Archives for 2008

Why are human beings so obsessed with completing unfinished artworks? The world’s desk drawers must sequester untold numbers of semi-developed plays, novels, paintings and string quartets. Yet for some reason, the idea of the unfinished artwork is a source of unbridled fascination for many of us.

Some of these artistic fragments are masterpieces in their own right. The two existing movements of Franz Schubert’s famous 1822 Symphony No. 8 in B minor (popularly known as The Unfinished Symphony) are a case in point, as is Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. But more often than not, we’re unwilling to accept unfinished works for what they are. We want completion. Luckily for humankind, there’s always someone desperate for the chance to add the finishing touches to an unfinished work. But whether these efforts do anything positive for the original creator’s posthumous reputation is up for debate.

At their best, these acts of completion capture the spirit of the original fragment while making a special feature of the missing content. A great example is the 1985 musical adaptation of Charles Dickens’ unfinished novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The Broadway production ran for more than 600 performances, won five Tony Awards including Best Musical and has received many subsequent regional revivals. As cheesy as it sounds, the show’s popularity stems from its interactive ending, in which audience members can vote on which of the characters is the murderer.

But some attempts to finish unfinished works are more apt to make us wish that the original material had been left untouched in that desk drawer. More often than not, the fault isn’t the founding artist’s but the well-intentioned efforts of the people hell-bent on rehabilitating an abandoned artwork. If not handled with utmost sensitivity and creative wizardry, the end result can look as preposterous as Stonehenge might were the ancient monument to be topped off with a shiny red tile roof.

Just before Franz Kafka died in 1924, the author sent his literary executor, Max Brod, the following instructions: “Dearest Max, my last request: Everything I leave behind me…in the way of diaries, manuscripts, letters (my own and others’), sketches, and so on, [is] to be burned unread.” Brod famously ignored his client’s wishes, choosing instead to publish as much of Kafka’s unfinished writings as he could lay his hands on. The world is grateful to Brod for going against Kafka’s desires – if he hadn’t, Kafka’s great unfinished novel The Castle would have been lost forever.

However, it’s possible in a way to speculate why the author may not have wanted his literary fragments sent off to the printers: Doing so would inevitably increase the chances of misrepresentation. In fact, Brod made such extensive changes to Kafka’s texts, altering punctuation, word order and chapter divisions, that scholars are no longer willing to accept his version as authentic.

This goes to show that the little control artists have over completed works of art once those artifacts enter the public domain diminishes considerably when the works in question are incomplete. This is particularly the case for artists whose work predates our own era’s tight copyright laws.

I’m all for bringing previously hidden, half-finished works into the light. But sometimes it’s better to let these creative fragments remain as unfinished sentences rather than making them grind exhausted to a period/full stop.

Often when I receive responses to posts I write, people refer to the texts as “articles.” Which leads me to wonder whether the word “blog post” and “article” means the same same thing to most people who read material on the Internet. To me, there’s a huge difference between what I post to ArtsJournal / chloeveltman.com and the content that magazines and newspapers commission me to write. For one thing, it usually takes me an hour or less to create and publish a blog post, whereas an article can take weeks or even months to research and write. For another, I’m the only “editor” involved in the blogging process, whereas whenever I write a piece for a magazine or newspaper, a whole team of editors, sub-editors and other media people often gets involved. For a third, I pretty much write whatever I want on my blog, whereas to have something published elsewhere involves getting past various gatekeepers.

All of the above differences affect both the content and style of what I write. As such, it feels a bit strange when people writing to me about my blog posts refer to them as “articles.” To play devil’s advocate for a moment: If readers are genuinely unable to distininguish between a quick, visceral response to the world, and something more detailed and well-thought-out, then is it worth spending all the time and effort writing articles at all?

I’m pretty sure I’m over-intellectualizing this. It’s probably just a matter of semantics. Perhaps it’s too much to expect readers outside the journalistic process to separate the term “article” from “blog post.” The line between the two concepts is blurred after all — some bloggers do undertake lots of research for their blog postings and agonize over every word. Equally, newspapers and magazines publish many articles that are poorly written and researched.

To me, however, the terms are far from interchangeable. A blog post is all about getting new ideas and news out there in a timely or spontaneous fashion to kick-start conversations. The writing should be as clear and stylish as possible under the the quick turnaround timeframe that goes hand in hand with posting five days a week. And of course facts should be accurate. But beyond a perfuctory breaking news report, an an article is something that one could think of as growing out of a blog post — a piece of work that involves more long, hard thinking, in-depth and/or wide-ranging interviews and perspectives, and a refined style.

Perhaps one day when blogs become the absolute heart of cultural journalism — and, dare I say it, when economics make it possible for bloggers to devote themselves 100% to creating content for their blogs — it may be possible to conflate the terms. For now however, the two terms remain separated in my practice and mind.

I don’t keep up with the world of musicals as closely as some other arts scenes. But the news that the Broadway musical Glory Days was shutting down after only one performance made me feel sad. Penned by 23-year-old composer-lyricist Nick Blaemire and 24-year-old librettist James Gardiner, the 90-minute, pop-driven musical deals with four friends sorting out their differences a year after high school.

My feelings don’t have much to do with the work itself, which I didn’t see during its preview run or on opening night. When I was in New York a couple of weeks ago, however, I was struck by the avalanche of publicity that the show was getting in advance of its official opening at Circle in the Square Theatre. There were posters everywhere. Every time I turned on the local news, I heard the show mentioned. All the friends I saw during my stay talked about the fast rise to fame of the production’s creators.

The amount of hype alone raised warning bells for me, though I didn’t think that the musical’s producers would open and close the show on the very same night in response to poor advance sales and weak reviews.

As an article about the show’s brief rise and fall in The Washington Post explains: “But while the novelty of two extremely young talents crashing Broadway created considerable publicity, the online chatter ran from befuddled to venomous, and the box office was dismal. During last week’s previews, the show grossed just under $47,000 and played to about 22 percent capacity.”

What makes me upset about this story is the system. It provides yet another example of the damaging effects of society’s obsession with youth and speed. The caffeinated journey of this modestly-scaled show from Arlington’s Signature Theatre in January to the Circle in the Square follows similar lines to, say, the trajectory of Britney Spears. I just hope to god that Blaemire and Gardiner have the good sense not to let this setback push them into rehab, or worse.

I’m sure the producers had sound financial reasons for pulling the plug on Glory Days. But why so soon? Couldn’t they have let the show run on for a few more weeks? Even if the critics hated it, I’m pretty sure the musical would have done swift business among high school and college groups.

Lately, tea drinking seems to have reached epidemic heights in the U.S. Only a few years ago, tea drinkers in this country were lucky to find anything other than crappy Lipton’s brand black tea in grocery stores and restaurants. These days, tea emporiums are flourishing, run-of-the-mill corner cafes stock a wide selection of brews from standard black teas to more adventurous greens, whites and reds, and Americans all over the country are exchanging their cafetieres for teapots. The other day, I was even able to obtain a cup of camomile tea in my local bar.

What’s behind the new popularity of this seemingly least American of beverages? Certainly, tea isn’t a new commodity in the U.S. It’s hardly Kombucha, the fermented mushroom-based drink that seems to be all the rage right now.

According to the fascinating history page on the Stash tea company website, the American tea revolution has its roots in the 17th century. Apparently, settlers were confirmed tea drinkers. Peter Stuyvesant brought the first tea to America to the colonists in the Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam around the 1650s. Tea became popular in the 18th century, particularly among genteel women. But the war of Independence scuppered the relationship between America and the beverage when the British raised taxes on tea, which led to the Boston Tea Party of 1773.

Coffee may have since far overtaken tea as the brewed beverage of choice in the U.S., but tea is obviously now making a comeback. Why? Doctors’ orders probably have something to do with it — a cup of black tea has far less caffeine than the average cup of coffee, and many Americans are switching to tea for health reasons.

I’m guessing that the rise of Starbucks and other similar beverage outlets may have also helped to reunite the American public with tea, as has the growing popularity of yoga, Chinese medicine and various other practices brought to the U.S. by Eastern tea-drinking nations in recent decades.

Turning tea into a “luxury” item through skillful marketing and fancy packaging etc has also helped to raise the profile of the beverage in the media.

As much hype as there is about tea right now, I don’t think tea drinking is a fad. It’s here to stay. Let’s not forget, after all, that the U.S. is responsible for two of the most enduring tea traditions. It was an American tea plantation owner, Richard Blechynden, who invented iced tea in 1904. And his fellow countryman, Thomas Sullivan, who came up with the concept of “bagged tea” four years later.

There’s something daunting about putting the word “national” on the front of the name of an arts organization. Being a ballet company or orchestra is one thing; being a national ballet company or national orchestra is quite another. Somehow the term carries an awesome amount of baggage with it.

The sheer size of this country and its fragmented legislative system which favors private support of the arts has prevented an American National Theatre from taking root, even though the idea has had — and continues to have — many supporters from within the arts world. I’m not sure where the latest plans to bring a national theatre to downtown Manhattan have got to (the movement’s website doesn’t seem to have been updated in quite some time.) Looking into history, Lincoln Center Theater’s Vivian Beaumont stage was established with a national theatre mission in mind, and the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. has long considered itself to be the nation’s cultural center (even though it doesn’t at all fulfill that role in reality.)

But while Americans continue to struggle with the possibility of establishing a national homebase for theatre, the Brits are making new inroads onto U.S. soil. Not content with UK-oriented drama festivals like New York’s Brits Off Broadway, a group of English theatrical entrepreneurs is in the process of setting up something called The British National Theatre of America. And — intriguingly — they’re doing it about as far away from the Great White Way as it’s possible to be: in Las Vegas.

Vegas’ cultural life hasn’t fared well of late, what with The Las Vegas Guggenheim closing its doors and The Wynn Las Vegas casino bidding its resident show, Spamalot, farewell. The city hasn’t done much to nurture a non-profit theatre scene over the years.

Whether The British National Theatre of America brings new vigor to the local arts environment remains to be seen. But in the meantime, locals can look forward to the company’s probable inaugural show, Cinderella the Pantomime, and people around the country and abroad can keep track of the group’s endeavors via their MySpace and FaceBook pages.

“A large part of what we’re trying to do is to build a theatre community in Las Vegas,” says  BNTA co-founder, British playwright and Vegas resident, Jo Cattell. I’m all for broadening the Las Vegas arts scene beyond Celine Dion and Cirque du Soleil. But I can’t help worrying that The British National Theatre of America is doing itself a disservice by making the term “national” part of its name. For one thing it’s confusing. Does the troupe intend to recreate — rather like the Venetian casino with respects to Venice — the British National Theatre in London? Or is the goal to create a Las Vegas-based American theatre on a national scale albeit with British input? For another, the fact that so many attempts to create a so-called national theatre have run aground has made people rather skeptical of the term. In short, I don’t suppose the endeavor would lose any credibility by dropping the grandiose n-word.

One of the worst things about spending an evening at an a cocktail party in England is having to answer the question, “what do you do?” This is a phrase I don’t hear that much in the U.S. Americans may ask “what do you do for a living?” but that’s not quite the same as “what do you do?” because it doesn’t allow that little “do” word to run amok and come to represent the sum total of a person’s existence.

While in the U.K., people are only allowed to apply the “do” word to the activity they undertake everyday to keep a roof over their head, in the U.S. the qualifier “for a living” has to be added because there’s a general acceptance of the idea that peoples’ lives are composed of many key activities that extend beyond the remit of a day-to-day job. For example, in the U.S., a person can say that he or she is an artist even if it’s not something he or she makes a living at. Do this in England, and you’ll get nothing more than a furrowed look.

The British tend to be suspicious of people who answer the “what do you do?” question by claiming to be writers of graphic novels, yodelers, morris dancers or sitar players. When misappropriators of the “to do” verb later let slip that they happen to work in a restaurant or as an accountant to make rent, a cold front automatically descends upon the room. They are pitied for thinking of themselves as artists, when really what they “do” has nothing to “do” with making art. Poor fools, they’re living in a deluded dream. For how can they possibly call themselves artists if don’t have a Top 10 hit, a place on the bestseller lists or aren’t at the very least capable of making a full-time living from their art?

This attitude is crippling to British culture — not to mention cocktail party conversation. In the U.S., people don’t seem to have a problem with talking about what the British would call “hobbies” with a level of devotion and enthusiasm that their compatriots across the Atlantic only reserve for discussing their jobs. For this reason alone, I have to admit that I like cocktail parties in America a great deal more than back home in England.

But it’s an odd phenomenon — one that I think about on occasion but still don’t understand. The U.S. boasts the biggest work ethic of any nation in the world. People take their jobs incredibly seriously and, if statistics are to be believed, have little time inbetween working and sleeping to engage in anything of an artistic nature. Yet somehow, there’s more “give” at the heart of the culture; a tolerance for people trying on phrases like “I’m a singer-songwriter” or “I design theatre sets” to see how they fit even if they’ve never signed a deal with a record company or created the scenery for a Broadway show.

This is ultimately very liberating. It allows people to articulate and acknowledge that there’s more to life than clocking in and clocking out. The British could learn a thing or two from the American attitude to “to do.”

Some children’s stories aren’t just written for children. They’re for adults too. From Aesop’s Fables to Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland to the Dr. Seuss classic, Oh, The Places You’ll Go! kids books are packed with important life lessons for grown-ups.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s 1943 novella The Little Prince is no exception. Inspired by the author’s career as an aviator, the book tells the story of a an airplane pilot who meets The Little Prince, an intense young man with a crown of golden hair, after his plane crashes in the Sahara Desert. The two become friends. From spending time with the Prince and hearing the boy’s stories, the aviator learns to value what’s important in life – and that adults have a lot to learn from children. The book has made a profound impression on many adults in the 65 years since it was published. James Dean could recite entire passages from the book. Morrissey is seen reading a copy in the “Suedehead” video. Saint-Exupéry’s narrative has even become the subject of three operas – an artform that isn’t exactly known for attracting minors.

Composer Rachel Portman and librettist Nicholas Wright’s playful, family-friendly opera adaptation of The Little Prince recently arrived at U.C. Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall under the auspices of San Francisco Opera and Cal Performances. The production has enjoyed a great deal of popularity to date, having received its premiere at the Houston Grand Opera in 2003 and subsequent productions in New York (New York City Opera), Tulsa, Milwaukee and Boston, among other cities.

This retelling of Saint-Exupery’s story is not hugely memorable from a musical perspective. Portman is best known as a composer of scores for such movies as The Cider House Rules, Chocolat, The Joy Luck Club and Emma (for which she won an Academy Award in 1997). Her music for The Little Prince sounds in many ways like a fillm score — it plays a supporting role rather than takes center stage. Portman’s music includes one strikingly humorous, short aria for the tenor playing the role of The Vain Man (Thomas Glenn in the case of this production). The scoring is sometimes playful. At one point, Portman employs the sound of a typewriter’s clack-clacking keys. At another, a character on stage plays a kazoo (a whimsical glance back to Mozart’s The Magic Flute perhaps?) The composer also spins fine, gauzelike textures for strings and gives the winds some lovely, mournful solos.

But though pleasant on the ear, the music otherwise more or less slides by unnoticed.

What makes this Little Prince such a wonderful experience, however, is the collaboration between all the artists involved. Portman’s music blends seamlessly with Wright’s cheeky libretto, written in rhyming couplets. Director Francesca Zambello’s staging is nothing short of magical, making use of the entire breadth, height and depth of the stage and plenty of trapdoors. Designer Maria Bjornson’s storybook desert setting with its cartoonlike dunes provides a simple yet striking canvas upon which Rick Fisher’s lights powerfully evoke the rising and setting Sahara sun.

Best of all, the cast — which features a chorus of 24 children and a 12-year old boy in the role of the Little Prince — sings with sensitivity and passion without once veering into saccharine terrain.

No wonder this opera has received so many stagings over the past five years: It brings out the inner child in anyone who goes.

I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about what happens to people when they stop being children to their parents and unwittingly become parents to their parents. For some people coping with a father or mother suddenly falling ill or having trouble facing retirement, this reversal of roles happens more-or-less overnight. For others, it’s a gradual process, a transformation that happens over years of evolution.

A new drama by Stephen Adly Guirgis currently playing at New York’s Public Theater brilliantly examines what happens when a couple of siblings go from being dependent on their mother to finding that she’s dependent on them.

Directed by Philip Seymour Hoffman and starring Ellen Burstyn, Guirgis’ The Little Flower of East Orange delves into the psychological and emotional problems that come with the territory of dealing with elderly parents who need constant mothering and fathering.

The play focuses on the relationship between writer-junkie Danny (a pognantly disheveled Michael Shannon) and his relationship with his mother, Therese Marie (played by a bed-ridden Burstyn.) The two characters never fully understand each other though they come close. I rarely cry at the theatre, but the final showdown between Danny and his mother pretty much did me in. Guirgis does many things very well, but his ability to make characters seem utterly dependent upon one another and simultaneously completely at odds is probably his greatest strength.

The Little Flower is not as strong a piece as Guirgis’ Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train in terms of what the play reveals about society. It’s also a lot less funny. But this new play is in some ways much more personal.

Today I listened to the film director Mike Leigh give four interviews. Or, to be more precise, I listened to him give three interviews. By the time I got to the fourth, I had to abort mission. I felt overwhelmed.

Leigh is in San Francisco to receive the director’s award at the San Francisco International Film Festival and stir up some buzz for his latest film, Happy-Go-Lucky which comes out in the in the U.S. later this year. I took the occasion of his visit to pitch my editor at The Believer Magazine the idea of doing an interview with Leigh. The editor gave the idea her blessing, and I was lucky enough to be granted an interview with the great British auteur.

Reading and listening to other Q&A’s with an interview subject is, at least for me, an important part of the research process for a journalistic profile.

In my opinion, you can never overdose on research. There’s always more to learn about an interview subject; more ways to think about their lives and work in order to come up with insightful and hopefully slightly unusual questions and conversation points for a meeting. As such, I had done a fair bit of reading. I’d re-watched some of Leigh’s films. I spent an entire morning on YouTube scouting for Leigh-related video clips. The process was entirely pleasurable. But never have I felt so keenly aware of the problems inherent in the business of interview subjects being forced to regurgitate the same material over and over again for the sake of the media.

My actual interview with Leigh went as well as I could have hoped for considering the fact that I spent the morning wondering what on earth I could find to ask a hero of mine who’d given countless press interviews during a career spanning more than three decades. Thankfully, Leigh was in a gregarious mood and even complimented me on the fact that I managed to ask him a few questions that he’d never heard before. When the Festival press officer came in to the interview room to tell Leigh that our time was up, he even told her to go away and come back in 10 minutes so that we could continue our conversation. Yet as fun as our conversation was, I experienced complete Mike Leigh overkill by the time I got home.

It all started with the interview with Leigh I caught on the radio as I was driving into San Francisco from my home in Oakland to meet the director. Michael Krasny, the host of KQED 88.5FM’s Forum program, interviewed Leigh for about half an hour, asking him a range of fairly run-of-the-mill questions about his films and taking calls from listeners. Next came my meeting. Then, in the evening, I went to hear Leigh in conversation with David D’Arcy of Screen International at The Castro movie theatre. D’Arcy asked some of the same questions that Krasny and I had asked. Then there were more (mostly uninspired) audience questions. When I drove home, I turned on the radio again, and happened to catch the start of the re-run of Krasny’s interview with Leigh from the morning. It was too much. I turned it off.

Clearly I have no stamina for these things. Remarkably, Leigh managed to sound engaging and interested through all of these interviews — and that’s to say nothing of the several additional journalists he met with today whose conversations I wasn’t party to. Leigh’s been answering the same questions for years now, and yet he still seems to relish going into the details of how he works and the state of filmmaking in general. Even when people ask dumb questions, he generally manages to turn them around and give something back that’s intelligible and often witty.

I can’t quite decide if Leigh is the most tolerant, generous and patient filmmaker in the world, whether he’s a sucker for punishment, or whether he simply likes the sound of his own voice. Perhaps a desire to share his joy of filmmaking with audiences and readers supercedes the jetlag, the silly questions and the endless repetition. I doubt I’ll forget today, at any rate. 

I was wrong: After all, perhaps there is such a thing as too much research.

For the last few days, I’ve been wearing a necklace fashioned from an antique dominoe. I picked the trinket up in a store in Sonoma a few months ago, but have hardly worn it until now. I’m wearing the necklace in response to an arresting article that appeared in last Wednesday’s New York Times by Marc Lacey about how the game of dominoes has come to dominate the lives of many poor Haitians. What’s striking are the strange and tragi-comic stakes for which the game is played. Writes Lacey:

The beauty of dominoes is that it requires not even a single gourde, Haiti’s currency, to compete. That is not to say, however, that there is no price to pay.

Dominoes are played in two-person teams or with each player competing individually. Clothespins are merely one of many techniques Haitians employ to punish those who lose four games in a row.

Some approaches focus less on pain and more on ridicule, like forcing a losing player to wear an empty sugar sack over his head or a brightly colored oversized hat. Other losers might have powder wiped on their faces, turning their brown skin white, or be forced to wear a heavy coat so they suffer in the heat.

The particular method of suffering depends on the rules at a particular table that day, which vary widely across the country.

Losers are sometimes made to salute any person who approaches the table.

Or to drink a glass of water every time they lose a game, with no bathroom breaks.

Or to fetch any domino that another player tosses away from the table, even if it happens to land in a sewage ditch.

On any given day, the players say, anyone can end up a loser.

The potent relationship between suffering and play embodied by the Haitian approach to dominoes has been explored in the work of many artists. It’s there in the death-rattle antics of Hamm and Clov in Beckett’s Endgame for instance. Watching Mike Leigh’s 1993 film, Naked, yesterday returning to the Bay Area from New York on the plane also brought Lacey’s article to mind through Leigh’s constant blurring of the line between courtship rituals and violence.

In one of the most devastating scenes of the film, the main character, Johnny, flirts with an older woman but ultimately rejects her out of disgust at her dependence on drink to dull pain.

Like the dominoes players in Haiti inflicting physical forfeits on themsleves and each other in the pursuit of “leisure,” so pain goes hand-in-hand with pleasure. Or, to be more accurate, both life and art suggest that feeling pain in life, though undesired, is better than feeling nothing at all.

David Mamet’s brassy Broadway comedy about a president facing a tough reelection season, November, was more or less been savaged by the New York critics when it opened in January. Ben Brantley called it “glib and jaunty” and “an easy laugh machine” in his review for The New York Times; “the play rings false,” wrote Jeremy McCarter in New York magazine. The play may not be as intelligent as Mamet’s screenplay for Wag the Dog in terms of its satire on political spin, many of the jokes are cheap, and the plot may be as far-fetched as the outcome of the 2000 U.S. elections. But the production, which I witnessed over the weekend during a trip to New York, has merits nonetheless.

Chief among these is probably one of the most brilliantly conceived and beautifully constructed stage props I’ve ever seen. I’m talking about the antique globe that stands inconspicuously in a corner of set for half of the play, before suddenly taking on a new and unexpected life as a fetishistic kind of mini-bar. “I understand the world,” says President Charles “Chuck” Smith (played at caffeinated pitch by Nathan Lane), taking the top of his globe-shaped drinks cooler off like it’s the lid of a giant banqueting dish and casually reaching for a bottle of ice-cold beer. The prop is only used once during the course of the play, but Mamet’s entire satire is right there inside that bit of office furniture along with those Budweisers.

November also has some interesting things to say about the relationship between performance and politics, a subject close to my heart right now.

One of the play’s core themes is the political machine’s foregrounding of superficial form over substantive content. As such, news of major and pressing world events such as the war in Iraq and the possibility of an invasion by Iran are quickly superceded by, among other nonsensical issues, the President’s desire to exhort as much money as he can out of a representative of the National Association of Turkey By-Products Manufacturers in order to fund his presidential library.

Mamet further pokes fun at Smith’s obsession with empty gesture by making the character refer in a ham-fisted way to cue cards containing personal information about all the people the president meets. The idea behind the cards is to convey the (false) impression that the President knows and cares about the little details of his subjects’ lives. Elsewhere, and on a related note, one of the most memorable scenes occurs when Smith’s right-hand-man, Archer Brown (a slick Dylan Baker) hands the President a list of “off-the-cuff remarks” to memorize and insert into the next day’s business. The oxymoron inherent in rehearsing something that is supposed to be improvisatory tells us a lot about the extent to which politicians’ behavior can be likened to a carefully-manicured garden lawn — and just how easy it is for weeds to grow there nonetheless.

There’s no subtlety to November. The farce is as broad as Lane’s maniacal chipmunk grin. Yet that’s the point. Lane may spend more of his time on stage mugging than acting, but there’s a nugget of truth to his pretty awful performance. The entire play is a study in bad acting after all. It perfectly reflects just how bad the acting can be in The Whitehouse.

When Mel Brooks said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die,” he probably had the plays of Samuel Beckett in the back of his mind.

These words came flooding back to me last night after I experienced a preview performance of Beckett’s Endgame at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in New York.

Director Andrei Belgrader’s production features an all-star cast: the movie actor John Turturro as Hamm, The Sopranos regular Max Casella as Clov, revered stage actor Alvin Epstein (who, among other things, originated the role of Lucky in the American premiere of Waiting for Godot) as Nag, and Broadway legend Elaine Stritch as Nell. Even though the production had some vivid moments, it lacked one element crucial to the successful staging of Beckett’s full-length plays: humor.

My heart nearly broke during the poignant exchanges between Nag and Nell. Epstein and Stritch cut such frail figures. They act their parts like sighs. There is also a note of terrible sweetness in their eulogizing about the past.

Casella and Turturro are at their best when angry at each other. Casella’s fury is particularly engrossing. He seems utterly worn down and at the very end of his rope with his life as a reluctant caregiver. Clov’s moments of vengeful mischief against Hamm are similarly powerful. I had always assumed that when Clov tells Hamm “there are no more painkillers” he’s telling the truth. But Casella made me think that he was playing another practical joke on his awful boss. Standing, twisted on stage with a small round jar in his hands and a glint of malice in his eye, Casella suggests that he might be telling a lie.

But — at least in preview — the 75-minute production drags and ultimately fails to help me connect with the tragedy at its heart, probably because Belgrader doesn’t seem all that interested in exploring the play’s vital streak of vaudeville comedy. The last production of Endgame I witnessed, by Cutting Ball in San Francisco, played up the slapstick elements. This made the audience painfully aware of the cosmic joke that underpins human life as viewed through a Beckettian lens. I only cracked a couple of half-hearted smiles at BAM last night, whereas belly laughs were required.