Wadi Shab is Gorges: My Favorite Place in Oman (+ Bimmah Sinkhole!)by Randi / July 10, 2019It’s Theatre Thursday! Today we are talking about the debut London production of The Light in the Piazza, which ended its run last weekend AND which was announced by a staffer at Southbank Centre as “The Light in the Pizza will begin in 3 minutes” I kid you not.
The year before I studied abroad in Florence (“in Firenze in Firenze in Firenze in Firenze the painting of the world! it started then and there, and here we are!” if you don’t know all the words to this show you got some work to do), I saw the new Broadway musical The Light in the Piazza, and I was blown away by how gorgeous it was. I screamed and danced in my seat (in my head! not a monster) at the golden age-adjacent score, the poignancy of the emotional beats, and the breakout performance from the person who would become my ATQ (all-time queen), Kelli O’Hara. I loved the show so much I saw it again and I screamed in my seat “YUP DEFINITELY STUDYING IN FIRENZE AND DEFINITELY GONNA FIND FABRIZIO AND BE LIKE SELL TOO MANY TIES FOR ME FABBY!” (but in my head). So when they announced that the show was finally coming to London (only took 14 years) and not only that, but starring RENEE FORKING FLEMING?? Again, screaming in the seat, in my head. If ever I was overexcited for a show, boy howdy was this one it (it’s okay to talk like that because the characters are southern). And if ever I was going to be disappointed…well, dammit.
The problem is, well there are several. Overall, the book is problematic as all get-out, and the perfection of the Broadway production distracted me from noticing OH SHIT THIS IS MR. F GOES TO ITALY. (If you don’t get that joke you should watch “Arrested Development”.) This was also Z’s very first exposure to the show, so being cognizant of that meant I was thinking of how this production of this show worked as a representative for the material, and it wasn’t great. This show is PROBlematic as fuuuuuuck! (Z’s the one that pointed out the Mr. F thing.) (He was pretty much Lindy West for Love Actually about this show.)
So why is this show so cringey? Let’s share the plot. (NB the show is based on a 1960 novella and subsequent 1962 film so we can’t blame book writer Craig Lucas for everything.) The Light in the Piazza takes place in the 1950s, when a well-to-do southern belle named Margaret Johnson takes her daughter Clara to Italy. Clara is carefree and child-like, but looks to be in her 20s – except not in this production, because as played by Dove Cameron (which is a great name for a very Italian show, because it’s like ‘where is Cameron?’), Clara looks 14 AT MOST, which makes everything much worse. Clara meets a young man named Fabrizio (“Fabriiiiiiizioooooo”) and they fall in love and want to get married, even though they literally have had half of one conversation total because Clara does not speak Italian and Fabrizio only speaks THE MOST ADORABLE VERSION OF BROKEN ENGLISH EVER DOCUMENTED IN AN ART. He sings to her about her milky-white skin (“milky-hwite…milky-hwite…” that’s from A League of their Own not this) without knowing the word for ‘skin’ so he keeps saying milk and it’s the best part when done right and so ANYWAY, the kids want to get married even though they just met and don’t know each other and Margaret is like ‘that’s a bad idea, no’ even though Fabby’s family is like ‘This is great idea! Everyone marry now! we eatah the pasta!’ Clara meets Fabrizio’s family which includes his (hilarious) brother and the brother’s wife Franca who is the GODDAMN WORST. Franca is mad at her husband because he cheated on her (which is painted over as not a big deal by everyone but especially by the Italian mother who is like ‘you have no real romance or love if there is no deception and suspicion!’ weird take) so instead of having a conversation with her husband, she flirts with Fabrizio and keeps trying to kiss him, which rightly drives Clara into a fury, and instead of everyone being like Clara is forking right, they make her apologize for getting angry which made ME fly into a fury. And all the meanwhile Franca is this devil whispering bad things into Clara’s ear and it’s very troubling and wrong and Franca sucks.
You’d think a mother not wanting her young dumb daughter to marry literally a STRANGER in a foreign country would be enough of a reason, but this is the 1950s when all you want for a girl is to marry her off so Margaret needs a better, bigger reason to not want to SELL HER DAUGHTER PERMANENTLY TO ITALIANS. And boy howdy, she has one. Margaret keeps hinting and hinting at Clara being not what she seems and this is my favorite part of this experience, because at intermission Z said to me excitedly “I think I know what the secret is! Clara has been lobotomized! It’s like your other favorite show Next to Normal! It’s Next to the Piazza!” Even though Next to the Piazza is the best thing ever and I’m definitely going to write that mashup, I had to warn him that the real reason was not as interesting as that. No, we find out that Clara not only looks 12 but she acts 12 as well for good reason: because at age 12 she was kicked in the head by a pony and stopped developing mentally. She is mentally and cognitively disabled and so her mother, rightly so, doesn’t want to leave her in a foreign country for the rest of her life with strangers who a) don’t know that and b) don’t know how to take care of her.
Oh but she does! They get married! Happy ending! Such romance!
And this brings us to the most annoying parts of this show. For Problem A) HOLY FORKING SHIRT that should be an easy fix: Forking TELL FABRIZIO. This is not a secret you can or should hide! This is supposed to be her husband! What the fork is wrong with you people! Ughhhh. Isn’t this a CRIME?! Like can she legally consent? We need more information on that front and her future husband um DEFINITELY needs more information. And for Problem B), this makes me sad, because in the original production it was made clearer that the bond between Fabrizio and Clara was special, so special that Fabby instinctively knew how to take care of her. It’s shown through all his little actions, but only spoken of once. In this production, that one spoken moment was all we got, so it seemed insufficient. Rob Houchen as Fabrizio was absolutely the high point of this production, but I think the direction failed him in this regard because the whole show should have been constantly showing how perfectly matched they were so that this disturbing story was ameliorated the tiniest bit.
The direction failed in a lot of ways, actually, which made the book problems strikingly obvious instead of something I previously could semi-dismiss. There’s a big climactic scene when Fabrizio’s father announces the wedding is off because he sees Clara’s handwritten form. Margaret thinks it’s because the father thinks her handwriting is too childish (which is not a good reason?), but it’s because he finally saw her age and she’s too old for his son – she’s 26 and he’s 20. (I could have sworn that in the original production she was 29 but whatever.) Margaret’s reaction here was of relief: he didn’t find out our secret! That’s a TERRIBLE reaction – it shouldn’t BE A SECRET IF THEY ARE GETTING MARRIED. She laughs it off in her relief and the audience laughs and it made me angry again because it wasn’t funny and shouldn’t have been brushed aside. On Broadway it was still tense and more sophisticatedly handled; here it was like ‘oh it’s just that you think she’s too old haha! No she is mentally 12 is that better for you?’
Anyway they get married and Margaret reprises the most moving line to me, the title of the show. When Clara sings it first, she’s talking about the light being her love, for Fabrizio. At the end, on Broadway, it was the incandescent Victoria Clark watching her daughter get married and sharing that she, Clara, is her light. And it’s forking heartbreaking and wonderful (even though you are like BUT WAIT A SECOND MARGARET you still handled this situation like a real Mr. F). But here, Renee’s Margaret was like…trying to get Clara to actually look at the actual light in the piazza during the wedding ceremony? It was so awkward and not emotional. I mean I still cried because it’s the BEST SHOW but still.
Renee Forking Fleming (official middle name) may be the best soprano in the world, like literally that’s what the world calls her, but her foray into musical theatre has been less than tops for me. I mean, her track record so far is this and last season’s Carousel on Broadway, which is ALSO INCREDIBLY PROBLEMATIC. And with a classic gorgeous AF score! Why is Renee’s jam doing beautiful musicals with forked up books?? Why can’t her jam be feminist musicals, modern works, or strawberry??!! It’s always a treat to see her live, because yes ‘best soprano in the world’, but she kind of goes into Kermit-mode when she’s not at the Met so maybe it’s best she sticks to operaaa I know I’m literally melting into my desk chair saying this because SACRILEGE but it wasn’t…the…best. The rest of the cast was strong, especially Houchen and Dove Cameron as Clara, but I’m let down by Margaret’s storyline. She ‘s the lead role, Clara is featured. But it seemed like the opposite here, and that’s a directional problem. At least the gorgeous, classic, epic, romantic score still sounded pretty darn great. I love that they gave the score the full orchestra (courtesy of Opera North) it deserved — even though everything sounded a full beat too slow. (Fabrizio’s “Love to Me” was a goddamn dirge. Again, director (plus conductor.))
Regardless of how forked up I realized this show is, I still love it so much and it’s still one of my favorites so what are we even doing here, go listen to the original Broadway cast album and enjoy.
INFORMATION
Even though this production closed last week, I have to discuss how badly the Southbank Centre is managed. First of all, whoever was in charge of pricing this show royally forked up, because it was way too expensive and thus criminally undersold. We bought cheap seats in the balcony boxes (‘cheap’ compared to how much they were gouging for even super rear stalls, which in this enormous barn of a theatre is too far back to pay so much for). Because the show was so undersold, they moved us from the balcony to those overpriced stalls. Win for us! But, they didn’t tell us till we went to go to our seats about 10 minutes before showtime. We had LITERALLY JUST picked up our tickets at the main floor box office, but they didn’t say anything there. Why didn’t they say anything there? But the lady waiting at the door upstairs was the one with the info? SO STUPID. Then, when we went to the stalls, the show started probably 10 minutes late because we noticed at least half the patrons were being turned away and told to exchange their computer print-outs for Southbank-issued tickets downstairs. Everyone was saying that the ticket agency they bought their tickets from (likely discounted) said these print-outs were their tickets! So why didn’t Southbank communicate with the agencies to tell their customers this info?? Infuriating incompetence. But that’s all on management; the actual staffers working the doors here were incredible (and just the messengers). Southbank needs to get its shit together! And more importantly, it needs to fire or not work with whoever priced this show – it was the final weekend and I don’t even think the mezzanine was open. Regardless of how fucked up the book is (SEE ABOVE), that’s a huge shame for such a big gorgeous show and for this cast and orchestra. FOR SHAME! SHAAAAAME.
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The American Clock at London’s Old Vic: What was the Depression Like? Depressing.
| It’s Theatre Wednesday! Aren’t we lucky! It’s the height of the season and we have a lot of shows to talk about so they’re coming at you fast and furious. Today’s show is The American Clock, playing at the Old Vic until March 30. Not only was he married to Marilyn Monroe, Arthur Miller wrote some plays, babies! We’ll see another one of his celebrated works later this season (you’ll have to wait to see which one) but first up is his vaudevillian look at the Great Depression, his play The American Clock. Turns out, Miller and I have (had, RIP) a lot in common: We’re of Polish Jewish descent (all for him, part for me), we both went to Big 10 schools for undergrad (and I bet neither of us had to bribe our way in!), and I’m guessing we both love theatre. Best of all, we both can be guilty of writing too much and not editing the final work enough! This show was HELLA LONG. I would never complain about running times if they use the time wisely; I have a great attention span (although I did just have the urge to shouttype SQUIRREL). But nothing bothers me more than when shows should have been edited and would have been much better off had they been. Like that sentence! The first act of The American Clock is an hour and a half, the second is just over an hour, so with the interval it’s three hours of your day. Given what works in this play and what doesn’t, they could have easily cut an hour. A whole hour! That’s why I’m opening this by talking about length. There were some moments of brilliance, but they would have shone much brighter had they not been sandwiched by dullness. Surprisingly, I haven’t had a great experience at the Old Vic since Groundhog Day (the show, not the day). And the last time I was there, the show (Sylvia) suffered a similar problem (I think that one was like 3 ½ hours and had fewer moments of brilliance). I wish there was a required Editor job in the theatre, although with them being cut from journalism I guess that’s a pipe dream. Anyway, when you enter the Old Vic right now, you’re first shocked by the mess. It’s under renovations – a much needed development given the horrible toilet situation (only in the basement level!) – but instead of closing up shop, they are making do with a construction site vibe. And good for them, I guess, the show must go on and all that. It’s a little rough for winter, though, given that now the only toilets are outside (like big concert venue portables (or as Jeopardy would call them Potent Portables (pray for Trebek))) at street level so kind of crazy. Oh man, I’m off on a toilet tangent again! as I do! Luckily, the production onstage is the smooth, professional opposite of the current look of the theatre. With one of my favorite directors, Rachel Chavkin, at the helm, it’s a good looking production, although there seems to be no reason for it to be in the round (a way overused ploy recently). Early on, the show seems to really click, due to a few important facts: The narrator is featured heavily; the setting of the Depression about to dawn is established; the set, especially the chalkboard stock lists and high ladders, seems well used. The narrator is a smooth and fantastic Clarke Peters, who I am ashamed to say I knew best as the actor in the Julia Roberts space movie-within-a-movie in “Notting Hill”, when Hugh Grant is pretending to be a journalist from Horse & Hound and he asks Clarke if there were any bits of the movie he especially enjoyed filming and Clarke says to Hugh “Why don’t you tell me the bits you liked and I’ll tell you if I enjoyed making them” which is like so something a tired actor would snarkily say to a journalist at the tail end of a junket. Anyway, Giles Terrera, the original Burr of London’s production of Hamilton, was supposed to play this role, but at the last minute he pulled out (so he won’t get preeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegnant) (no it was like for a family thing and I hope all is well) and Clarke swapped in. I honestly can’t imagine Terrera in this role, as it was perfect for Clarke. When he was onstage, the show worked, if only for his charisma and command of the stage and your attention. After the first few scenes, the narrator role ended up being too small for that kind of power Clarke has, and the show falls the flattest when he isn’t leading the brigade. But then the flat moments outshine the great moments, mainly because there is no real chance for emotional connection with the characters. Since it’s a series of Depression-era vignettes, showing how far-reaching the personals traumas were, you don’t get to really live with any of the characters enough to care as deeply as you want to in a play. The only characters you follow and return to are the mother, father, and son of the Baum family. Presumably, since you see a lot of them, you’d obtain the necessary emotional connection through them. However, in a rare misfire from Chavkin, the Baum family was triple-cast, meaning three different sets of actors played those three characters, rotating scene by scene. Although the sentiment – showing that the Depression was Depressing for an endless stream of people, of all ethnicities and walks of life – is understandable, the effect was that we didn’t get to connect with anyone as we should have. As a result, the action feels extra removed and eventually extra dull. Only a few brilliant moments come when Clarke isn’t onstage, like when Ewan Wardrop appears as a tap-dancing CEO about to quit his job (seriously, in this economy?), and when Golda Rosheuvel (not a little old Jewish lady buying the last babka! I know!) appears both as a communist activist and a forking BOOMING-voiced singer. For a non-musical, there are a lot of great musical moments like these producing the magic, perhaps because that’s what Chavkin’s best at. But the vignettes continuously disappoint, perhaps because of the missing link of the Baum family, perhaps because a lot of them are simply unnecessary. The best one comes thanks to the talents of Abdul Salis, who I also only knew because he was also in the movie “Notting Hill” but when it was “Love Actually”, as Tony, the friend of Colin (Colin being the bellend who goes to America and is the worst character and storyline in the whole movie). Abdul plays a café owner in Mississippi, who, as a black man, can do little to protest the exploitative actions of the local sheriff. Abdul gets the biggest line in the whole thing, when he comments that “The main thing about the Depression is that it finally hit the white people.” When he said that line, a black lady across the way from me clapped and shouted ‘yes!’ and nudged the white girl sitting next to her and pointed at the stage and honestly that was the best moment of my week. I would have loved more of Abdul’s café owner, seeing what happened to him, following him long enough to forge a connection, but that wasn’t going to happen. And then there was just too much filler and fat. I don’t understand the entire near-end scene with all the ladies playing cards. It was the kind of moment in a play where I’d almost stand up and say “oh THIS is the bad place!” Why was that in there? And why did they have Francesca Mills play EVERY SINGLE FEMALE CHARACTER? Flora Dawson, another actor onstage in the ensemble, had literally one line, but Mills, I just checked her bio, played SEVEN different named characters in this? I don’t get ittttt. It is great, however, that Mills was cast (she is a little person), in this theatre town that desperately needs more diversity in casting. Chavkin’s productions continue to be the most diverse in the game, across ethnicities, body types, everything. She’s really paying attention to the changes that need to happen when there’s no need for cookie-cutter interchangeable chorus girls. Overall, it’s a decent play, with some great performances (and yes Clarke Peters was my favorite but his run is now over; his role is played by Sule Rimi) but there were just too many overly long, often dull moments. Fortunately, at the very end the power of the stories came together a bit, when they reminded us that this wasn’t just a wee look at the past; it was a warning for what’s likely to hit us soon with Brexit (slash fill-in-your-country’s-turmoil across the world). A shame they saved the majority of the emotional heft for the last minute, but that is what you walk away remembering. Like I said, Depressing! INFORMATION We were notified a few weeks before the show that our seats had been relocated, possibly due to the change in staging or the construction. I was now in Row H in the center, which sounded like a claustrophobic frequent pee-er’s nightmare (I always need aisles) but it ended up being the front row on the main side of the stalls (the good side, right by the exit to the outdoor toilets) and there is HELLA legroom in that front row so it didn’t matter that it was central, I could easily run past the rest of my row with my arms fully extended to the sides. It ended up being an amazing Best Seat Ever situation, except for the jackass lady behind us who refused to shut off her phone (and we weren’t even the ones who asked her to turn it off! Other people cared for once too! Yay other people who care!). Because the whole outdoor loo sitch is inconvenient, there are two staff workers outside them with buckets of candy, which is hilarious and adorable. No vegan candy but still, I love that they tried to be nice. |
Broadway’s Flying Over Sunset: Highs & Lows of Getting Super Duper High
It’s Theatre Thursday! Today’s show is Flying Over Sunset, playing at my fave Vivian Beaumont Theatre in NYC’s Lincoln Center until January 16.
Last week I had the privilege of seeing the completely original new Broadway musical Flying Over Sunset, which just this week announced a premature closing. The early end to its run is not surprising, but it’s still a bummer. Even though this show could have used a few more swipes of the red pen, I am very grateful that it made it to Broadway and that I got to see it, since it’s rare that a musical with a brand new score that isn’t based on any known entity makes it this far, and that is worth celebrating.
Of course, we could be celebrating more and for longer if it had an out-of-town tryout to work out its shortcomings (like answering the main question of ‘why though’), but what’s an out-of-town tryout to the big names involved in this! A new score from Tommy Kitt and Michael Korie?? Motherforking James Lapine writing the book and directing?! Who was going to clear their throat at that meeting to say ‘um…it needs a little more work’? NO ONE. When this show was first announced, I was all in like Luke on his first date with Lorelai. (His not realizing at that point how much of a shit-show her parents and Christopher (*ptoi ptoi*) would cause in his life = my not realizing before seeing FOS that other people’s trips are hard for an audience to enjoy.) The names of the lead characters the story would focus on — Cary Grant, Aldous Huxley, and Clare Boothe Luce — were almost as amazing as the names of the actors portraying them — Tony Yazbeck, Harry Hadden-Paton (HHP), and Carmen Cusack. I MEAN! Modern Broadway royalty. For my recent trip home for the holidays, I think I secured my tickets to this (LincTix for the everlasting win!) before my flight. FFS, Tony Yazbeck as Cary Grant is some galaxy brain thinking casting right there. WHEW I WAS IN. Oh…what’s that??? The story is a fictitious account of those three real people taking LSD together…??? It sounds amazing.
And while it could have been, and while parts are great, the dramatic question is lacking. Stuff is happening, but without a reason or intention driving it forward. Another problem is, as fun and amazing and original and crazy as that concept sounds, it’s hard to make someone else’s acid trip compelling. If any medium can do it, it’s the Broadway musical, and parts of this show soared. The opening number, which has the cast shuffling gracefully around the gigantic stage keeping the changing rhythm with their coordinated footfalls, created a classic sense of theatrical magic that filled my heart with joy and my eyes with tears. It was gorgeous, this most compelling and most promising opening I’ve seen in years.
From there, Act I stayed somewhat steadily at an enjoyable level as it focused on introducing the three characters one at a time, letting us learn who they are, what their story is, and why they’re taking LSD. It has the strongest musical numbers, with some beauties from Kitt and Korie. And all three of the lead performances are glorious to watch, as these three actors always are. HHP’s pharmacy-set scene of his first trip is a load of fun, as he imagines Botticelli masterpieces coming to life in a goofy-yet-semi-highbrow form of a trip. HHP is wonderful back on the Beaumont stage (petition for him to star in everything Lincoln Center does) as Aldous Huxley, nailing the desired portrayal of him as brainy but buoyant. Then, the show’s highlight apart from the opening number is Yazbeck’s intro scene, when his Cary Grant asks his wife’s psychiatrist to give him what he’s been giving her. (It’s not a promise to comply with HIPAA, that’s for sure.) His first use of LSD in the doctor’s office takes him back to his childhood in a tap-dancing extravaganza with Atticus Ware as his younger self (when his name was still Archibald Leach (fun fact: I just watched ‘His Girl Friday’ and Cary Grant’s character makes a reference to a guy named Archie Leach)) as he once performed for money on the English streets. Anytime Tony taps it’s a treat, and this is his moment to shine in this show. It should have happened more often, because HOT DAMN. The emotionally charged tapping and whirling of these two dancers is spellbinding, a true telling of story through movement. Yazbeck should be acknowledged as the Cary Grant of our time, not just on stage, because, again, HOT DAMN, just as Robbie Fairchild should be internationally recognized as the Gene Kelly of our time.
In Carmen’s solo scene, she gets a beautiful song to sing, as well as a LSD-induced orgasm to perform onstage, so that’s something you don’t see every day. Cusack is such a gorgeous MT performer that you sometimes look past the fact that Clare Boothe Luce kind of seems like a shitty republican who would still be a republican today. Her drug-induced visions of her deceased mother and daughter are heartbreaking emotional moments that cut clear across the theatre.
But, other parts, too many parts, do not soar, despite the characters’ getting so high they were like ‘oh she’s meeting Jesus? cool’ ‘oh I’m a giant rocket ship penis? cool’. The second act lagged, when somehow the magic that should have occurred when you brought the three of them together to experience their new fave drug was replaced by nonsense, head-scratching, and a disappointment at what could have been. In the early scenes, it was suggested that they were each facing an important moment in their lives, feeling that no one was listening, unsure of their footing at the next stage, dealing with frustration or stagnancy and needing an outlet. Despite their guide friend (Robert Sella) pointing out point blank “oh you all seem to be at a crossroads” in a kind of cringe-y blatant way, the story itself never capitalized on that tie binding them, when doing so could have been the grounding element the story needed. It needed something to defend the why of this story, to elevate it into a sum greater than the separate generally pleasant parts.
Without that dramatic element, the second act feels untethered, as song by song gets further away from a central feeling of importance en route to stoned nonsense. The song that has Tony’s Cary imagining dancing with his recent costar Sophia Loren is insanely unnecessary and something I can’t believe wasn’t cut. Same for Cary’s song about imagining himself as a giant penis rocketship in his delirious state. My reaction was very Mark-Evan-Jackson-as-Shaun-the-demon saying “You guys are seeing this, right?! I’m not crazy!” Nothing really comes of the three characters coming together for their trip (except the men almost drowning, which almost gave me a panic attack because oh my god you NEED SOMEONE SOBER WITH YOU IF YOU GO SWIMMING WHILE SUPER FUCKING HIGH JFC), which adds more questions of why to the story. I hate to say it but James Lapine, legend that he is, needed a collaborator to ensure that this story was in top shape before it got to Broadway. I’m still so glad it was made, but it could have and should have been stronger.
INFORMATION
Flying Over Sunset closes on January 16.
To attend a Broadway show, you must show proof of full vaccination. On the way inside, there are staff members checking your vaccination documentation. (I had the NHS barcodes in my virtual wallet as well as a PDF printout — both worked at different shows.) At all the shows I attended, the vax checking was swift, not causing a delay to entry. You must wear a mask at all times. The staff actually cares that you wear a mask, and properly. All bars are closed because Broadway staff realizes that if you are drinking, your mask would necessarily be off, and we don’t want that. THANK YOU BROADWAY.
