“Underground Railroad Game”: The Most Scandalizing Thing I’ve Ever Seen Comes to Londonby Randi / September 27, 2018
It’s Theatre Thursday! Today’s show is The Jungle at London’s Playhouse Theatre, running until November 3.
Boy, if you didn’t hate Theresa May already, this incredible play will definitely do the job. But while it will make you shake with rage against everyone in positions of power – the ones with the ability to make decisions that will help instead of hurt, but don’t – it won’t only leave you feeling sad and impotent. It will make you want to step up and help as well. And though it was kind of suuuper bougie that we were these middle class white people seeing a play about the Jungle while our do-gooder friends have actually volunteered there, it really is an important play to see, because theatre can and often should create real change in the world, and this is the kind of play that embodies that goal.
Boy, if you didn’t hate Theresa May already, this incredible play will definitely do the job. But while it will make you shake with rage against everyone in positions of power – the ones with the ability to make decisions that will help instead of hurt, but don’t – it won’t only leave you feeling sad and impotent. It will make you want to step up and help as well. And though it was kind of suuuper bougie that we were these middle class white people seeing a play about the Jungle while our do-gooder friends have actually volunteered there, it really is an important play to see, because theatre can and often should create real change in the world, and this is the kind of play that embodies that goal.
“The Jungle”, by Joe Murphy and Joe Robertson, and directed by the great Stephen Daldry and Justin Martin (never seen a play directed by two people before, I don’t think, so that’s interesting), is unlike anything I’ve seen before (and not even because of the two director thing). It doesn’t feel like a play at all. Dropping you smack in the middle of the action in the Calais migrant camp in 2016, you quickly forget that someone wrote these lines or directed these people or that these people are actors. I fully was immersed and believed that the passionate, beleaguered people around me were truly refugees from Afghanistan, from Syria, from Sudan, from Lebanon, from anywhere but definitely not actors from London. It usually takes a lot of effort to make that jump into accepting what you’re seeing in the theatre as truth, but here it was like there was no alternative, this was real. I was a witness to this incredible human rights atrocity. These poor people had been through so much and I was witnessing their efforts to get through even more.
The setting of the Calais migrant camp was in the news a lot a few years ago, for dern good reason, and even though the human rights violations are still occurring over the water (over to France, I mean, not the USA, although we all know the many violations of all sorts happening over that water but that’s not what I’m talking about for this one moment in time), the news has dropped the ball on covering it. Refugees and migrants trying to flee from many different countries for many different reasons have been coming into Europe for a long time, but in 2015 the number rose substantially. The huge numbers of migrants set up an encampment near Calais, France, from January 2015 to October 2016. With little assistance from activists and organizations, they built temporary housing, places of worships, restaurants. They dealt with sanitation problems (like lack of sanitation), food shortages, unaccompanied children, and the kinds of abuses that occur in any large group. People were hoping to get to the UK, and would risk their lives over and over and over by hiding in trucks, jumping ferries, or stowing away on trains heading to their believed salvation. They would really risk everything to succeed on this journey, evidenced in large part by the record number of people who died at sea trying to cross the Mediterranean in unsafe, terribly crowded small boats. Everyone remembers the picture of the poor little boy who drowned, a fact that this play reminds you of.
Despite the growing number of migrants camped out here, the French authorities began carrying out evictions. They would clear the camp by force, quadrant by quadrant, always promising that each eviction would be the last, forcing the migrants into smaller and more cramped living situations, before returning shortly thereafter and clearing another section. Now, the camp is gone, but the migrants still remain. They just aren’t allowed to have any sort of shelter in place or even bedding. Kids are burying blankets underground when the sun rises so officers won’t confiscate them. Their treatment is a disgusting stain in human history, one that is getting bigger and darker.
The play drops us into the action full swing, and when I say drops us in, I really mean it. Most of why the full immersion was easy to plunge into was because of the spectacular set and staging of this show. Inside the Playhouse theatre, there’s no theatre left really. The stage is gone, and although there’s a small balcony section for audience members, the entire floor is now a makeshift café in the middle of the migrant camp, with flags of represented countries, wooden benches, and dirt floors. The whole floor is this restaurant, and I was seated at one of the central wooden benches in the café while the actors swirled around, through, and right on top of the audience. The actors walked along the tables where our drinks were (a nice Afghani refugee will give you tea upon entering the café). They leaned on my shoulder when trying to talk to their friend standing at the next table. They threw dirty dish towels at us to clean our tables. They brought the guy next to me some freshly baked bread (seriously, I saw the guy kneading and rolling it out in the kitchen area) and then they brought him a whole curry platter (better him than me, thank goodness). I’ve seen immersive staging before, but this was unique, and it was so effective in making you care about what was happening.
And what was happening was chilling. The play begins right when the French authorities are beginning their ‘eviction process’, by forcibly, violently clearing an occupied part of the camp. You hear names of people who have died. Everything is loud, terrifying, and just when you’re starting to get short of breath, a calming presence interrupts and says we better start at the beginning of the story instead of the end. It’s unsettling storytelling, and incredibly powerful.
This calming presence is Safi, played by Ammar Haj Ahmad though I still can’t believe he was an actor who got to go home safe after the show. Quickly, and then continuously over the two acts, Safi will become someone we and the other refugees learn to trust and value, which is always a dangerous thing to do, as he demonstrates. A refugee from Syria, he becomes a leader of this camp, along with the Afghani restauranteur Salar (Ben Turner, remarkable) and Mohammed from Sudan (Jonathan Nyati), both giving their characters a sincere sense of gravitas and earnestness. It makes sense that the rest of the camp looks to them for guidance, even though they are just as lost and defeated.
There are a few other standout performers who are given time to shine, like John Pfumojena’s Okot, a Sudanese teenager who tells us how he has died and keeps dying deaths over and over in a somber, slow scene that was given remarkable amount of time to grow in an otherwise fast-paced show. But the entire cast is top-notch, and if I could give an award for best cast or ensemble (different from the theoretical Best Ensemble Tony Award that people are clamoring for that I object to (that would be for the unnamed chorus members only and so dancers who happen to be cast in top shows frequently could be like 10-time Tony winners and that’s just nonsense)), I would award this phenomenal cast. Not least the little girl Amal who barely says anything but breaks your heart into pieces so effectively that at the end I was like DO YOU NEED A HOME???
Everything about this play feels pitch perfect because it is all so accurate, from the Eton-educated British lad whose heart is in the right place but has no idea what he’s offering to deal with, to the infighting among migrants, to the condescending French authorities who lie with no compunction. Of course, the most staggeringly distressing part was the end, when we see actual footage of what has happened and how atrociously the media has handled it. The poor coverage and sometimes outright lies put out there about the camp led directly to Brexit, I believe, and I wonder just how many of the Brits in my audience voted for it, and whether they regret their decision. I hope they are doing something to help make amends for their actions. And if any theatre could produce that extraordinary result, it’s this extraordinary play, a theatrical event that you should run to see.
INFORMATION
The Jungle runs two hours and 45 ish minutes, in two acts. There’s lots of smoke, mainly non-cigarette ‘explosion’ smoke that I almost choked on and had to breathe through a paper towel for a minute, so be warned if you have asthma that like, you should bring your inhaler. Also, it’s pretty gritty, both in subject and in physical being. I picked the wrong show to wear a fancy dress to, I’ll tell you that. If you are sitting downstairs in the café, wear shoes you don’t mind getting dirty and clothes you can move in (to get on the bench) and try not to let them throw the dirty towels at your head.
Our seats right in the middle of the action at the Afghan Café were originally $25 (that’s pounddollars) and now are apparently $100! So you should run faster!
The setting of the Calais migrant camp was in the news a lot a few years ago, for dern good reason, and even though the human rights violations are still occurring over the water (over to France, I mean, not the USA, although we all know the many violations of all sorts happening over that water but that’s not what I’m talking about for this one moment in time), the news has dropped the ball on covering it. Refugees and migrants trying to flee from many different countries for many different reasons have been coming into Europe for a long time, but in 2015 the number rose substantially. The huge numbers of migrants set up an encampment near Calais, France, from January 2015 to October 2016. With little assistance from activists and organizations, they built temporary housing, places of worships, restaurants. They dealt with sanitation problems (like lack of sanitation), food shortages, unaccompanied children, and the kinds of abuses that occur in any large group. People were hoping to get to the UK, and would risk their lives over and over and over by hiding in trucks, jumping ferries, or stowing away on trains heading to their believed salvation. They would really risk everything to succeed on this journey, evidenced in large part by the record number of people who died at sea trying to cross the Mediterranean in unsafe, terribly crowded small boats. Everyone remembers the picture of the poor little boy who drowned, a fact that this play reminds you of.
Despite the growing number of migrants camped out here, the French authorities began carrying out evictions. They would clear the camp by force, quadrant by quadrant, always promising that each eviction would be the last, forcing the migrants into smaller and more cramped living situations, before returning shortly thereafter and clearing another section. Now, the camp is gone, but the migrants still remain. They just aren’t allowed to have any sort of shelter in place or even bedding. Kids are burying blankets underground when the sun rises so officers won’t confiscate them. Their treatment is a disgusting stain in human history, one that is getting bigger and darker.
The play drops us into the action full swing, and when I say drops us in, I really mean it. Most of why the full immersion was easy to plunge into was because of the spectacular set and staging of this show. Inside the Playhouse theatre, there’s no theatre left really. The stage is gone, and although there’s a small balcony section for audience members, the entire floor is now a makeshift café in the middle of the migrant camp, with flags of represented countries, wooden benches, and dirt floors. The whole floor is this restaurant, and I was seated at one of the central wooden benches in the café while the actors swirled around, through, and right on top of the audience. The actors walked along the tables where our drinks were (a nice Afghani refugee will give you tea upon entering the café). They leaned on my shoulder when trying to talk to their friend standing at the next table. They threw dirty dish towels at us to clean our tables. They brought the guy next to me some freshly baked bread (seriously, I saw the guy kneading and rolling it out in the kitchen area) and then they brought him a whole curry platter (better him than me, thank goodness). I’ve seen immersive staging before, but this was unique, and it was so effective in making you care about what was happening.
And what was happening was chilling. The play begins right when the French authorities are beginning their ‘eviction process’, by forcibly, violently clearing an occupied part of the camp. You hear names of people who have died. Everything is loud, terrifying, and just when you’re starting to get short of breath, a calming presence interrupts and says we better start at the beginning of the story instead of the end. It’s unsettling storytelling, and incredibly powerful.
This calming presence is Safi, played by Ammar Haj Ahmad though I still can’t believe he was an actor who got to go home safe after the show. Quickly, and then continuously over the two acts, Safi will become someone we and the other refugees learn to trust and value, which is always a dangerous thing to do, as he demonstrates. A refugee from Syria, he becomes a leader of this camp, along with the Afghani restauranteur Salar (Ben Turner, remarkable) and Mohammed from Sudan (Jonathan Nyati), both giving their characters a sincere sense of gravitas and earnestness. It makes sense that the rest of the camp looks to them for guidance, even though they are just as lost and defeated.
There are a few other standout performers who are given time to shine, like John Pfumojena’s Okot, a Sudanese teenager who tells us how he has died and keeps dying deaths over and over in a somber, slow scene that was given remarkable amount of time to grow in an otherwise fast-paced show. But the entire cast is top-notch, and if I could give an award for best cast or ensemble (different from the theoretical Best Ensemble Tony Award that people are clamoring for that I object to (that would be for the unnamed chorus members only and so dancers who happen to be cast in top shows frequently could be like 10-time Tony winners and that’s just nonsense)), I would award this phenomenal cast. Not least the little girl Amal who barely says anything but breaks your heart into pieces so effectively that at the end I was like DO YOU NEED A HOME???
Everything about this play feels pitch perfect because it is all so accurate, from the Eton-educated British lad whose heart is in the right place but has no idea what he’s offering to deal with, to the infighting among migrants, to the condescending French authorities who lie with no compunction. Of course, the most staggeringly distressing part was the end, when we see actual footage of what has happened and how atrociously the media has handled it. The poor coverage and sometimes outright lies put out there about the camp led directly to Brexit, I believe, and I wonder just how many of the Brits in my audience voted for it, and whether they regret their decision. I hope they are doing something to help make amends for their actions. And if any theatre could produce that extraordinary result, it’s this extraordinary play, a theatrical event that you should run to see.
INFORMATION
The Jungle runs two hours and 45 ish minutes, in two acts. There’s lots of smoke, mainly non-cigarette ‘explosion’ smoke that I almost choked on and had to breathe through a paper towel for a minute, so be warned if you have asthma that like, you should bring your inhaler. Also, it’s pretty gritty, both in subject and in physical being. I picked the wrong show to wear a fancy dress to, I’ll tell you that. If you are sitting downstairs in the café, wear shoes you don’t mind getting dirty and clothes you can move in (to get on the bench) and try not to let them throw the dirty towels at your head.
Our seats right in the middle of the action at the Afghan Café were originally $25 (that’s pounddollars) and now are apparently $100! So you should run faster!
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“Three Tall Women” on Broadway: A Magnificent Revival for the Ages
It’s…not Theatre Thursday, but this production closes on Broadway today and I didn’t realize.
Joe Mantello is a magician. Not a director, not an actor, a magician. Everything I’ve seen him do, whether it be acting or directing (okay, he is an actor and a director), is flawless, and his direction of the latest revival of “Three Tall Women” is that again, plus all the other superlatives you could think of. Of course, Joey M had the benefit of directing some of the best actresses of the modern age, as well as the rich source material of this challenging, thrilling play. I was unfamiliar with this particular Edward Albee classic, but I am happy to say that it continued the trend of my enjoying and appreciating Albee’s plays, which is a nice change of pace from my reactions to other playwright kings (*cough* Pinter *cough* Mamet*). I bought tickets to TTW superfast because Glenda Jackson, the closest you can get to royalty without being royal, was making her big return to Broadway after her amazing life of winning two Oscars, playing King Lear in London, and…serving in Parliament for more than twenty years. I had to go see the f-ing thing!
Joe Mantello is a magician. Not a director, not an actor, a magician. Everything I’ve seen him do, whether it be acting or directing (okay, he is an actor and a director), is flawless, and his direction of the latest revival of “Three Tall Women” is that again, plus all the other superlatives you could think of. Of course, Joey M had the benefit of directing some of the best actresses of the modern age, as well as the rich source material of this challenging, thrilling play. I was unfamiliar with this particular Edward Albee classic, but I am happy to say that it continued the trend of my enjoying and appreciating Albee’s plays, which is a nice change of pace from my reactions to other playwright kings (*cough* Pinter *cough* Mamet*). I bought tickets to TTW superfast because Glenda Jackson, the closest you can get to royalty without being royal, was making her big return to Broadway after her amazing life of winning two Oscars, playing King Lear in London, and…serving in Parliament for more than twenty years. I had to go see the f-ing thing!
The other Two Tall Women were played by Alison Pill, who I like, and Laurie Metcalf, who I would probably engage in sword fight to protect. I’ve been lucky enough to see her onstage several times and every time, she’s Streeping it up like nothing you ever imagined. Those Steppenwolf actors really know how to make characters come alive. She’s in her Tony-winning element here, hilarious in the first scene and given the meatiest dramatic monologues in the second, and although her Tony was an upset over Denise Gough in “Angels in America”, it was so deserved.
So, this play is Albee’s answer to the question of what goes through your mind when you face the moment of death, and it’s the most unique answer I’ve ever heard. It also deals with the inevitability of fate and how much it sucks to be old and how much you change as you grow old and how funny and heartbreaking Laurie Metcalf can be in the span of a few minutes. Well that last part’s not what the play is about but that’s what happens. The play is about a 92-year-old woman (played by Glenda) who is, well, 92. She old for the earth. But she’s hella fancy, and even though she’s ancient and frail, you can tell she’s rich and still able to exude a touch of the glamour she certainly had in spades years ago. She’s in her well-appointed bedroom with her strong, candid caretaker lady (Metcalf) who has the driest sense of humor and manages to make even her lines about how often the old lady pees the bed hilarious. She says that the lady’s daily doing-so is just her greeting to the day, and her delivery is, like gum, perfection.
These Two Tall Women have their regular routine disrupted by a young lawyer (Alison Pill) from the firm that handles the old lady’s finances. The youngen (the Third Tall Woman) is understandably frustrated, since the lady never returns the documents they send or keeps track of her paperwork. It’s a mess handling her money, and the lawyer grows ever more impatient with her task as the lady repeats hazy memories of her childhood in various ways instead of answering questions. The lawyer’s irritation is with the lady personally and with what happens to the mind of the elderly in general, and Metcalf’s caretaker is irritated by the lawyer’s irritation and she tries to get her to stop fighting them and accept that this is what happens when you get old. The three of them trade barbs amid Glenda’s stories, mainly about her sister and her mother, who, we are told repeatedly except when it is transferred to stories about her father, was ‘strict but fair.’
Glenda is a force in this role, which seems like it was written especially for her. Not only did she win the Tony, she won this year’s Distinguished Performance award from the Drama League, which is my favorite award of the year because only one performer gets it – no male/female, lead/supporting bullshit, ONE performance. And there was no question that she was winning it. Seeing her perform was an honor. Her rapport with Laurie’s straight-talking character is lovely in its candor and kindness, as Laurie helps steer her many stories forward but never by correcting her many mistakes. It’s clear Laurie has dealt with this for a long time and knows it’s best to let Glenda think she remembers her life accurately. The interaction between these two actors is that of masters, and Alison holds her on when thrown in there as well. You’ll notice I’m not using character names – they don’t have them. In the play, they’re listed simply as A, B, and C. Despite being specific women in this first scene, the nameless thing makes sense because they are such archetypes of their ages – the older lady who has been through it all, seen it all, and is getting it all kind of confused, and who demands to be placated by the younger women; the middle-aged woman steeped in the inevitability and effects of aging and thus resigned to the fact that we’re ‘dying from the day we’re born’; and the hotheaded, intolerant youth who thinks she knows more than everyone. In Scene 2 (the play is in two halves but I can’t say Act I or Act II because there’s no intermission, and I had to pee badly but it really was for the best, pacing-wise), the specific-yet-general form of their characters becomes even more meaningful, as they continue to fight about stages of life but with more emotional impact.
At the end of Scene 1, Glenda’s character has a heart attack or a stroke, some kind of serious incident, and the lights go out. After a pause, the lights rise, and Glenda is lying in the bed, which is now turned so her head is closest to us and the whole thing pushed farther away from us upstage, separated from the audience by a plexiglass/mirror barrier. Is she dead? Dying? Her hand flutters a bit, her head moves every now and then, so she’s not dead yet. But then all Three Tall Women – Glenda included – burst into the room. Our side of the room, which looks like it did before, only now we’re on this side of the transparent barrier, so we can all see Glenda, or whoever it is, lying in that bed like a one-sided reflection. They’re all dressed up like they just came from a fancy cocktail party, and much friendlier and more comfortable with each other than they were before. Who ARE these people, I wondered for a minute before it became clear.
Listen, I know I spoil pretty much everything I write about, but the moment in the beginning of Scene 2 when I realized what was happening, I gasped. I had no inkling what the central conceit was, or that there even was one. And I was not familiar with this play at all. Even though this production, this flawless, magical production, is closing today, it’s still a freaking Albee classic so there is a good chance you will get the chance to see it one day. And if you do, and you don’t already know what it’s about, I don’t want to spoil this realization for you because it was astounding. Everything made so much more sense and it was almost overwhelming how brilliantly it all played out. It’s absolute genius that struck me in a way few plays ever are able to.
Of course no set design this year can compare with the actual magic happening at the Harry Potter theatre, but part of me was wishing for this to win the Tony for set design, because that plexiglass barrier is so much more than meets the eye. The barrier between the two versions of that bedroom and what they, and the barrier itself, represent, was clever stage magic of the old school variety. How they managed to get certain things to reflect on themselves wherever the mirror was while others – namely, the three women – did not, I will never understand. And it’s ironic, because that’s all the three women do while in this antechamber version of the room: reflect on themselves. The only thing more astonishing that the central concept and how well it’s reinforced, and the incredibly nuanced expert acting, and the staging, and the directing, and everything, is the very last moment, which thank god is followed by the blackout because it rips you apart with its genius. Similar in nature to the final moment of “Hamilton”, it brings everything about the play together in one simple, sad, sweet act, and I gasped again so hard it was like a scream. So without saying anything more, we can simply say that this production forked me up big time. If I had one play-related wish to make, it would be that this was recorded for the Lincoln Center archives and that they decide to let PBS air it so everyone’s lives can be so enriched.
INFORMATION
I mean it’s closing today. If PBS doesn’t air it, get a NYC library card and then join the waitlist to watch it at Lincoln Center archives. Worth it.
STAGE DOOR
I saw a matinee so only Alison Pill came out. Honestly I don’t know what I’d think of the world if it was one where Glenda Jackson stage-doored.
So, this play is Albee’s answer to the question of what goes through your mind when you face the moment of death, and it’s the most unique answer I’ve ever heard. It also deals with the inevitability of fate and how much it sucks to be old and how much you change as you grow old and how funny and heartbreaking Laurie Metcalf can be in the span of a few minutes. Well that last part’s not what the play is about but that’s what happens. The play is about a 92-year-old woman (played by Glenda) who is, well, 92. She old for the earth. But she’s hella fancy, and even though she’s ancient and frail, you can tell she’s rich and still able to exude a touch of the glamour she certainly had in spades years ago. She’s in her well-appointed bedroom with her strong, candid caretaker lady (Metcalf) who has the driest sense of humor and manages to make even her lines about how often the old lady pees the bed hilarious. She says that the lady’s daily doing-so is just her greeting to the day, and her delivery is, like gum, perfection.
These Two Tall Women have their regular routine disrupted by a young lawyer (Alison Pill) from the firm that handles the old lady’s finances. The youngen (the Third Tall Woman) is understandably frustrated, since the lady never returns the documents they send or keeps track of her paperwork. It’s a mess handling her money, and the lawyer grows ever more impatient with her task as the lady repeats hazy memories of her childhood in various ways instead of answering questions. The lawyer’s irritation is with the lady personally and with what happens to the mind of the elderly in general, and Metcalf’s caretaker is irritated by the lawyer’s irritation and she tries to get her to stop fighting them and accept that this is what happens when you get old. The three of them trade barbs amid Glenda’s stories, mainly about her sister and her mother, who, we are told repeatedly except when it is transferred to stories about her father, was ‘strict but fair.’
Glenda is a force in this role, which seems like it was written especially for her. Not only did she win the Tony, she won this year’s Distinguished Performance award from the Drama League, which is my favorite award of the year because only one performer gets it – no male/female, lead/supporting bullshit, ONE performance. And there was no question that she was winning it. Seeing her perform was an honor. Her rapport with Laurie’s straight-talking character is lovely in its candor and kindness, as Laurie helps steer her many stories forward but never by correcting her many mistakes. It’s clear Laurie has dealt with this for a long time and knows it’s best to let Glenda think she remembers her life accurately. The interaction between these two actors is that of masters, and Alison holds her on when thrown in there as well. You’ll notice I’m not using character names – they don’t have them. In the play, they’re listed simply as A, B, and C. Despite being specific women in this first scene, the nameless thing makes sense because they are such archetypes of their ages – the older lady who has been through it all, seen it all, and is getting it all kind of confused, and who demands to be placated by the younger women; the middle-aged woman steeped in the inevitability and effects of aging and thus resigned to the fact that we’re ‘dying from the day we’re born’; and the hotheaded, intolerant youth who thinks she knows more than everyone. In Scene 2 (the play is in two halves but I can’t say Act I or Act II because there’s no intermission, and I had to pee badly but it really was for the best, pacing-wise), the specific-yet-general form of their characters becomes even more meaningful, as they continue to fight about stages of life but with more emotional impact.
At the end of Scene 1, Glenda’s character has a heart attack or a stroke, some kind of serious incident, and the lights go out. After a pause, the lights rise, and Glenda is lying in the bed, which is now turned so her head is closest to us and the whole thing pushed farther away from us upstage, separated from the audience by a plexiglass/mirror barrier. Is she dead? Dying? Her hand flutters a bit, her head moves every now and then, so she’s not dead yet. But then all Three Tall Women – Glenda included – burst into the room. Our side of the room, which looks like it did before, only now we’re on this side of the transparent barrier, so we can all see Glenda, or whoever it is, lying in that bed like a one-sided reflection. They’re all dressed up like they just came from a fancy cocktail party, and much friendlier and more comfortable with each other than they were before. Who ARE these people, I wondered for a minute before it became clear.
Listen, I know I spoil pretty much everything I write about, but the moment in the beginning of Scene 2 when I realized what was happening, I gasped. I had no inkling what the central conceit was, or that there even was one. And I was not familiar with this play at all. Even though this production, this flawless, magical production, is closing today, it’s still a freaking Albee classic so there is a good chance you will get the chance to see it one day. And if you do, and you don’t already know what it’s about, I don’t want to spoil this realization for you because it was astounding. Everything made so much more sense and it was almost overwhelming how brilliantly it all played out. It’s absolute genius that struck me in a way few plays ever are able to.
Of course no set design this year can compare with the actual magic happening at the Harry Potter theatre, but part of me was wishing for this to win the Tony for set design, because that plexiglass barrier is so much more than meets the eye. The barrier between the two versions of that bedroom and what they, and the barrier itself, represent, was clever stage magic of the old school variety. How they managed to get certain things to reflect on themselves wherever the mirror was while others – namely, the three women – did not, I will never understand. And it’s ironic, because that’s all the three women do while in this antechamber version of the room: reflect on themselves. The only thing more astonishing that the central concept and how well it’s reinforced, and the incredibly nuanced expert acting, and the staging, and the directing, and everything, is the very last moment, which thank god is followed by the blackout because it rips you apart with its genius. Similar in nature to the final moment of “Hamilton”, it brings everything about the play together in one simple, sad, sweet act, and I gasped again so hard it was like a scream. So without saying anything more, we can simply say that this production forked me up big time. If I had one play-related wish to make, it would be that this was recorded for the Lincoln Center archives and that they decide to let PBS air it so everyone’s lives can be so enriched.
INFORMATION
I mean it’s closing today. If PBS doesn’t air it, get a NYC library card and then join the waitlist to watch it at Lincoln Center archives. Worth it.
STAGE DOOR
I saw a matinee so only Alison Pill came out. Honestly I don’t know what I’d think of the world if it was one where Glenda Jackson stage-doored.
“Follies” at London’s National Theatre: All the Middle-Aged Crises Plus Lots of Feathers and Sequins
Woot it’s Theatre Thursday! Today’s review is of the Sondheim classic “Follies”, playing at London’s National Theatre until January 3.
Every musical is supposed to teach you something or share some important life truth with you. At least that’s how I think about them. The lesson of “Follies” is that after you stop being a showgirl, life suuuuuucks and people suuuuuuck and you’ll never be happy again and you’ll just trudge through life counting time units in a deep dark depression. But with sequins! The new production of “Follies” at the National Theatre in London did what few productions of “Follies” are able to do: make me feel something besides boredom. Sure I felt a LOT of that – it’s not my favorite musical – but I also got EMOTIONAL. At SEVERAL points. Okay those of you who know me are probably saying to their screens ‘um you cry at car commercials tho’ and yes that’s true and valid but I don’t mean I cried, I mean like, I felt for these supremely unlikable characters instead of hoping that they all go to the bad place.
Right off the bat, let me share the very worst thing about this production. I saw the 2011 Broadway Revival of Follies (which I’m going to reference a lot because THAT CAST), and I don’t remember getting a kidney infection afterwards, so I’m going to guess that it was two acts with a 15 minute intermission LIKE NORMAL HUMANS DO. I have a great memory (with lists of the names of all who’ve wronged me) (just kidding) (am I?) so if I don’t remember being tortured, I assume an experience was nontorturous and that Broadway gave an intermission (New Yorkers drink their water). But this West End production apparently wants to render Brexit insignificant and stop anyone from wanting to enter the UK ever again because it HAS NO INTERMISSION BUT IT’S OVER TWO HOURS LONG I MEAN I CAN’T HOW YOU CAN POSSIBLY THINK THAT’S A GOOD IDEA.
You think I’m done yelling but my neighbors can tell you that’s simply not true.
So you may have gathered by now that there’s no intermission, despite other productions of the show being two acts, and though they say the run time is 2 hours 15 minutes, it was closer to 2 hours 25 minutes till I got to go to the bathroom again. But even so, two hours without intermission is usually unheard of! The average act is an hour anyway so like stick in an intermission ya jackwagons! If I could punch a show in the face, I would. I guess I could punch whoever’s idea this was (it would not have messed up the narrative at all) but I don’t like violence. Unless whoever’s idea this was also happened to vote for Brexit, then we can talk. with fists.
Okay, let’s get back to the show itself. “Follies” is the beloved tragic musical by Stephen Sondheim and James Goldman from 1971, about a bunch of old people who reunite at the NYC ‘Ziegfeld Follies’-type theatre where they once danced in the skimpiest yet sparkliest costumes with lots and lots of feathers on their heads, to say goodbye before it’s torn down. It’s thus a lot of reminiscing and the interpersonal drama that comes from a lifetime of memories, whether they’re accurately remembered or fabricated by time. Sounds like it’s for the “Best Little Old Foreign Marigold Hotel” crowd or whatever it’s called minus whoever Dev Patel brings in, right? Right. Story: When we were about to leave for the theatre, it was suddenly wintry and I had to pull my winter coat out of storage – where it had been vacuum-packed with BOY coats which means it smelled like boys’ college dorm floors. I know, horrid. I worried that it would smell so bad for whoever I’d be sitting next to, and Husband said “don’t worry they’ll probably smell worse from overdosing perfume [get it we’re making fun of old biddies]; it’s that kind of show, right?” “Actually,” I said, “it might be from the people onstage too.” Get it because it’s not only a show that attracts older audiences, it’s also a show about and starring old ladies and they wear too much perfume. At least the very waspy ones do. We’re mean I know but you know what’s even worse? Wearing perfume.
Unclear why the show art features David Bowie
Now, going in, I knew that I don’t loooove this show, but it’s SONDHEIM. So I do love some of the music and what it achieves dramatically. “Too Many Mornings” is one of my all-times, probably because my mom always played the Mandy Patinkin version in the car when I was little and it was beyond. Actually it’s so good I want you to listen to it here while you read the rest of this (it starts with the song “Pleasant Little Kingdom” which was cut from the original production; “Too Many Mornings” as it’s used in the show now starts at about the 2:00 mark but you know what just listen to the whole thing it’s RG). And with a cast this stellar, I had to see what they did with it. That’s why we bought tickets – Sally in this production is played by Imelda Staunton, my favorite Shakespearean maid from the ‘90s and now all of a sudden Britain’s foremost musical theatre actress. Another London theatre ledge, Janie Dee, stars as the acerbic Phyllis, and another, Tracie Bennett (last seen on Broadway as Judy Garland) would have the supporting but often scene-stealing role of Carlotta, who sings the musical theatre standard “I’m Still Here”. Though there are plenty (too many) of other supporting characters who get their chance to shine (too many shines), it’s mainly about a quartet of people – Sally, frumpy, depressed, and heartsick over a former love; Phyllis, cold and hardened to the world by what her life became; Ben, all-important, famous, unfulfilled and self-hating; and Buddy, the kind of guy who tells really dumb jokes to strangers and then shakes their hand while saying ‘Buddy Plummer, glad to meet ya!’ or some shit like that. Like I said, I saw it on Broadway about six years ago, and that cast was stellar too – Ron Raines, Jan Maxwell, Danny Burstein (my fave), Jayne Houdyshell, Mary Beth Peil, and the biggest draw for most people, Bernadette Peters as Sally. The cast was superb, but despite the parts working well, I didn’t connect with the show as a whole back then. It left me cold, like something important was missing but is present now. Maybe it’s the direction (pretty flawless here), maybe it’s that the grasp of the intent of the material was undeniable, maybe it’s the fact that I had to pee the whole time so I was on high alert, but I connected this time. I still don’t love the show – it has some shitbits (not to be confused with Fitbits, which can also be shit) – but it worked so much better for me here.
But not for the first 20 minutes or so. The opening is still mind-numbingly slow, as all the former Weisman girls arrive and marvel at how the theatre has changed and aged along with them. The National Theatre’s enormous size helps here, because the old theatre set rotates so you’re like ooh ahh and all the gorgeous showgirls of yesteryear prance about in their feathers and jewels. So “Follies” famously has the young versions of its core quartet onstage with their modern-day counterparts, showing what their history encompassed and what their relationships were really like back in the day. It enhances what we know about these connections and makes it all even sadder when you see how happy they once were. The rest of the ensemble comprises the young ghosts for all the other ladies too, but less conspicuously. In fact, I don’t even remember that the other women had ghosts follow them around in past productions, but here they undeniably were, decked out in their former glittery costumes and headdresses and heels while observing what they’ve become. But it was hard to miss here because it works so well. Some of the tiniest moments, not even front and center, that arose from this were the most moving in the show. Like as each lady arrives, her younger-self-ghost (I mean it’s not a ghost it’s a memory…ghost) finds her and shadows her and stuff. The oldest lady sings her old operatic number from the show with the help of her younger self (whose voice is stronger and can hit the high notes still), which was a very nice touch although it was part of the really boring section that gives too much time to unnecessary characters. My favorite ensembleghost moment was right at the beginning when one heard her name realizing that her current self has arrived and she moves up through the crowd to start ghostin on her and sees that she is now dowdy and stout and her face FALLS. You weren’t even supposed to be looking at that actress playing the younger self of this minor character and it was everything, so I hope whoever is in that ensemble track gets a cookie or something. So good.
And then the characters we’ve been waiting for arrive and at an applause break (the only time it’s okay to make short whispers in a theatre) Husband said to me “is that Imelda?!” I thought he just couldn’t figure out which one she was because she’s sporting a superfrump makeover for this role but he later clarified that he didn’t know she was in the show at all. Dude that’s why we bought tickets! Anyway we meet Imelda’s Sally, who is so damaged that she made me super uncomfortable, in an appropriate way. She talks too fast and talks over herself somehow and is clearly not in a good state of mind and you just want to shake her and be like take a breeeeath. She married Buddy, her sweetheart (actually they call the boys who wait for the girls after the show their ‘stage door Jonny’ I am crying) from during her time in the theatre, who became some sort of overly friendly but kind of oily salesman while she raised their kids, kept house as they moved from place to place, and wasted lots of time thinking about her former love from the same time gasp Ben, who at the time was dating Sally’s bff Phyllis and now those two are married. I knowww. So Sally married Buddy but is still in love with Ben, Buddy has a long-time affair with a woman who loves him but he still loves his wife even though he doesn’t want to, Ben has affairs allatime and doesn’t know what he wants or who he loves because he hates himself (‘you cannot share real love until you love yourself’ –Rent), and Phyllis has lost all sense of joy because she hates Ben and hates what they have become and pretty much hates everything except super chic clothes and killer putdowns. Phyllis is the type of person that sharp-edged girls would be like ‘she’s my hero’ but she’s supes broken so like pick a different hero.
The whole first half hour or so is like a less fun version of the “Beautiful Girls” scene from “Singin’ in the Rain” which is the most useless thing ever, so you get that I was eager for it to end. Finally it gave way to some good music and some intrigue, as we learn the intricacies of their relationships, both in the past and present. And then Carlotta (Tracie Bennett) gives the best performance of the big song “I’m Still Here”, in which she shares how despite all the shit she’s endured throughout her long career she still clawed her way through and is, in fact, still here and still doing her thang and until I see something top her in the next few months I’m going to say that Tracie is going to win an Olivier for this. She was FLAAAAMES. I was so there with her. I LOVED how they changed up the usual staging of this number, from the usual plant-and-shout spotlight solo to having her begin seated, lounging, surrounded by seated ensemble members like she was a celebrity sharing stories with a group of adoring fans, and then having the ensemble disappear while she stood up and began to, well, plant and shout but it was amazeballs.
Carlotta’s fierce drive and determination to overcome whatever challenges she has faced in life contrasts with our main characters, who kind of flail about in misery and self-hatred. Especially Sally, who is really an extra sad sack in this one. She has a lot of lines about how she’s going to kill herself and how she’s going to die but for the first time I actually thought she might. Imelda is great as usual and made me feel sadder than ever for Sally – not because she can’t be with the man she loves (or thinks she loves or fondly remembers loving) but because she can’t snap out of it. Her duet of “Too Many Mornings” with Ben was not as enjoyable as I like it to be because her anxiety and discomfort made me uncomfortable, but that’s a valid choice. I didn’t like how she made some of the lines a little more comical than usual (her “I should have worn green” was like played for laughs but it’s sad!) but still she conveyed the necessary lovelorn damage. Ben shocked me, because I’m still not completely in on British theatre, so I didn’t know that the actor, Philip Quast, was kind of a big deal. Guys, he won the Olivier for best actor in a musical three times. How did I not know about him? And not only three times, but for the three BEST male roles in classic musical theatre – George Seurat, Javert, and Emil de Becque. I know. If I were a cop I would be asked to turn in my gun and badge right now. But yeah he was wonderful, in strong booming voice, as all Bens should be, that hides that he’s falling apart inside.
Peter Forbes’s Buddy was very good, but I am partial to Danny Burstein in all ways and I think his Buddy just can’t be beat – it made you feel for him in more complex ways than just ‘oh he’s funny and cheerful but also an ass but we still want him to be happy.” He made Buddy so real and damaged and lovable too, and while I didn’t wish Peter’s Buddy harm, I didn’t really care about him. Husband thought he was great so I think I’m just biased. Janie Dee’s Phyllis was perfection, dropping one liners like Obama drops mics. Even though she didn’t seem to be in good voice (a lot of breaking at times when it wouldn’t be an acting choice), her “Could I Leave You” was, again, flames. It’s a difficult song, as she’s pretty much sarcastically shouting to Ben, making it seem like she couldn’t leave him and their wonderful life but it’s sarcastic and it’s hard to sing sarcasm! But it was incredible.
Even harder to do is Phyllis’s “The Story of Lucy and Jessie”, but that’s because it’s kind of annoying and the lyrics are amateur for Sondheim. It’s a thinly veiled tale of how Phyllis and Sally always wanted what the other had and were jealous of each other but it has lyrics like ‘Lucy is juicy and Jessie is dressy’ erma gerd I feel like he wrote these lyrics on a dare and was like ‘watch they’ll still say it’s all genius!’ This song comes in the “Loveland” section of the show, which is always tricky. In Loveland, each of the four mains are forced to deal with what’s plaguing them in a follies (like vaudeville) performance. Phyllis’s, as above, is usually my least favorite and once you get the general concept of her song, they try to distract you with a big dance number. Janie did a great job dancing her ass off but I still feel blah about it. Buddy’s folly was better, in which he explains in a super cheerful clownish manner how he has “those god-why-don’t-you-love-me-oh-you-do-I’ll-see-you-later blues”. The lyrics in this one are so clever and they present Buddy’s issues clearly, but after the first so-clever verse you’re like okay I get it, he wants what he can’t have and when he gets it he doesn’t want it. Ben’s and Sally’s follies won the show for me, though. Sally sings the famous “Losing My Mind” and Imelda put to bed all those haters who say that she’s not really so much of a singer. Her beautiful, heartbreaking rendition was what made me think to myself okay this is overall a great production. And Ben continued to surprise me with his “Live, Laugh, Love”, which was so perfectly done that his spiral and forgetting of the lyrics seemed real. The first break, I think a lot of the audience just thought he forgot the words and got frustrated (Husband did). That’s incredible! Ugh so good. I hate the whole Loveland conceit in theory but it’s always good once it gets started, especially if the actors follow through like these did.
Will you leave the theatre joyous and uplifted after seeing this production (any production) of “Follies”? Fuck no. It’s pretty much saying ‘you’ll never be as happy as you were in your youth and everything is terrible and then you’re old and you missed your chance.’ So not exactly a feel-good show. But this pretty flawless production will make you consider all the existential troubles of life that any good drama should leave you frantically worrying about. Plus sooo many feathers.
INFO
The Olivier Theatre at the National is a freaking barn so there’s really no bad seat. It’s so big that you can see no matter what. There are toilets in the hallways after your ticket is checked so that’s better than some of the theatres in this complex. There were several signs that any bags bigger than like a sheet of computer paper would have to be checked so I took my coat off and held it over my bag so no one would see and I wouldn’t have to comply with that noise. I like rules and regulations but not when they exist for no good reason.
STAGE DOOR
Didn’t for several reasons – this complex is super confusing and it’s never worth it, and after seeing how mean these old ledges can be to each other I didn’t want them to yell at me for taking up their time ah so scary.
