SPIDERFREUDE

As one whose childhood was brightened by what seemed the great original American art form, my heart lifted by the brilliant lyrics of Frank Loesser, Yip Harburg and Cole Porter, my soul tintinabulated by a sense of personal destiny because I had the same birthday as Irving Berlin, I have watched and listened with great dismay to the devolution of the musical comedy. When Lincoln Center had its brilliant revival of South Pacific, I wept all through the overture: hearing real songs, feeling true sentiments, not just squishy things, but a modicum of wit that made you smile, and occasioned bursts of true joy. So it was with some alarm that I experienced Phantom, and the mawkish music of Andrew Lloyd Webber, and grieved for what was doubtless going to be downhill from Lerner & Loewe.
But I had NO idea. Only as a vague sense of terror descended on me with the mounting cost of musicals, and the success of mirthless unfrolics like Spring Awakening, as my ears strained for real music, did I begin to feel what I loved was lost forever. So when the announcements started coming about Spiderman- Turn Off the Dark, that a theater was to be renovated to make room for the areial acrobatic, and a show was to cost $65 million i threw in my spiritual musical towel.
Having lived many years in Hollywood, the capital of Schaadenfreude, where one is mostly sustained by the failure of others, it is with a heart full of song that
I read today Ben Brantley's wittily negatived and admittedly early(although in terms of original scheduling, late) review of Spiderman, Turn Off the Dark. Any bad advance feelings I had towards the show had been exacerbated by the positive enthusiasm lately exhibited by the hysteric Glenn Beck, who endorsed it as if it were the musicalized philosophy of Sarah Palin. So to have a genuine theater critic from The New York Times see it at last, and express his tasteful disdain gave
a lilt to the day. The Gershwins hummed in my ears. Jerome Kern flooded my veins. I think the song he played was "Look for the Silver Lining."
Is it possible in this horribly confusing world where daily the values we once clung to are swept away, that virtue can still triumph? That Good-- that is to say not the comic book victory of masked hero over masked villain, but something of actual value, like a melody you can actually hum and words you can understand-- can prevail? Oh, God, I hope so. Are You there? Are You watching this? Or are you just trying to get out of the way before some more scenery falls?

A STONE FOR OSCAR WILDE

Before Harold Robbins decided to become a very rich hack, he wrote what was a pretty good novel, called A Stone for Danny Fisher. I don't know why I remembered that during last night's fairly wonderful production of The

Importance of Being Earnest, Brian Bedford's hailed directorial stint, not to mention his performance as LAdy Bracknell, but I did. I suppose it was because

I really love Oscar Wilde, and feel a great sense of personal connection, so the laughs, though real and stemming from a truly clever and original brainpan, felt a little forced and painful, because I imagine I know how deep he went, how much

more he had to say and see and later did, and how exhausting it must have been

to be so witty.

My closest connection with that estimable Irishman was at the great marble memorial to him in Paris at La Cimitiere Pere LaChaise, that was paid for

by an admirer, as he could not himself manage a simple burial fee. "I could not afford my life," he wrote, "and now I cannot afford my death." The words inscribed on the coffre were, in part, 'Outcasts Always Mourn,' and they

became a line of the poem I wrote for Happy's Eulogy, after that little Yorkie and I had spent the brilliant summer day having lunch with Oscar, on what was to be Happy's last afternoon. A terrible sadness crept out of the marble I sat on the edge of with my sandwich, and invaded me even before anything went wrong. It was as though I could physically feel the agonies Wilde had been through in his life, not the least of which were having to be so witty, effortless though

it seemed. Comedy writing is so very Pagliacci.

So it was that as much as I enjoyed the production and performances last night, the shrill of the young women's lines cut through me as he well defined their empty attractiveness, the best of the wit being saved for Lady Bracknell,

deftly portrayed in drag, which is how, I guess, most old ladies must have seemed. In memory I searched for Dame Edith Evans who looked not unlike Bedford at this point in his life and make-up. Anyway, it was all veddy veddy clever

and well-designed and I was glad I went, though sorry he and Happy were dead, though I suspect Happy had an easier life.

After that Parisian afternoon where my Yorkie and I spent a glorious day among the glorious literary, musical and artistic dead, the only interesting place you could go to that day because every museum was closed, it being one of

their arbitrary holidays that if you tried to take it away from them they would go on strike, which is the French's favorite thing to do, we went to dinner back near my hotel at a restaurant called Bouchon, where we sat at a table on the

sidewalk and a little boy ran through the street chasing after his fireman father, and after a while chased after Happy. A pretty, dark-haired woman came and gave me a glass of champagne, and said "That is for being so kind to my son,

Dorian." DOrian? "After Dorian Gray," she said. Pas posible. Lunch with Oscar WIlde and dinner with Dorian? So of course we became friends and I invited them to come visit me the next day at the Plaza Athenee, where once

again Dorian and Happy resumed their chase, this time around the room.

After they left, I took Happy for a walk, and he collapsed. That final exertion, showing he could stand up to a younger dog had done him in. I called the vet who said, from the symptoms, it had been a heart attack, and we would

have to put Happy to sleep the next day. I held him in my lap at a cafe so I could quiet his quivering, and Happy had one strand of pate Alain Delon. Then I carried him back to the hotel, asked him to help me, and stroked him in the

darkness. And at four in the morning, I turned on the light and he was dead.

There was a black velvet bag I hid him in to attend forbidden occasions, the Literary Guild dinner when there was still a Literary Guild, and it was in

that bag that he was cremated. Then I took his ashes and sprinkled him among the greats at Pere LaChaise.

I have no idea why I am telling this sad but somehow strangely uplifting story except that I am trying to re-define for myself the obligation of an artist, what it is they (we?) are supposed to do to satisfy our own needs as

well as the world's. But I felt so much pain for Oscar Wilde even as I watched his comedy, that I knew something more was going on than simply seeing a play.

Tell of the storm-tossed man, o muse.

But what of the storm-tossed woman?

Anyway, I'm attaching the eulogy, as generously recorded for me by one of the great voices of my lifetime. And certainly Happy's. Maybe you can help to

tell me what it all means.

With love from slush-tossed New York.

A STONE FOR OSCAR WILDE

A STONE FOR OSCAR WILDE

Before Harold Robbins decided to become a very rich hack, he wrote what was a
pretty good novel, called A Stone for Danny Fisher.  I don't know why I
remembered that during last night's fairly wonderful production of The
Importance of Being Earnest,  Brian Bedford's hailed directorial stint, not to
mention his performance as LAdy Bracknell, but I did.  I suppose it was because
I really love Oscar Wilde, and feel a great sense of personal connection, so the
laughs, though real and stemming from a truly clever and original brainpan, felt
a little forced and painful, because I imagine I know how deep he went, how much
more he had to say and see and later did, and how exhausting it must have been
to be so witty. 
         My closest connection with that estimable Irishman was at the great
marble memorial to him in Paris at La Cimitiere Pere LaChaise, that was paid for
by an admirer, as he could not himself manage a simple burial fee.  "I could not
afford my life," he wrote, "and now I cannot afford my death."  The words
inscribed on the  coffre  were, in part, 'Outcasts Always Mourn,' and they
became a line of the poem I wrote for Happy's Eulogy, after that little Yorkie
and I had spent the brilliant summer day having lunch with Oscar, on what was to
be Happy's last afternoon.  A terrible sadness crept out of the marble I sat on
the edge of with my sandwich, and invaded me even before anything went wrong. 
It was as though I could physically feel the agonies Wilde had been through in
his life, not the least of which were having to be so witty, effortless though
it seemed.  Comedy writing is so very Pagliacci.
        So it was that as much as I enjoyed the production and performances last
night, the shrill of the young women's lines cut through me as he well defined
their empty attractiveness, the best of the wit being saved for Lady Bracknell,
deftly portrayed in drag, which is how, I guess, most old ladies must have
seemed.  In memory I searched for Dame Edith Evans who looked not unlike Bedford
at this point in his life and make-up.  Anyway, it was all veddy veddy clever
and well-designed and I was glad I went, though sorry he and Happy were dead,
though I suspect Happy had an easier life.
      After that Parisian afternoon where my Yorkie and I spent a glorious day
among the glorious literary, musical and artistic dead, the only interesting
place you could go to that day because every museum was closed, it being one of
their arbitrary holidays that if you tried to take it away from them they would
go on strike, which is the French's favorite thing to do, we went to dinner back
near my hotel at a restaurant called Bouchon, where we sat at a table on the
sidewalk and a little boy ran through the street chasing after his fireman
father, and after a while chased after Happy. A pretty, dark-haired woman came
and gave me a glass of champagne, and said "That is for being so kind to my son,
Dorian."  DOrian?  "After Dorian Gray," she said.  Pas posible.  Lunch with
Oscar WIlde and dinner with Dorian?  So of course we became friends and I
invited them to come visit me the next day at the Plaza Athenee, where once
again Dorian and Happy resumed their chase, this time around the room.
       After they left, I took Happy for a walk, and he collapsed.  That final
exertion, showing he could stand up to a younger dog had done him in.  I called
the vet who said, from the symptoms, it had been a heart attack, and we would
have to put Happy to sleep the next day.  I held him in my lap at a cafe so I
could quiet his quivering, and Happy had one strand of pate Alain Delon.  Then I
carried him back to the hotel, asked him to help me, and stroked him in the
darkness.  And at four in the morning, I turned on the light and he was dead.
      There was a black velvet bag I hid him in to attend forbidden occasions,
the Literary Guild dinner when there was still a Literary Guild, and it was in
that bag that he was cremated.  Then I took his ashes and sprinkled him among
the greats at Pere LaChaise.
      I have no idea why I am telling this sad but somehow strangely uplifting
story except that I am trying to re-define for myself the obligation of an
artist, what it is they (we?) are supposed to do to satisfy our own needs as
well as the world's.  But I felt so much pain for Oscar Wilde even as I watched
his comedy, that I knew something more was going on than simply seeing a play.
     Tell of the storm-tossed man, o muse.
     But what of the storm-tossed woman?
     Anyway, I'm attaching the eulogy, as generously recorded for me by one of
the great voices of my lifetime.  And certainly Happy's.  Maybe you can help to
tell me what it all means.
     With love from slush-tossed New York. 

BRIEF(and Unmoving) ENCOUNTER

A genuine thrill shot through me shortly after the beginning of the staged 'Brief Encounter' at Studio 54, when the leading lady, Hannah Yelland as Laura, stepped through the ribbons of curtain and became a part of the set behind, and I thought "This is going to be real theater." Well, I guess it was; at least theater the way it has to be these days, filled with clever re-imaginings and tricks, conceived, directed and adapted by Emma Rice. Filmed waves crash across the screen as the tide of longing comes in on Laura and Alex, played by Tristan Sturrock. Young people create a vaudeville/pub atmosphere in pill-box hats, their instruments and enthusiasm visible, as they sing songs by Noel Coward, the original playwright, and author of the intense, riveting, and classic film by David Lean.

But for all the projections of train and trestle, stairs to the apartment where the would=be lovers are to experience their ultimate botched chance at consummation, absent is any real electricity. There is no real chemistry between the two principals, and one who knows the film yearns for the anguished sexual repression of Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson, who so perfectly embodied passion unexpressed, and tragically unfulfilled.

I had looked forward to seeing this production more than any other in this disappointing, barren season. With all the songs there aren't really in any of the alleged musicals presented one the no longer so Great White Way, it was nice to hear a few of the old Coward too-clever songs, some of their most arch lyrics mercifully left out("Will it ever cloy?" in "Mad About the Boy," for example.) But I think the Old Master himself would have argued against the atmosphere engendered by their inclusion. The movie has lasted as long as it has, to be rented forever by romantics, because of its brilliant, understated depiction of unexpected love that comes to totally unlikely candidates, and the genuine tragedy of its never being fulfilled. In this production, inventive as it is, we lose the real sense of loss. Ms. Yelland is a bit too pretty, and Mr. Sturrock stirs not at all. Tight-lipped and anal as the two film characters were, the perfect expression of Aulde English inhibition, so that their need for each feels palpable, and its not happening touches viscerally the viewer, in this staged adapation, the audience, at least this member, felt nothing. And I'm really sorry about that.

LA BETE, SANS BEAUTY

Having admired John Lahr, critic for the New Yorker, more than any theatre critic since Kenneth Tynan, reading his hat-in-the-air, excitedly laudatory review of 'La Bete', I could not wait to get to the Music Box theatre. To begin with, Mr. Lahr and I share a piece of affectionate history, both of us having had an association with E.Y. Harburg, one of the great American wordsmitha--writing lyrics to 'Finian's Rainbow' and 'The Wizard of Oz,'-- in which his father, Bert Lahr played the Cowardly Lion, and the young Lahr had readied a book of Yip's(as he was known) wonderful words which, sadly, never saw the light(s) due to an unfortunate legal wrangle; while I, as a young would-be songwriter, had been nurtured under Yip's encouraging, inspiring wing. Secondly, the prose in which John Lahr wraps his opinions is, in itself, artful. So it was with my eyes and my ears and my heart all at the attentive anticipatory max I went to the Sunday performance, imagining, what with the critic's praise, it would serve as a spiritual observation, my church being English, the language, not the religion. In addition, I had been enchanted by Mark Rylance, the leading actor as Valere, in 'La Bete', when he played the baffled centerpiece of the farce Boeing, Boeing, not to mention his other credits as producer, Shakespearean player, writer and obvious man of many parts.

I wished that one of them had not been Valere. This Moliere manque, this grossly non-preening cockatoo who burps and farts his hour upon the stage and then, God help us, is heard some more, is clearly one of the great tour-de-farce roles of my lifetime. But to what end? --other than the toilet he actually sits on onstage, expelling what gas doesn't come from his mouth, using the paper torn from nearby obviously precious books to wipe himself. All clearly intended to be repellent, and, sadly, achieving its aim, in what seemed-- as it was meant to be-- an endless barrage of persiflage, bad poetry, and egotism, in which I, like the character played with immaculate restraint by David Hyde Pierce, cringed and prayed for flight.

Valere is meant to be a street player lifted to societal acclaim by a deluded royal(Joanna Lumley,) who mistakes his endless persiflage for true poetry, and makes him the writer de jour, entertained and adored by high society. (The best scene, visually, and probably because of its lack of words, is the feast that preceeds the encounter between Valere and Elomire, where a line of gorgeously costumed players or ghosts, one could not tell for sure, sit at a festive board bathed in luscious light and grapes, setting the period with ingenious grace.)

Then begins the onslaught, in verse, no doubt brilliantly conceived and bravely executed by the author of the piece, David Hirson. But the endless flow of meaninglessness, the unimpeded cascade of emptiness that at first paralyzes Elomire and, not long after, various members of the audience, including me, serves only to make one pray for a better play for Mr. Rylance, emancipation for Mr. Pierce, and a quick exit for those trapped in the theater. The ultimate effect of endless palaver by a bore cannot help but be boring, and the fact that Rylance so deftly communicates the boorish makes his character clearly a boor.

Ms. Lumley, well-known among Brits (and those who watch BBC comedies) is as charming as she can possibly be, being so deluded, portraying the Princess who found this popinjay. Preceeded as her entrance is by a wash of golden sparkle, is residue pops up from time to time during the rest of the play lending the rest of it unexpected darts of light. One wishes one could say the same about the play.

Alas, poor Rylance. I knew him (I thought) well. A fellow of infinite jest. But clearly one who wants to work, regardless.

NEXT FALL

(At the Helen Hayes Theater)


‘Next Fall’ is a good play. Not a great one—though it tries to address a few great issues: Life, Death, and Love, to name a couple. The most powerful scene in the work is one that doesn’t take place—the “next fall” that one of two central gay lovers talks of casually in passing that never takes place, because he will be dead, an effect foreshadowed and tenderly illustrated by the transparent curtain that cloaks the other scenes, the lush colors of autumn leaves, painted on trees in a desolare park.
Several of the scenes take place in a hospital waiting room that we don’t really know is a hospital waiting room at first, just characters waiting for something that we’re not really sure about, anymore than we know exactly who the characters are. But one, it will turn out, is the lover of a man we have not yet met, who has been critically injured in a fall. One is his mother, long absent and an apparent addict, a thick-skinned Southern(only a little, Florida, this is not Williams territory)father who has never really acknowledged or wanted to see his son’s homosexuality, an old male friend who was not a love and whose interactions with the other characters seems specious, and a pleasant, unimportant but funny(not toooooooo) blonde who was, apparently, the owner of a candle shop where one of the gay couple worked, who then apparently became a close friend, but not so close that she logically belonged in that waiting room. This, for me, was the part of the play that was most puzzling, and the audience is invited to put it all together as the pieces fall into place, not in chronological order,like a jigsaw of time.
The big question here is not why we love who we love, but why people don’t give each other more of a break,and prize each interaction more, since life is so evanescent. That crystal sentiment echoes and references a far better play, ‘Our Town’, in which the powerfully handsome and energetic Luke, (Patrick Heusinger) making his first entrance in an apparently flashbacked cocktail party tells his soon-to-be partner (Patrick Breen) that he is playing the Stage Manager, when not working as a waiter.
As appealing as the two partners are, and as okay(which is all they are really) as the other characters are, especially Maddie Corman who milks laughs from non-fat lines as the absent mother returned, Cotter Smith as the beef-brained father, and Connie Ray as the delightful blonde candleshop lady that you don’t know what she’s doing in that waiting room, the mention of the other play churns up a yearning for the real drama and sweetness that is life, that too often eludes us. Especially in the theater.
Good enough for a pallid season, but not good enough if Thornton Wilder were still here. If Only.