchmo. In the days when Debbie and I knew one another well, I was still in the early stages of the slow process of becoming myself. Yes, I’d acted in a few plays—in fact, Debbie saw me on stage more than once, a thought that makes me cringe with retrospective embarrassment—but I had yet to start playing jazz professionally or write my first concert review or visit New York. If you’d told me back then that it was my destiny to move there, become a drama critic, and write a successful play of my own, I would have laughed in your face. My sense of possibilities had been cramped by my small-town upbringing, and the wonderful opening world of adulthood, with its infinitely wider horizons, had yet to fully open itself to me.

Now I live there, and I don’t regret doing so. “I feel the temptation to live in the past, but one can truly live only in the moment,” I wrote in this space in 2003. I believe that as much today as I did then. And yet…when I last had occasion to quote these words eleven months ago, I added this qualification: “To accept the inescapability of the present is not to deny the pull of the past. You can have, and love, both.”

It is precisely because I love them both that I was so moved by Debbie’s message. When she sat down to watch Satchmo in Los Angeles, my past and present reached out across the long years to join hands with one another. I only wish I could have been there to watch. I doubt she would have been the only one crying.

* * *

Joe Turner and His Fly Cats perform “Piney Brown Blues” in 1940: