January 19, 2023
All the Best Things about Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of)by Randi / December 17, 2021It’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.
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Translations at the National Theatre: Harrowing Tale of Ireland & England
Man alive, if you didn’t hate England after last week’s election, you definitely will after seeing Translations, the classic play by Brian Friel that is basically the stage version of the quote “You be careful out among them English.” (The actual quote is ‘the English’ but most people remember it as ‘them English’ because it’s so much better.) Translations tells of the folk who run and attend a hedge school in the Irish community of Baile Beag in 1833. They seem to be having a grand old time learning and living their lives, until the English military comes in supposedly to map their area and record the right translations of the farm-county names. But you can’t trust the English, as they come to know, and as the ‘translations’ become ‘renaming’ their locales, and as ‘renaming’ becomes, well, executing English military control. With well realized characters and a captivating style and story, Translations is a fantastic show and this revival could not be better.
So, your first question first: a hedge school (according to our friend wikipedia because I never heard the term before) was a small informal (and I guess illegal?) school that secretly educated kids from ‘non-conforming faiths’ (catholic and presby/anything but Anglican). They generally provided rudimentary primary school education for children – historians estimate for up to 400,000 students by the 1820s. Sometimes, they provided a higher level of education, and our hedge school run by Manus (Seamus O’Hara) and Hugh (Ciaran Hinds, heyyyy) seemed a mix of both: their students shout out the Greek or Latin etymologies of words used in regular conversation, they quote the Aeneid and the Odyssey, they talk of Greek mythology like they are friends with the gods (and at least our loony old man student Jimmy Jack (Dermot Crowley) believed he was), but then they also work on their times tables. So a general school of all things, and eventually, because of the damn English, a school of hard knocks?
When the English arrive with their mapmaking plan, their translator for the local language is Owen (Fra Fee, one of the best names), Hugh’s son and Manus’s brother, back after years establishing himself in the big cities. Owen doesn’t seem to mind erasing interesting old Irish names, with histories that locals like to share with each other so someone remembers, for English-friendly boring shit like White Plains and River Cross or whatever bullshit they came up with to replace like Billarendy Kragger. While he seems to be missing any respect for where he came from in his desire to change/better himself and his country, his partner in mapcrime, Lieutenant Yolland (Jack Bardoe), has a well-meaning but overly romanticized notion of ‘loving’ Ireland and the language, and the two surprising positions make for interesting subtle conflict. I also loved the subtle showing of the students feeling inferior and uneducated in front of the Englishmen since they couldn’t speak English, despite their ability to talk about the Greek gods and Latin poets and word origins like its nothing and despite the Englishmen’s inability to even recognize a Latin phrase. How did this assumption that English people are smarter begin? That’s some white nonsense.
Making for not so subtle conflict is the romance between the Lootellan and Maire, my hair twin, who always seemed destined to marry Manus but things a-change when the English come a-courting. Unforch for all, the Lootellan goes missing, and his military buddies, like all military buddies, are not happy and so they threaten increasing amounts of action/crime/murder until he is found, the gd fascists. The rapid development of drama and terror in act two is alarming, especially since it so worryingly relates to those in power today. The final image is so harrowing, earning a rare ‘faaaaak’ from me in the blackout before curtain call.
But aside from the distress of connecting the action to our crumbling society, Translations is terrific theatre. All the acting was strong, and some of my favorites I didn’t even mention yet (like the mute-but-working-on-it Sarah, played by Liadan Dunlea). With perfect timing, there was so much unexpected humor, and laugh-out-loud moments with the back-and-forth translations. The world they created was full, absorbing, and epic-feeling right off the bat, and it felt important, especially in trying to understand English history. I feel like this is the show for Irish people who felt overlooked by The Ferryman.
INFORMATION
Unfortunately, this ends its run tomorrow, December 18. but there are tickets available for tonight and tomorrow night so hop to it.
This is playing in the Olivier theatre inside the National Theatre (there are a few theatres in there).
DO NOT bring bags bigger than like a sheet of paper? About? Or they give you shit and might make you check it. Luckily I remembered and brought a little bag.
Act one is one hour and 20 minutes. Act two is under an hour and the 7:30pm curtain ended at 10:05pm.
There are toilets on the mezzanine level between the stalls doors level and the circle doors level, and these are always crowded because the people going up to the circle don’t realize that there are more toilets once you enter the circle doors and it’s awesomeeee. If you know. which I do. I also think the circle is better for this theatre because it’s a GD BARN (enormous) and you get a better view. Also if you sit in the front row of the circle your view begins at the tip of the stage, which is incredible for my blood pressure because it means you can’t see anyone in the stalls using their phones, the English bastards.
Also at one end of the circle bar now there’s a water machine for filling your bottles or cups! Whee! The line for that at the interval was longer than the bar line which like good for the world but bad for me.
Our Lady of Kibeho at Stratford East: Super Interesting Story, Super Uneven Tone
It’s Theatre Thursday! Today’s show is Our Lady of Kibeho, playing at London’s Stratford East theatre until Nov. 2, when I imagine the Virgin Mary will appear to burn it all down.
Like the Catholic Church doesn’t have enough bad PR going for it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Our Lady of Kibeho, the 2014 play written by Katori Hall, was a hit job to make sensible people hate the church’s reps even more vehemently. Faaack, those are some assholes on that stage! If you can get past how absolutely awful 98% of the characters are, you may enjoy Kibeho as it tells the true story (I mean as true a story as people seeing visions of the Virgin Mary can be, no offense but what) of the girls at Kibeho college in Rwanda who saw said visions of the virgin in 1981. Mary showed them predictions of the coming Rwandan genocide, which is incredibly harrowing and infuriating that no one believed them and did anything to stop it, but then again what could they have done to stop it? (Also, query whether it was a self-fulfilling prophesy? Dark.)
In Kibeho, Alphonsine (a very winning Taz Munya), whose father I assume is named Alphonso because otherwise why, but also even if that’s the reason oof, has seizure-inducing visions of the Virgin Mary (you don’t know this but in my head I’m saying it ‘wirgin’ because I just watched a video of a German man speaking). Of course, nobody believes her, because organized religion is largely composed of unbelievably shitty people (see, e.g., 98% of churches in America; the aforementioned Catholic church; &c.). The Father and Sister and Bishop of the school yell at her, which is some BULLSHIRT. Your entire thang is based on just believing what you’re supposed to believe because you, well, just BELIEVE (see, e.g. The Book of Mormon for this sentence put to music) and instead of believing her or really even asking if the girl who keeps having seizures is okay, ffs, you yell at her and sic the meanest mean girls in school on her instead? WHY ARE PEOPLE. Ugh I was so, so angry for most of this show, wanting to sprint up to that stage and punch Sister Evangelique (suchhh a Pose house name!) and Marie-Claire in the face and the Bishop man in their mean faces.
Luckily (?), another girl, Anathalie (I honestly kept thinking they were saying ‘ah, Natalie’ every time) starts having the visions too. They still get bullied and no one else believes them and the other mean girls beat them? and the Sister Pose torments them? I do not get how any of these people can make a claim to be close to god but alas, that’s organized religion. Anyway, luckily (?) Marie-Claire, the Regina George of Rwanda but meaner, starts seeing the visions too and seizuring all about that beeyatch, so the Vatican comes a-calling.
Now, holy shit, truly holy shit, is the Vatican rep the worst man ever. Katori Hall is SAYING SOME SHIT with this muhfucka. He literally stabs the girls during their visions because if they were really having religious visions, they wouldn’t feel pain or whatever. SURE SEEMS LEGIT. Must he, MUST he stab them in the chest for this test? Not the arm? Even the leg? But the chest? As exasperating as that question is (my heart was pounding louder than the show), I have another one for you – what kind of monsters tasked with being in charge of these girls (the sister, the father, the bishop, inter alia assorted fuckers) allows this to happen? UGH THIS IS HOW WE GOT HERE.
Anyway, aside from the fury raging like flames, flames, flames, on the side of my face, this show is pretty interesting. There are scenes, especially the ends of each act, where I was completely swept up in the onstage action, completely oblivious to my loud heart and the loud people around me. There are moments of brilliance, especially among the girls. However, the adults, especially the men, were uniformly weak, but more importantly oddly directed by James Dacre. Instead of sticking to what made sense for their characters (sure they can be total assholes, that’s normal in all plays, but make it make sense in the show), so many lines were delivered as cheap laugh grabs, when it made no sense for the story or the character. Sure, the audience loved it – audience love cheap laugh grabs; they do work – but it took me out of the story and made me into my favorite gif, the one of the little blonde toddler making a ‘what the hell?’ face. I was mimicking that amazing toddler for way too much of this show, at so many confusing, bizarre line deliveries, when it could have otherwise been pretty strong and cohesive, and of course unsettling and disturbing since we know what came next.
INFORMATION
The show is playing at Stratford East, east of London by the Olympic Park, until November 2. There are 4 stalls in the ladies toilet. The stalls are single rows (no center aisle) so if you get claustro get lower-numbered seats (those are nearer the side by the exit. I had an aisle seat of course but on the wrong side, oops).
