War is...well, you know

Journey’s End takes place in the trenches of the First World War. First produced in 1928, this play, just like in almost every theatrical war before and since, men bitch and laugh and cry and die. Saying Journey’s End is relevant to our present war in Iraq is redundant. Journey’s End is relevant, it’s just time that has no meaning. And maybe that’s the built-in flaw of the current, very earnest and exceptionally performed Broadway production. Not much is new in the theater of war, whether it is Iraq or Broadway. We’ve seen the movies. We’ve seen the television shows and documentaries. Carnage at Anteitum and Thermopylae and Vietnam is pretty much identical to the carnage in the trenches of Saint-Wherever-We-Are in Journey’s End. I’m not saying I wasn’t moved by the play…actually, I was mush.

Due to “lack of interest” (reportedly many performances filled only about 25% of the seats) this production is scheduled to close on June 10th and, frankly, that’s what got me off my ass to go. The reviews were universal raves and a “must see,” etc. so I felt I should hie myself to the trenches. It’s quite likely Journey’s End will win several Tony Awards this year and deservedly so. Nonetheless, people stayed away in droves and it took a closing notice to goose attendance (the matinee yesterday was almost full). I’m glad I saw it but a good dose of sugar from Mary Poppins afterwards might have been just the double bill in which I should have indulged. Or maybe I should have just traipsed over to the lower east side and gotten something pierced to take away the pain.

Wee Me

This is my "WeeMee." One of those self-destroying, child-friendly, creative dead-ends foisted on us by the internet. Of course I couldn't resist.

Mug Shot

This is my current favorite coffee mug, a holiday or birthday donation from my sis. That's a moose. Those wiggly lines represent the top of the antlers...the rest is just a brown, jolly, jowly, moose. Somewhat representative of its user. It's a large cup that holds a lot of coffee and tests my limits for caffeine. The photo is also testing the "Creative Cam Detector" I downloaded to my computer a long time ago but, being the technically challenged dude I am, have been reluctant to use. No, I haven't gotten over using the word "dude." I also sometimes say "cool."

Xanadu, Xanadon't

In 1980, Xanadu was panned by film critics and “helped put the freeze on movie musicals in Hollywood for more than twenty years.” The London Evening News called it "the most dreadful, tasteless movie of the decade. Indeed, of all time."

So whose idea was it to make a stage musical from this bomb and, worse, bring it to Broadway? In the Playbill the list of producers and corporations and creative types is long and varied. Yet, again, how can so many otherwise (probably) smart people be so misguided? I envision them as a row of bobble-head dolls on the dashboard of the floor model, listening to some charismatic auto salesman who is pitching Detroit’s latest gas guzzler.

In Greek myth Zeus had nine daughters who then became the various muses: Calliope was the muse of epic poetry; Clio (history); Erato (love poetry); Euterpe (music); Melpomene (tragedy); Polyhymnia (sacred poetry); Terpsichore (dance); Thalia (comedy) and Urania (astronomy). Not one of them is well served in Xanadu except, maybe, Melpomene. All nine of these muses appear on stage plus several other people in togas and even some mythical creatures great and small. Zeus appears too in the person of Tony Roberts who, I must say, brings that mighty god down to earth.

There are some good performers but they are all trying too hard and have been given license to try anything, including inappropriate accents and a considerable amount of mugging, to coerce a smile onto our (my) stone cold face(s). The plot is simple and silly (which shouldn’t necessarily count against it): The muses come down to help or disrupt, depending on their various motives, in the establishment of a disco in Venice, CA in 1980. Yeah, that’s it; deal with it or go home. The show is 90 minutes with no intermission and I didn’t see any opportunity for escape. Dare I say I was unamused?

I was chastised for giving away a key element in 110 in the Shade (see below). However, warning, warning, warning, in Xanadu there is a lot of roller skating! I feared for the lives and limbs of the careening chorus, not to mention the people in the front row. Crash. Ouch!

Flora the Magnificent

My iris plants are drop dead gorgeous this year. Last year was nothing to blog home about because I had separated the bulbs the previous fall and I was warned that their recovery would skip a season. This photo depicts one replica but, of course, cannot do the reality justice. Also you have to envision 50 or more of them all at once. A profusion of glory. My peony bush, also usually nice, seems to be holding back, probably to let her sister Iris have the spotlight. Good thinking.

159 in the Shade

Deuce, by Terrance McNally, is not one of his better plays. But it serves the purpose of showcasing the prodigious talents of Angela Lansbury (81) and Marian Seldes (78), who play (and are) two elderly ladies clearing up some misunderstandings from the days they were doubles-playing tennis champions with multiple major triumphs world wide. It’s an enjoyable exercise in star-power and therefore a lot of fun, but it was like seeing two beloved and eccentric aunts putting on a show for beloved and forgiving children and grandchildren. Our opinions are thus colored by our affection and admiration for their gallantry and, of course, we are all impressed when people of a certain age can remember their lines (mostly) and don’t fall off their chairs, or the stage, at key moments.

The play works well when these two ladies are reminiscing and confessing and regretting but it crashes whenever two sportscasters pop up, themselves former (second rate) tennis players of the modern era. Their characters are so supercilious and self-serving they become a parody worthy of Saturday Night Live. They get the laughs but risk messing up what is really a nice memory play for the two leading ladies. My companion suggested that these sportscasters might be merely a theatrical device to allow the two stars (who never leave the stage) to catch their breath and maybe take a sip of water. The other clunker is yet a fifth member of the cast who serves as sort of a Greek chorus of admiration for the two women and is, thus, totally unnecessary. These women have our love and admiration from hello.

The caveats I have about the evening are minor and, truthfully, I’m so in awe of Angela Lansbury there’s not much more I can say that wouldn’t sound ungrateful.

Beauty, Sustained

This drawing was sent to me recently and, to my own chagrin, it did make me laugh. I’m as susceptible to flattery as anyone but receiving a zinger like this might be going a tad too far. Actually, this is only the top half of the drawing…the rest is on the cutting room floor, but can be retrieved and forwarded upon request. Warning; it involves full frontal nudity and, therefore, might not be suitable for children or people with a heart condition.

Rats of the Caribbean

Movie attendance is no longer much of an attraction for me. Once in a while I get the urge to see something but I’m afraid I’m way too critical now and end up disappointed and usually pissed off because I fell for the hype of that particular movie. I do have the chutzpa, and patience, to wait at least three weeks after a movie opens to cut down on possible alarming crowds. These days skipping three weekends or more, especially if you can go to a matinee on a weekday, can almost guarantee an entire row to yourself, if not an entire theater.

The Arts & Leisure Section of last Sunday’s NY Times, as is their wont each year, did a comprehensive and exhaustive listing, with a synopsis and sometimes catty remarks, of every movie (141) that will be hitting the theaters this summer. There weren’t many that caught my attention but, I must confess, I’m not immune to clever advertising so we’ll see what my future holds.

I will see “Ratatouille” but (full disclosure) I more or less have to because my favorite nephew works at Pixar (although not on Rat). I’ll probably see Pirates of the Caribbean III because I did like the first two, even though I’m anything but a fan of sequels. For instance, I’ve missed the last two Harry Potter movies although I’ve seen snippets on television. I bolted from the Spiderman franchise after the first one. I liked the first two Jason Bourne movies so I’ll wait the specified three weeks and catch the third one. Hairspray? The Simpsons Movie? Iffy. Shrek III? Probably not. I will no doubt get conned into seeing some stuff through peer pressure and bowing to the common good with my posse, but I probably won’t be happy about it. I’ll also see spur-of-the-moment movies because of fortuitous scheduling and/or shopping mall ennui.

Anyway, it’s a good thing the movie industry doesn’t depend on folks of my ilk. The Hollywood sign would rot away.

Me and My Tee

This is my current favorite tee. It draws the attention I crave and universal approval. I have it in three colors. Dogtown is a blurry spot on the road between Stinson Beach and Olema about 45 miles (or so) north of San Francisco on Shoreline Highway. You don’t really go there for anything and to buy this shirt you have to continue north to Olema, which is also tiny but has a crossroad (Sir Francis Drake Blvd.) with a traffic light, a couple of restaurants, a gas station, a church and some shops, so you have to at least slow down. Or stop. Maybe buy soup. Or a tee shirt.

The actual population of Dogtown varies depending on who gets born, moves and/or dies, but I guess that’s true of anywhere, right up to the biggest cities. The difference in Dogtown is that they immediately notice when the total changes and do something about it.

Lovemusik?...Nope

Oh, my. I saw Lovemusik last night. Oh, dear. Maybe I wanted to like it too much and when I didn’t I was 1) nonplussed, 2) embarrassed for all those talented people and 3) pissed off by the big bucks I spent to see it. The premise sounds so good. The love story of Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya put to music (Weill’s music), directed by Hal Prince, starring Michael Cerveris and Donna Murphy. Except for Murphy, whose characterization was right on the mark, Lovemusik started in disappointment and went downhill from there. After doing some research I now realize that Kurt Weill did all his best, and deservedly famous, work before World War II, mainly in his four year collaboration with Bertolt Brecht. Consequently, the first act, which covers this ground, is the most interesting (Mack the Knife anybody?) despite the fact the German accents make it almost incomprehensible to the naked ear (mine anyway). After that particular war-to-end-all-wars, Weill ended up in the U.S. (and the second act) and was subsequently involved in what seems to be a series of Broadway flops but still made a grand living composing schlock for schlock Hollywood movies. Unfortunately, in act two this schlock was presented in a period-piece manner which probably, at that time, prompted boredom equal to my own last night.

What can I say about Michael Cerveris? He’s been more than powerful in other roles. In this case he’s been directed to portray only one emotion…if being mild-mannered counts as an emotion. And his dedication to maintaining a heavy German accent throughout the show was impressive but misguided. Didn’t Weill’s English improve just a teeny bit in the 30 years he spent in the U.S.? Conversely, although she plowed through her dialogue similarly, I was mostly able to understand Donna Murphy and, even better, she seemed to not only have the character of the legendary Lotte Lenya down cold, she was able to convey that knowledge to us in an entirely believable way. I would like to say Ms. Murphy is brilliant, and she comes close, but to attain that accolade (from me, anyway) she needs to do a show called Lotte Lenya’s Lovemusik and cut out all the middle men, including Hal Prince. I don’t know if Mr. Prince has lost his magic touch, his resume is certainly incredible, but he certainly has lost one element of his genius, and that’s the judicious utilization of a cruel pair of scissors. Holy cow, that second act could lose half an hour without losing a beat.

It’s always a puzzlement to me how professionals of this rank can go so wrong. And trust me, Lovemusik goes so wrong. It opens tonight and I hope the professional critics take some pleasure in it and see more plusses than I do. The lost opportunity and the inevitable lost investment made me lose sleep last night. Please translate all of this into German, maybe it won’t look so harsh.

Bare Fax

No wonder Bart Simpson is looking a little jaundiced. A couple of days ago I stumbled across what seemed to be a serious discussion on the Today show about the upcoming “The Simpsons” feature-length film and the main topic was the movie’s depiction of Bart’s full frontal nudity. Zounds and egad, not to mention What Is The World Coming To? A little yellow 10-year old toon flashing his peepee while skateboarding through his toon town! Wow and zowie…how very titillating and I must call up all the pedophiles I know so they don’t miss it…even though it’s apparent that professional public relations firms have already beat me to the punch. I don’t think it’s all that appalling that Bart gets naked or even that the Today show discusses it; what gets my attention is that this fraction-of-a-second of animation is being used to publicize the damn movie! What’s up with that!???

Of course I rushed to my ‘puter and googled the subject and all I got for my trouble is this butt shot. Oh, well, close enough. I’m sure the subject in question will soon be on a YouTube near you.