Singing with Depp

I have seen three actors play the role of Sweeney Todd on stage: Len Cariou, George Hearn and Michael Cerveris. All really good; all charismatic in their own way with gorgeous baritones shaded with despair and madness; a depth of feeling unusual in modern stage productions. Sweeney is right up there among my all-time fav. Broadway shows. Now here comes the movie; scheduled to open Dec. 21. Tim Burton as director I’m totally cool with. Johnny Depp as Sweeney? Oh, dear, I dunno. I’ve heard he’s doing his own singing which could be a plus, but also could be one disappointing disaster. The pivotal role of Mrs. Lovett, definitively portrayed by Angela Lansbury on stage has gone to Helena Bonham Carter, one beautiful lady (uh oh), also doing her own singing. Alan Rickman as Judge Turpin? Does he even sing?

I know it’s not good to judge a movie by it’s poster but what’s with Depp’s streak of white hair? Didn’t that style go out with Cruella deVille? This might be one nightmare before Christmas I don’t want to have. I sincerely hope I’m wrong.

Queasy Chaperone

My friend Paul from Queasy, Mass. blew through town early this week and we cadged half-price tickets (on him) to Drowsy Chaperone. Paul is a lot more forgiving than I am as far as musical theater goes and his one-word reaction/review was “cute.” I have trouble keeping things that simple but if limited to one word I would go along with that except, for me, maybe “non-offensive” might be a better choice (do hyphens count?). As a spoof it was certainly head and shoulders better than Xanadu but not quite as good as Curtains. Chaperone has been on the boards for a couple of years now but it probably would have gotten the same monosyllabic reaction from us if we had gone to opening night (it did garner several Tony awards although I can’t remember which ones). As in Curtains, and others, you just can’t beat the happy dancin’ feet of a Broadway show although, egad, one cast member in Chaperone did a roller skating bit. I’m going to start putting roller skates up there with revolving stages as a revoltin’ development in modern theater.

We also had pre-theater dinner (I do love expense-account dining) at a nifty place called Etcetera, Etcetera on West 44th. Cool and pricey with a short, but choice, menu and I love the food and the place if only for the Maker’s Mark manhattans (perfectly served). Right next door is a joint called The Bull Moose Saloon, the polar opposite of Etcetera, Etcetera. Maybe next time we can wear jeans and a lumberjack shirt and have, mmm, ribs and a Bud at the Moose.

Transporter Dreams

I had this dream last night, very vivid, and I thought I needed to get it down before it drifts away. It’s a SciFi story and it even has a punch line.

My sister and I were in the Cincinnati airport (I have no clue why we were in Cincy) and we were trying to use our boarding passes in a kiosk in the lobby. We kept putting them in the slot and they kept being rejected; like a limp, faded dollar bill in a candy machine. We tried several other kiosks, to no avail, and time was running out so we went to customer service. The guy behind the counter inserted our boarding passes and looked at a computer read-out, turned to us and said, “Are you two related?” We explained we were brother and sister and he said, well, there’s the problem.

It was about this time in my dream that I realized that we were not taking an actual flight but were being “transported.” That is, through the magic of science we would be sent through the ozone to our destinations and rematerialize there. I was going to LaGuardia and she was going to San Francisco and this seemed, well, just the normal way to travel.

We were both sweating it out and my sister said, “What’s the problem? We only have five minutes before our flights.” He said there was an INCEST BLOCK on our tickets because we had requested the same “in-flight” dream and that one of us would have to make another choice. We had both chosen an XXX-rated “dream” called Five Male Lawyers and we didn’t want to tell each other how perverted we were being but, because we are brother and sister, we were not allowed to enter this dream world with the same scenario because it would be possible our personae would interact. We were both embarrassed by this faux pas and blamed it on our ignorance of the rules and we sheepishly discussed who had to switch. My sis kindly gave in and when we went back to our transporter kiosks our boarding passes worked nicely. So we hugged goodbye, just like at JetBlue’s JFK terminal, and just before she entered the kiosk she turned to me and said, “Well, if we’re ever in Cincinnati again we now know five lawyers we can stay with.” And she was gone.

Then, honest to cookies, I had this wild dream with five lawyers from Cincinnati. They were great but, damn, so was I! I woke up laughing.

I highly recommend this dream for any gender and/or preference, and I want to thank my sister for letting me have it; and the next time we transport together I’ll let her choose first. But I have one question that’s been nagging at me all day. What dream did SHE choose?

Gypsy(5) in My Soul

Gypsy is one of the all-time great musicals and I’m not the only one who thinks so. It is perfectly structured, with wonderful music and clever lyrics and has a starring role for a woman-of-a-certain-age with the once-in-a-career opportunity to blow away audiences. When Patti LuPone was announced as the next Mama Rose I groaned. Love the musical; not a fan of LuPone’s…what to do, what to do? So I did nothing, planning on letting it slide past me into the night since it’s a special run of only 20-odd performances under the Summer Encores umbrella and it would soon disappear, unlamented by me, no regrets. But circumstance interfered with a ticket offer not refused.

As most of my half-vast circle of friends and family know I have seen every Broadway production of Gypsy…starting with Ethel Merman and continuing through Angela Lansbury, Tyne Daly and Bernadette Peters. Everybody always asks who I thought was the best and the answer has always been: Angela. After seeing the current production the answer remains the same. However…

…and this is a BIG “however” for me; Ms. LuPone, after a shaky first act, brought home the bacon in the second. But I think she got lucky because this production has a supporting cast to die for: Laura Benanti as Gypsy; Leigh Ann Larkin as June; Boyd Gaines as Herbie, Tony Yazbeck as Tulsa and the show-stopping trio of “ecdysiasts,” Marilyn Casky, Alison Fraser and Nancy Opel. Where Ms. LuPone faltered they were so solid it didn’t matter. I think my personal attitude towards this actress is based on the fact that every time I’ve seen her on stage it feels like she’s going to go flying out of control and hurt herself vocally, physically or emotionally (or some combination of the three) and that makes me uncomfortable. And she has personal tics and moves (not enough to count as shtick, maybe, but that’s my own evaluation…are there levels of shtick?) that have become so much a part of her stage persona it is difficult (for me) to blend them into the characters she plays. Somehow she let all of that go in her big finish, the “Rose’s Turn,” climax, which I was afraid would send her over the edge, but she controlled her instinct-to-mug convincingly.

One staging choice I have never seen that I want to mention here is at the end of that finale and when we, the audience, give her the ovation she deserves, she uses our applause to take a few bows but she does it in a way, in character, that conveyed the fact she was not acknowledging our appreciation but was, instead, bowing to the imaginary ovation in her head. It was a brilliant moment; done brilliantly. So I have to say Bravo, Patti…I didn’t think you had it in you to play Mama Rose, but you do.

But still, see my preference above, Ms. Lansbury wrecked me in that same number those many years ago; so much so that it seemed like my tear ducts tapped into some other source of liquid supplemental to the normal amount stored behind my nose. So, Angela still takes my first prize for Mama Rose. But, hey, Patti…good show!

Okay now, who’s next!

"All the New$ That's Fit to Print"

The New York Daily News sucks. The New York Post really, really sucks. Newsday sucks. The Village Voice is irrelevant and, thus, sucks. The Wall Street Journal is being sold to Rupert Murdoch and will soon, not surprisingly, suck. This appeared in a box on the front page of today’s New York Times:

To Our Readers

Starting next week, the sug-
gested newsstand price of The
times weekdays and Satur-
days will increase to $1.25.
the suggested Sunday news-
stand price will go up to $4 in
the New York region. A 3 per-
cent to 4 percent increase in
the price of home delivery or-
dered directly from The Times
was announced June 20, to go
into effect starting this month.

The New York Times sucks.

Floatin' Hosts

These were my hosts last week in Florida. They are Uli, Earl and Klaus, not necessarily in that order. Cute, huh?

100 years of guilty pleasure(s)

SMOOCH!

Smoke gets in your...pool

This is sort of a related issue to the blog below in that it involves smoke in Florida. Florida is just now starting to get over drought conditions, which included a large number of brush fires that cast a pall over much of the state (mostly north) over the last couple of months. So I was quite surprised to see, in both Ft. Myers and Ft. Lauderdale, many large, temporary tents under which fireworks were openly being sold. Oddly enough, some of these stands were in the middle of dry, tinder, weed-infested fields, but that didn’t seem to deter these entrepreneurs. Having also seen quite a few signs posted about the illegality of fireworks in Florida and published threats of dire punishments, I inquired into the presence of these obviously popular concession stands. As it turns out it is perfectly legal to sell and buy fireworks in Florida as long as you sign a release that they are not intended for home use. How’s that for total hypocrisy? As you might suspect the firecracker and cherry bomb explosions started about 3:00 in the afternoon on July 4th and segued into major skyrocket displays until late in the evening. My gracious host in Hollywood insisted on staying home, garden hose closely at hand, just to guard his house from the flaming debris falling from the skies…and who can blame him? Goodness knows the neighbors didn’t point their bottle rockets over their own houses. The all-encompassing smoke was another issue but equally off-putting. Celebrating Independence Day is one thing; mindless vandalism in honor of it is another.

My goodness, what has happened to my youthful spirit? I should be out there in the street with beer on my breath and a Zippo in my hand.

It's all about butts...

I guess I was just lulled into complacency by living in NYC where you have the choice of not smoking everywhere; in, on, or near any venue. Totally forgetting that smoking laws are state’s rights issues I stumbled across a vestige of the bad old days last week in Florida. I had occasion to participate in a sporting event in Ft. Myers and, as is the usual pattern with these things, we macho types repaired to a local pub to celebrate our victories and/or drown our sorrows in the pathos of defeat. The popular pub of choice for this particular event is called Tubby’s and it’s a nice, cozy little place with wonderful service and extra-friendly clientele. They even gave me a freebie t-shirt. Anyway, the Florida law states that you can allow smoking in your establishment if you serve no food, which even includes the stray bowl of peanuts on the bar. One free kernel of popcorn and you have to send your smokers out to the sidewalk or, in this case, a large, hot, paved parking lot. When these partial smoking laws went into effect in Florida I guess every establishment had to make a choice and Tubby’s came down on the side of smokers, presumably the motive being the perception of higher profits, to hell with the general health of employees and clientele.

Although buoyed by peer friendship and the camaraderie of complete strangers, after twenty minutes I found myself standing out in that parking lot with burning eyes and scratchy tonsils. Luckily the designated driver for our group was in the same boat and, thus, we had the power (and the wheels) to force our less-allergic companions into the realm of breathable ozone and we went elsewhere for our victory (or, see pathos reference above) cocktails, an establishment where food is served and, thus, it’s the smokers who are relegated to the sidewalk. Was this fair to everybody? Probably not, but are the smoking wars ever fair? I guess I should feel guilty about keeping that t-shirt. But it’s a really nice shirt and I like it.

Rat Movie

Ratatouille is another amazing animation film from Pixar (Disney be damned). This is the first Pixar movie I’ve seen, I think (I’ve seen them all), where children are pretty much left out as a target audience. It’s long; it’s sometimes damn scary and, well, it’s about rats. Even worse, rats in a kitchen. As a species, rats are persona non grata in all venues, much less in places where food is prepared. Human beings, as a species, are pretty much conditioned to be totally skived-out by rats, rightfully connecting them with plague and pestilence and, no small caveat, really ugly tails. Mice can be cute; rats cannot, no matter how much they are anthropomorphized. I vote no on rats as heroes.

However, you have to give Pixar credit; the plot of the movie agrees that kitchens are no place for this particular animal; at least those with establishments with five stars (they seem to be more acceptable in small French bistros). I am just thankful there was no rodent love interest to further shock the senses.

I loved the movie but I pretty much felt the same way about Pixar’s Cars. Cars is a great movie; but it’s about, well, cars. Ratatouille is a great movie. But it’s about rats.