And I Moved

You're still goin' strong ...

2009-03-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

This past Tuesday night I had one of the most unusual and memorable evenings. I had been invited to see Carol Channing inaugurate a new cabaret series at L.A.'s Magic Castle, a huge old mansion sitting on a hill off Franklin Avenue in Hollywood that is a kind of private club for magicians. Historically, entry is granted only to members and invited guests. For this new cabaret series, however, a limited number of tickets are available to nonmembers.

I was looking forward to the event mostly because I've never seen Carol Channing live -- not even in one of her 5,000+ nights spent playing Dolly Levi in the many iterations of Hello, Dolly! over my lifetime. So there was a certain camp factor. Also, I had never been inside the Magic Castle, so it seemed like it would be a great combination.

I was not prepared for effect she would have.

First of all, our seats were amazing. A stage-side table on the stage-left side in what was already an incredibly intimate room. When the 88-year-old Miss Channing finally took the stage, she was never more than about 10 feet from us -- most of the time considerably closer. She's had a couple of hip operations in the past year, so she moves very carefully and is wafer thin. There is a certain fragility in her physical presence. But mentally? Emotionally? Intellectually? This woman is so sharp. I was blown away by her intelligence. I think she might be off-the-charts MENSA smart.

She mostly told stories, sprinkled with snippets of songs here and there. But among her first bits was a recalling of her initial audition for the president of William Morris all those years ago. Coming from a small, intellectually rigorous women's college in New England (Bennington), she thought for sure he would appreciate a serious song in old French telling the story of Orestes. And suddenly she's singing it, in this low, gutteral voice. And it just keeps going! It was at turns hilarious and mind-bogglingly impressive. For an encore with the big wig at the agency, she sang a song in some ancient language that was written in 9/5 time ("Oh, you know about that?" she says with flawless timing when audience members laugh at the obscure time signature). She borrows a drum from her drummer and proceeds to bang out 9/5 time and begin this bizarre chant-like number. I don't know if it translates here, but I just couldn't believe my eyes and ears! It was like some strange celebrity fringe festival act. The cognitive dissonance of watching the daffy Dolly Levi acting out such a moment was delightfully disorienting.

She has incredible recall of events and conversations, or certainly a finely-honed aptitude for making it appear so. And to watch that razor-sharp comic timing as up close as you can be was a dream.

Among those sharing the room with me and Miss Channing were Lily Tomlin and her longtime partner, Jane Wagner. Lily has an old bit about RSVP'ing for events as "Lily and, maybe, Jane," because Jane is a famous last-minute canceller. Well, Jane was there, so Carol must rate. And watching those two incredible talents watching Carol Channing was a treat in and of itself. Lily was like a good student, soaking up every bit of business and watching with appreciation and wonder.

The event was meant to benefit a new initiative Miss Channing is launching to get the arts back in California public schools. Most people at 88 wouldn't take on such an ambitious mission, but that says something about her restless spirit and mind I suppose.

This photo shows her greeting Tippi Hedron on her way out. I like it because you can fully appreciate the incredible condition she is in. There aren't many 88-year-olds who can take off their white jacket part-way through a show and continue to perform in a tight, shiny turtle-neck number, but there she was.

Again, I went thinking it would be a hoot and came away inspired by this woman's incredible mind, unstoppable energy and brilliant gifts of timing and presence. An unforgettable night.

Another lion felled

2009-01-31T02:34:00.000-08:00

It is not my intention to make this blog some kind of collection of obituaries, but so soon after the death of Harold Pinter it makes me terribly sad to acknowledge the passing this past week of John Updike, an American writer of such voraciousness that the sheer volume of his output would qualify him as a writer of note, never mind the fact that he constructed some of the most elegant, deliciously observant sentences of the past 50 years. Along the way he collected a couple of Pulitzers and many other awards, honorary degrees and acknowledgments of his artistry with words.

I had the good fortune of hearing Mr. Updike speak in person only a couple of months ago, in November 2008, shortly after the presidential election. He was appearing in conversation at UCLA with David Ulin, book editor at the Los Angeles Times, in promotion of his latest [and, sadly, last] novel, The Widows of Eastwick, a sequel to his popular Witches of Eastwick of several decades earlier. At that time, I detected no hint of the lurking lung cancer that apparently stole his restless creativity from us. He seemed energetic, upbeat and determined to continue to write.

In fact, one of the things I took from the event was an appreciation for Mr. Updike's almost Victorian dedication to working. He seemed driven simultaneously by a Protestant work ethic and an admitted delight in seeing his name in print. He also seemed slightly haunted by a concomitant fear in letting too much time pass between bylines, as if the ever-shortening attention span of contemporary society would quickly forget him if he didn't accept that next commission. This is partly what drew him to accept the latest in a string of some 825 assignments for the New Yorker, for example [the last of which was a typically honest but generous review of Toni Morrison's latest novel published in early November].

Another interesting point from that November event is that, when asked about the recent election, Mr. Updike expressed excitement at the prospect of "having a writer in the White House." It was such an interesting perspective to me, as I had not, in all the wild media coverage of the election process, identified Barack Obama with the simple label of "writer." But there was Updike, reminding us that the man had written not one, but two books on his own. And he believed that the qualities it takes to see a book through publication would hold him in good stead in the impossibly complex position of president. Let us hope he was on to something there.

Unlike his peers -- Philip Roth, John Cheever, Saul Bellow, Norman Mailer -- Updike set himself a strict schedule of production and pretty much published a book a year, be it a novel or a collection of essays or short stories. His output was staggering, as if he was attempting to capture all of our existence in the fleeting beauty of the perfect sentence. Like Meryl Streep as an actor, he was criticized for having too much technique, for being too skilled, for allowing us to see that he was a unique talent. That seems faint criticism to me.

I have read much of his work and, for my taste, it is fine to get lost in the beauty of a dazzling sentence. That's partly why I bother to read other people's writing. Yes, his Rabbit novels are his best known, but for my money there is no topping his inexplicably underestimated masterpiece, In the Beauty of the Lilies. This epic work spans four generations of an American family in the 20th century. All I can tell you is that as I finished it, on the sand on a Long Island beach in the late '90s, I nearly wept at the final images and mourned the turning of the last page. It was a perfectly constructed work of fiction, in my opinion, and like a gigantic spider web, created in such modest silence that I didn't even notice its grandeur until I got to the end and could step back and admire the whole.

In an era of such superficiality, Mr. Updike was also an unabashed man of letters. He wrote novels, poetry, short stories, essays and criticism of books and art. He did it all. And, it seems, he loved every minute of it. He leaves us with many heart-stopping sentences to read, many observations to contemplate. It was a life well spent, and I am richer for having encountered him.

Nothing would please him more than if you used your library card to sample some of his prose.

The Homecoming

2008-12-30T17:57:00.000-08:00

On Christmas day, at my sister's house in snowy New Hamphire, I logged onto the Internet in the late morning, only to discover that actor/playwright/poet/activist Harold Pinter had died on Christmas Eve following a long illness. I'd never met the man, but having worked on his deliciously mysterious and rich plays -- as both a director and an actor -- I had gone through periods of obsession with his life and work, which led me to feel great sadness at his passing. He was a titan. A towering literary figure who remade the landscape of what we consider theatrical. As esteemed British playwright David Hare said on Christmas, "Yesterday we all knew who the greatest living British dramatist was. Today we don't."

Pinter was certainly a complicated man. His personal life was not always pleasant, and a son from his first marriage -- his only child -- was estranged for years and right up to his death. Pinter's plays could be brutal, and he could be withering in his dismissal of others. On the other hand, his lifelong love of cricket betrayed a playful side that could easily be overlooked by simply examining the subject matter of his plays. I like the photo here -- taken of the writer in his London study in 2007 -- because the prominent painting of him in full cricket gear reveals the importance the sport had in his life.

In Pinter's work, everyday relationships are battles. The stakes are high and often the cause of conflict remains unknown. He was brave enough to put life and behavior on stage with little or no explanation, sometimes leaving critics and audiences angry and confused. But rarely bored. Early in his career, when asked what his work was about, he mischievously replied, "the weasel behind the cocktail cabinet." What was meant as a ridiculous red herring was often taken as gospel, with Pinter later joking that he shuddered to see the quotation repeated in academic articles written about him.

For my money, Mr. Pinter was a true original -- a term that gets thrown around with too much ease these days. Nobody wrote like him, though thousands tried. His literary voice is unmistakable. His mixture of black humor and brutality speak to the complexities of human relationships and, I believe, call us to be better than we typically are. In recent years his plays have enjoyed a robust renaissance both in New York and London, with major productions of The Homecoming, Betrayal, The Hothouse, The Room and No Man's Land lighting up stages on both sides of the Atlantic. I hope to have the chance to work on more of his plays in the future. They are endlessly fascinating, challenging, puzzling and gratifying.

When asked in recent years if he thought he would write any more plays, Pinter famously declared, "I've written 29 damn plays. Isn't that enough?"

Absolutely.

The School of Rock

2008-07-15T07:52:00.000-07:00

It was fitting that VH1 decided to honor The Who in a venue at UCLA because the old boys conducted quite the master class in blistering rock 'n' roll on Saturday night. For anyone who's been following it all, I'm sure you've read about who was there, what was played, etc., so I won't attempt to give a comprehensive report here. Just a few impressions and, for me, highlights.

First of all, in the good karma department, I didn't buy an expensive ticket for this show because the belt is pretty tight these days -- what with being in school and $5 per gallon gas -- so I was determined to be content with my sky-high seat hovering over the Pete side of the stage. So imagine my surprise when an usher came along with a big smile on his face and ushered five of us from our last-row perch all the way downstairs to the floor (VH1, after all, couldn't have empty seats downstairs for the television broadcast -- doesn't look good on camera). So in the blink of an eye, I was downstairs, about half-way back on Pete's side in a section of slightly raised seats. Perfect! And all for the price of a cheap seat.

Foo Fighters kicked things off with a killer version of "Young Man Blues." They were lean and mean, just like the band being honored was in its heyday. Dave Grohl sounded froggy, but it worked for the song.

The Flaming Lips were characteristically insane, with Wayne walking out into the audience in one of his plastic bubbles. Their Tommy medley was terrific, with just enough reverence for the occasion and just enough absurdity to live up to their reputation. The bassist was in an Entwistle-esque Isle-of-Wight skeleton costume, and the drummer kicked over his kit at the end of their bit.

Incubus was one of the evening's biggest surprises for me, as they tore it up with "I Can See for Miles," one of the most difficult Who songs to pull off live, if you ask me. Brandon Boyd, while sporting an irritatingly undetectable level of body fat, sang with passion and even a little bit of danger. Their "Can't Explain" seemed anticlimactic after "Miles." An excellent job from the metal kids.

Tenacious D did their thing with "Squeezebox," one of my least favorite songs but a perfect one for their shenanigans. Jack Black's eyes could power Las Vegas with their intensity. Great fun.

Pearl Jam, it seems, had been waiting their whole lives for this night. Given the task of honoring Quadrophenia, they opened with an astonishing rendition of "Love Reign O'er Me," complete with a string section. I wanted them to do the whole double album, they were so fantastic. Eddie Vedder, an avowed Who fan, left it all on the stage that night. Their second [and sadly, last] number was a turbo-charged version of "The Real Me," with a small brass section accompanying them this time. Their bassist was recreating with abandon and precision every dancing, syncopated bass line laid down by the late, great Ox. It was thunderous. They seemed to be having the time of their lives "playing Who." It was magic.

Then the boys came out. "Baba" started things off, with the '70s-era green lasers slicing through the dark like switchblades. Roger sounded fantastic -- tanned, rested and ready -- and Pete stalked the stage like a caged lion, giving off an "F-you" energy that reminded us all that they got where they are by shattering convention, sneering at the establishment and breaking a lot of expensive stuff, not by smiling and graciously accepting awards and accolades.

Pete didn't speak to or even look at the audience, it seemed. Almost like he didn't want to be there. But whatever was bothering him [I later read he tore off a nail early in the set, and I did see blood on a Stratocaster on the video screen], he channeled it all into the music. "If it's a rock god on guitar they want, then that's what they'll get," he seemed to be saying, hurling himself [sometimes literally] into the music with a ferocity that was almost frightening.

Sound troubles seemed to be plaguing Pete, as he was gesturing to Bobby Pridden offstage frequently, occasionally stopping to stare in puzzlement at his elaborate console. He even stopped "You Better You Bet" part-way through and was yelling offstage. When it seemed he wasn't being understood he traipsed over to his mic and said, pointing to a monitor, "Whatever you've got in here, take it out. It's DEAFENING!" And the place went nuts. Roger, trying to keep a happy face on, said, "Shit happens! Shall we start again?" And they did the song over, much better this time. Pete followed by immediately launching into "My Generation," with no count in or warning, leaving the band and, most importantly, Roger, standing on the platform as the train left the station. It was the most virile, rebellious version of that song I've heard since Monterey Pop. Just incredible.

A mandolin, acoustic, country-ish version of "2,000 Years" from Endless Wire was the surprise song of the night. It was a delight to hear them do it, with Simon, Pete and Pino combining for some O, Brother, Where Art Thou?-style plucking and Roger sounding terrific. I doubt it will make it to television, though. Lots of folks [who are these people?] went to get beer during it.

"Won't Get Fooled Again" was everything you'd want it to be, with a mad jam at the end in which Pete and Zak seemed to go to another planet together, thrashing in unison like possessed animals. I'll be curious to see how it comes across on television, and even if VH1 airs the whole jam. It made Incubus, Foos, Lips and Pearl Jam seem careful and dainty. And proved the point of the whole night.

Zak deserves special mention. He was on fire throughout, as if the short set gave him permission to pull out all the stops. I've never heard him so "in charge" on stage, clearly leading the rest of the band at times in terms of tempo and dynamics. And Pino was higher in the mix than I've ever heard him, at times giving that Entwistle-esque bottom to the whole sound.

Pete and Roger made some comments at the end, with Pete taking a swipe at Roger for not writing any songs. It was like watching a married couple fight in public. Somehow perfect, though, considering their history.

One of the true highlights for me was meeting up with Cathy with a C, Colleen and Jim (Purple5) for a drink after. Good company and great conversation with people who, before this, were simply names and avatars online. We closed a joint in Westwood just sitting talking -- and not even very much about The Who. What a treat. Thanks to Cathy for calling me and stopping me from going straight home!

Hope all this is interesting to some of you who weren't able to be in the room. It was one of the best nights of music I've ever had.

Coming home 40 years later

2007-12-26T23:52:00.000-08:00

There are many times during the year when I think there's nowhere I'd rather live than Los Angeles. Christmas Eve was one of those days, when it was 72 degrees, blue sky and bright sunshine. As I sat on the roof deck, overlooking the City of Angels, reading a wonderful novel [more about that in another post] in the seductive sun, I felt as if I was on vacation in Mexico or something. But, every once in a while there is an event in New York that makes me green with envy for those who live there. One such event is the new revival of Harold Pinter's The Homecoming that landed on Broadway earlier this month, 40 years after the still shocking play made its American debut. If you had to chose, it is probably Pinter's greatest work, or at least his most quintessential. (Are there degrees of quintessence? I'm not sure ...) The Homecoming has it all -- fantastically vicious language, a barely contained underbelly of violence, dizzying sexual combat and some of the funniest insults ever spoken out loud. There is a divine piece of writing by John Lahr in the current New Yorker magazine about Pinter and the play. If you have a little time, I highly recommend it. Lahr has known Pinter personally for decades, and it is most illuminating.

Reading that wonderful piece of writing about theater made me consider what some of my favorite moments in the theater were this past year. I had the good fortune of seeing many wonderful productions, some to review and some simply for pleasure. As I look back [rather informally], here are some memorable shows and performances that come to mind.

Bill Irwin and Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? -- This was a touring version of a recent Broadway production. While Turner was tailor-made for the boozy, bawdy Martha, my review said, "It is Irwin who provides the revelation in this riveting revival. His George is full of surprises, taking lines familiar from the celebrated Elizabeth Taylor/Richard Burton film and delivering them with fresh nuance and more than a little savory sarcasm. In the end it is the seemingly submissive George who rules this rotting roost with a carefully calibrated cruelty that earns Martha's admiration. Perhaps these two really love each other after all."

Another favorite of mine was another visitor from Broadway -- Avenue Q came to L.A. three years after surprising the pundits and snagging the best musical Tony from the greedy clutches of the multi-million dollar Wicked. The musical's joyously iconoclastic use of puppets and subversive humor combined with a heart as big as Central Park to produce a work as silly as it was profound. Here's part of what I had to say: "Along with countless belly laughs, some outrageous puppet sex and a score of hummably silly tunes, Avenue Q is surprisingly moving. Without ever taking itself too seriously, the show manages to tackle issues of racism, homophobia, loneliness and community with heartfelt power. And the characters' examinations of life's delights and disappointments have a stealthy power that sneaks up on you behind a deceptive sheen of silliness." After noting that the score had that rare quality of clever originality in an era of increasingly derivative and corporately vetted musicals, I ended, perhaps a bit grandly, with: "Avenue Q provides hope for the genre even as it leaves us laughing long and hard."

Some other shows I really enjoyed:
Michael John LaChiusa's quirky Little Fish at the Blank Theatre
A Delicate Balance at Ventura's Rubicon Theatre
Hamish Linklater's Hamlet at South Coast Rep
The Lost Studio's production of Pinter's delicate Moonlight
The L.A. premiere of The History Boys, mostly for Dakin Matthews' wonderful Hector
The breathtaking choreography (Lee Martino) in Reprise's On Your Toes

And, perhaps my favorite performance of the year, Ian McKellen as King Lear, giving us a king of such humanity and humor that we were able to follow [and understand] every step of his hideous journey and, hopefully, learn from his heinous mistakes.

Here's hoping for many more surprising, moving, uplifting and challenging evenings in the dark in 2008.

Class Action

2007-08-11T01:57:00.000-07:00

Well, Barry Bonds did it. He passed Hank Aaron's magic total of 755 career home runs to become the all-time home run king. How far he'll go, nobody yet knows. But I can't help feeling sad for the game of baseball. Clouds of suspicion hang over the new record, as we all wonder just how juiced Barry was during those shockingly productive years from his late 30s to his early 40s, a time when most players are winding down their careers, cruising downhill to search for an opening to a graceful exit from the game they have played all their lives. In Bonds' case, he actually got better, more productive, as he approached 40. Something doesn't smell right, there, and it will all come out someday. But in the meantime, we have an obnoxious, needy, self-centered slugger owning the ultimate sports crown.

The picture here is a drawing of Henry Aaron by renowned sports cartoonist Bruce Stark. In the summer of '73, Mr. Stark created drawings of the Yankees and Mets that were printed in the Sunday Daily News funnies, with each week featuring a different position -- the two teams' shortstops being shown one week, and their third basemen the next.

As a kid, I copied and learned from Stark's drawings. And I learned from Mr. Aaron, too. I learned that being the best at something didn't necessarily mean having to tell people you were the best. I learned that quiet, consistent excellence could result in eventual greatness. And I learned, as he received death threats the closer he got to the great [white] Babe Ruth's record, that success and achievement did not necessarily equate with joy and happiness. In fact, it seems Mr. Aaron was quite miserable the closer he got to the immortal Babe's record, hiding his wife and children from journalists and the potential crazy person who might want to do them harm.

When Barry Bonds broke Hammerin' Hank's record this past week, Mr. Aaron made a rather surprising appearance on the video scoreboard to congratulate his successor. Surprising because he had seemed so dead set against being a part of the circus surrounding Bonds' pursuit of the record amid allegations of illegal performance enhancers [read: steroids]. In the end, Mr. Aaron proved to be as filled with class as one could be. He graciously congratulated Bonds, while maintaining a polite and understandable distance from the whole thing.

The point could be moot in five to six years if Alex Rodriguez keeps up his pace and passes Bonds, with a steroids-free record and a much more gracious personality.

All in all, the events of the past week made me sad for baseball today, and made me even prouder of my childhood hero with the quiet dignity, unparalleled consistency and admirable class. Mr. Aaron has been surpassed. Long live Mr. Aaron.

Can it be 30 years?

2007-07-31T22:56:00.000-07:00

No, not since I last posted to this blog. Although that's close. But it was thirty years ago that New York City saw the Son of Sam stalking couples in parked cars throughout the outer boroughs. It was thirty years ago that the great blackout of '77 hit the Big Apple. It was thirty years ago that a little-known Congressman named Ed Koch beat a field that included Mario Cuomo, Bella Abzug and incumbent Abe Beame to become mayor of the troubled city. And it was thirty years ago that the New York Yankees officially stole the title of the Bronx Zoo from their neighboring institution for an outrageous confluence of outsized personalities battling each other and the rest of baseball for a world championship.

I was 12 going on 13 at the time, and it was a very memorable year.

ESPN is reliving it all for me in a summer miniseries titled, The Bronx Is Burning, based on Jonathan Mahler's book [which I got a couple years ago but haven't finished] about the 1977 baseball season and all the other simultaneous events. It was in many ways a low point for New York City. Middle class families like mine had left places like Throggs Neck in the Bronx for more stable locales outside the city. The city was teetering on bankruptcy, without the resources to supply the necessary law enforcement presence to combat the increasing restlessness and disaffection among so many of its citizens. But through it all, the Yankees fought their way to a pennant and -- not to give away the ending -- a World Series title.

The events of the ESPN series are from a time when I was most obsessed with baseball. In fact, as the first episode aired, I kept announcing what was about to happen, leading my forgiving but bemused partner to ask, "Why do you have to watch this? You know it all!" But, like an old episode of The Honeymooners, long ago memorized, the satisfaction is in knowing what's coming, watching it arrive, and then appreciating it all over again after it's gone.

To be really honest, I have no idea how good the series really is. I am completely, hopelessly unobjective. But it seems that John Turturro has studied and channeled the tortured Billy Martin. It seems that Oliver Platt has fully embraced the Midwest vowels and self-conscious bullying of George Steinbrenner. And the producers know just when to cut away to real footage, so we don't have to watch actors attempt to simulate the swing of Reggie Jackson or Thurman Munson.

Even the show's theme music is of the period, some sort of brilliant reimagining of the themes from shows like Mannix or Kojak. It almost, dare I say it, sounds like a Mike Post theme.

Maybe there's something fundamental, even elemental, about that age. As I said, I was on the brink of my teens. I remember it all clearly. When the blackout came, my parents wondered if something had happened at the Indian Point nuclear plant. The sky had an eerie glow and it was very quiet. I think that summer was when I first started to read a newspaper, fascinated by the hunt for the Son of Sam, who could have been outside our windows at night for all I knew, even though we were supposedly in a safe remove from the urban jungle in our recently purchased suburban home.

It almost feels like ESPN created the series for me. And, to an extent, I suppose they did. Counting on there being enough like me, around my age, who could relate with the same kind of odd nostalgia to a time that was troubled, turbulent and transitional. A far cry from the Disney-dominated Times Square of today, or the corporately composed professionals of the current Yankee clubhouse -- both of which are probably preferable in the long run, but less romantic, to be sure.

If you're still reading, it means you are a dedicated friend of this blog. Thanks for that. And do check out an episode of The Bronx is Burning, and let me know what you think.

Whew, I got a post in during the month of July! Hope to be back more often in August.

Tag, I'm It

2007-03-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

So, AhvaRahn has tagged me. I'm it. I must grab the nearest book, turn to page 123, scan down to the 5th sentence and copy the next three sentences. I usually don't like revealing games, but this one holds a curious fascination for me.

The book I have grabbed is Philip Roth's Everyman. While a slim volume, it does, thankfully, have more than 123 pages. Here goes...

"Leave me alone!"
"Phoebe -- "
"No!"

Honestly, that is the set of three sentences following the fifth sentence on page 123. What it does quite nicely is demonstrate the fat-free content of Mr. Roth's writing. Three sentences with five words. That's economy.

Just for giggles, I take the three sentences following that. To show that Roth isn't all monosyllabic dialogue:

But these episodes are indeed well known and require no further elaboration. Phoebe threw him out the night after his mother's burial, they were divorced after negotiating a financial settlement, and because he did not know what else to do to make sense of what had happened or how else to appear responsible -- and to rehabilitate himself particularly in Nancy's eyes -- a few months later he married Merete. Since he had broken everything up because of this person half his age, it seemed only logical to go ahead and tidy everything up again by making her his third wife -- never was he clever enough as a married man to fall into adultery or to fall in love with a woman who was not free.

I can't believe what a convenient case this one page makes for the brilliant versatility of Mr. Roth's writing. As lengthy as those last three sentences are -- complete with em dashes -- there is no word that isn't necessary. And they stand in such stark contrast to the first few sentences of dialogue.

Thanks, Paul, for thinking of me and then tagging (even though I hadn't actually gotten to p. 123 yet and therefore feel I've cheated somewhat in "reading ahead"). I'm honored to be grouped with Maria and Pete and look forward to their entries!

.

Hollywood royalty?

2007-02-27T11:59:00.000-08:00

I love this picture of Helen Mirren chowing down on a big old burger at one of the parties following her Oscar win! Such a down-to-earth contrast between the glamour of the Oscars and the royalty of her role, and a woman who probably hasn't had a bite since breakfast -- before hair, makeup, dress-fitting, long limo ride and four-hour awards ceremony.

Reminds me of another burger-loving Essex gal named Rachel Fuller.

Enjoy, Helen -- and the bag of chips is a nice touch!

A great actor makes a quiet exit

2007-02-09T12:11:00.000-08:00

Sad news from London today as the sudden death of actor Ian Richardson was announced. Richardson was an original member of the Royal Shakespeare Company and played many of the Bard's greatest roles for that company in its early days. He tackled Hamlet at 24 and by all accounts was a memorable Richard II. I first saw Mr. Richardson when my entire family went to see a 20th-anniversary Broadway revival of My Fair Lady in 1976. I was just a kid, but remember the evening very clearly. It was a formative experience for me about the magic of theatre. We sat in the front row of the balcony, and I left convinced that Christine Andreas, who played Eliza, sang "I Could Have Danced All Night" directly to me! Richardson was courageously stepping into shoes previously worn only by the inimitable (and Tony and Oscar winner) Rex Harrison. Richardson sang more than old Rex ever did, and made the role his own.

Like so many wonderful English actors, he was probably best known in America for something rather silly. He was the Grey Poupon guy in the 1980s commercials: "Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?" he said, from the rolled down window of a gorgeous luxury car.

Richardson's most prominent role was probably Francis Urquhart, the Machiavellian MP in the television mini-series House of Cards. I first saw it on PBS in the early '90s, and he was fantastic playing a scheming, reptilian politician whose Shakespearean asides to audience via direct address to the camera were both chilling and hilarious. The series is riveting if you ever get the chance to see it. Urquhart's signature line, "You might think that; I couldn't possibly comment," was a brilliant way to convey agreement without leaving any fingerprints. It is a line I have used often since! By all accounts Richardson himself was quite different from his cold-hearted character. Married for many years, the Edinburgh native was the father of two and lived a quiet life in Richmond.

Richardson apparently died in his sleep without any illness or warning. Terrible shock for friends and family, but definitely the way to exit this world if you have the chance. So good for him.

And think of him if you find yourself spreading any mustard this weekend!

The Who in the desert

2006-11-26T23:55:00.000-08:00

OK, well, blogger just puts these photos wherever it wants, I guess. Not he most artful arrangement, but there it is. Finally, two weeks later, I am uploading some pics from The Who's blistering set at Indian Wells Tennis Garden out in the California desert near Palm Springs. After their traditional first few songs without interruption, Pete addressed the crowd at the fairly intimate, outdoor venue. "I've always wondered what it was like in the deep, deep desert," he said. "It's f**king cold! And it's windy. And it's dark," he continued, to much laughter. "You're very lucky people to live here."

The Web is filled with reviews and synopses of many shows from this tour. I won't go song by song or anything, except to say that from the fifth row [the closest I've ever sat at a Who show], they were on fire. And I think it's just fantastic how many songs from the new record they are playing. Pete keeps apologizing for it and I wish he wouldn't, but I suppose he feels it heads off grumbling from fans who want to hear the hits. There are plenty of them still in the set list, but I admire their determination to give the new material its due. I am glad I got to hear "Black Widow's Eyes" from the new CD as they seem to have stopped playing it live since that night. Pete had some problems with his guitar rig, at one point pulling at his headphones and visibly yelling to someone offstage, "It's loud!" But I thought the song sounded great live. As did "Fragments" from the new record. Much more powerful live, somehow, with great visuals on the impressive video screens.

Memorable moments: Meeting Mikey Cuthbert during the opening act. "Man in a Purple Dress" was just dynamite, with a simple acoustic guitar and Roger's theatrical vocals. "Eminence Front" was surprisingly powerful, and the new "Mike Post Theme" had Pete and Zak working off each other beautifully. Pete allowed the end of "Baba" to drag out, with poor Roger puffing away at his harmonica as Pete counted from 1 to 9 with the audience, finally declaring that "Nine is a good number" and stopping. Hilarious. During the sublime "Tommy" encore, Pete came way downstage at one point, wielding his guitar like a machine gun, and slowly strafed the audience from stage right to left, all the while visibly spewing foul invectives that no mic picked up.

Sitting so close, I really appreciated the stamina of these guys. Roger somehow looks like he stepped out of a time machine from the 1979 tour, and Pete still windmills and thrashes his way through two grueling hours. Zak is a force of nature on drums, and I really appreciated Simon Townshend's contributions this night. During the new mini opera [which is so energized on stage], Simon plays several instruments while also contributing key backing vocals. He is vital to the current live sound of the band.

And "Tea and Theatre" is a gorgeous end to the show. Just Pete and Roger, an acoustic guitar and a mug of tea. Roger sings it like it's the last thing he'll ever sing. Just perfect.

This is no nostalgia tour, kids. They are a vibrant, spontaneous, creative force. If they are rolling into your town, I encourage you to pick up a ticket. I'm so glad I made the two-hour drive to the desert.

Cross-Country Surprise

2006-11-14T11:10:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, Nov. 4, my two brothers, my sister and I pulled off a huge surprise party for our parents. They both retired in 2006 and August saw their 45th wedding anniversary, so it was a year of milestones. Unfortuntately, Mom also had to have back surgery in the spring, so any kind of celebration was put on ice.

After many cross-country calls and countless e-mails, we four kids decided to surprise them with a fall party. They thought they were going to a birthday party for my sister's mother-in-law at her home in a nearby town in New York. When they arrived, the house was filled with family and friends, including some very long-time friends going back to high school and even grammar school. It was such a complete surprise, in fact, that they were actually confused at first as to why we were all there! "What are we celebrating?" Dad asked, genuinely unsure. I stepped forward and gave Mom a hug and a kiss and said, "We did notice that you both retired this year." It was a very successful surprise and a wonderful evening.

Gifts are always an issue at a party like this. What do you give a couple who has everything they really need, and, in fact, should probably be purging "stuff" at this point in their lives? So in our invitation we asked people to consider digging through their old photo albums and finding a picture from a significant or even just funny moment in our parents' last 45 years together [preferably a shot that they wouldn't likely have in their own albums]. And put it in a frame for them. Well, this idea worked out very well, with each new gift they opened inspiring memories and, sometimes, funny stories. At the end of the night they went home with many treasured memories framed and ready for display.

Pictured here is the cake we ordered from a very fancy-pants bakery in nearby Chappaqua. It was beautiful and divinely delicious. I'm not sure, but there might have been a little butter in it. We had food from their favorite restaurants (Chinese appetizers and Italian main course), and for dessert -- in addition to the cake -- we ordered fudge from Murdick's, a favorite treat from Martha's Vineyard summers in the 1970s and '80s, and an old friend brought cannoli from the Bronx. The real deal. It was, perhaps, an odd menu, but one that was highly personal and reflected their past 45 years together.

All in all, the party was a great success. Our parents have given so much to us over the years, it felt good to plan something that let them know how important they are to us.

In the Attic -- the Music

2006-11-11T10:17:00.000-08:00

As we're standing, sipping a beer and waiting, a burly security man walks through the crowd right behind me, apparently clearing a path for the performers to walk from the dressing room in the back of the club to the stage at the front. Shortly after that, the dressing room door opens in the back and I see the familiar silhouette of Pete Townshend clutching some papers and slowly walking toward me. He is relaxed, calm and walking to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He stops right behind me, about 2 feet away, leans on the wall and gestures for the security man to lead the way. For a second we are face to face, although he is employing a carefully cultivated ability to avoid eye contact with anyone -- a survival technique for any major star whose every movement can cause a head to turn. I quickly note that he is tall, probably about 6' or 6'1'', and appears very fit. In person his clothes are obviously the best quality, the black-on-black look with a thin black jacket a perfect combination for this cool Hollywood venue.

Right behind Pete comes Rachel Fuller, sporting a surprisingly proper polka dot dress with her lovely hair pulled up. She is ready for business and taking her duties as emcee and host very seriously. As she walks by I just blurt out in my best Essex accent, "Rachel Fuller! We love you!" She smiles demurely and continues to the stage. Simon, Mikey, Minnie Driver and some other folks follow. I don't see Billy Corgan and wonder if he's made it to the show.

Right in front of the stage, on the audience's left side, there are a few small tables [the only ones in the room], and the gang takes their seats along the wall. Rachel hits the stage and gives us a warm, characteristically informal welcome, and begins the show. She starts with "Cigarettes and Housework," alone at the piano. It is pretty, moving and she seems a bit nervous. Next she calls Pete to the stage and they do the gorgeous "Sunrise" together. It is spellbinding. We're in for a great night.

I am shooting some photos, but with the "no flash" restrictions, I'm not sure how well my little point-and-shoot is focusing. It probably needs more light to focus properly and, sure enough, when I get the pictures developed, most of them are an interesting but disappointing blur. A couple are posted here. At the end of the night I put the flash back on, figuring they won't throw me out once the show's over, and got a couple of clear shots of Mr. Townshend up close. Those are keepers.

Mikey Cuthbert played next, starting with "Plasticine," which was very exciting to hear in person. He also sang "You," which I wasn't familiar with, and then "Misery," one of his best in my opinion, with Simon, Rachel and Pete all joining him for harmony on the chorus. It was the Attic gang onstage together and it was a thrill to see and hear them. I've never seen Mikey perform live, but he appeared to be "in the zone" and delivered a very powerful set.

Simon was up next and boy is he a charismatic performer! This man is a talent! His guitar is reminiscent of Dave Stewart of Eurythmics, with lots of percussive strumming mixed with delicate picking work. He took the stage by storm with "Come Back," then did "Scaffolding" from his mid-'80s solo album. I wasn't familiar with it, but it was a good song delivered beautifully. He finished by rocking the room with "Sex Change" in a dynamic performance that really impressed the audience. You could feel people thinking, "Wow, this guy is amazing!" He has that intangible quality onstage that makes a star a star and it was exciting to experience. He seems so sweet and laid back on the Attic shows.

Next was a big surprise: Minnie Driver sings and writes songs! Rachel gave her a glowing introduction in which she talked about how some people have more than one talent. For instance, she said, Pete plays rock music, but he also makes a great spaghetti Bolognese! And it wouldn't be right to say, "Well, you can play rock music, but you can't also make spaghetti Bolognese." She is hilarious. From his seat by the wall, Pete yelled out that the term is "polymath," and we all learned a new word for people with multiple talents. Minnie took the stage with a smile, a short dress that risked the front row "seeing my knickers," and some racey humor. On her second song [I think], she asked Pete to join her. She was very funny with her unabashed star-struckedness. As Pete was reaching for his guitar upstage, she leaned overy and gently caressed his back saying, "I just like touching him!" She, Pete and Rachel played a couple more songs and while I didn't catch the titles, they were good songs and she has a strong voice that she knows how to use. One of her songs was about an ex boyfriend's mother. With a smile but also an undercurrent of sadness, she said, "We memorialize these people in songs when they should be forgotten."

Pete was next and all I can say is that it was an unforgettable thrill to be so close [maybe 20 feet] from this man whose music has been such an important part of my life. He began with "Greyhound Girl," one of my favorites, and a beautiful melody. He played an extended version of "Endless Wire," and the crowd politely and rather quietly sang along on the chorus. It was kind of a collective whisper, as if we were all saying, Pete's right there, so let's not disturb him, but we really want to join in here. Next, Pete's guitar man, Alan Rogan, passed him a ukelele, and longtime Attic watchers knew we were in for "Blue, Red and Grey" from The Who by Numbers album. As he sat with his ukelele, perched on a stool before a music stand with his reading glasses on, looking more like the coolest literature professor than a major rock star, Rachel called out from her seat, "Why don't you tell them how you used to play guitar in a rock band before you met me?" Very funny moment. Pete then went into some great Who stories and comments, pointing out that the previous two songs were actually Who songs, and so was the one he was about to do. In talking about "what is the Who?" he concluded, "Sometimes I think the Who thinks it's Roger Daltrey." Very funny.

"Blue, Red and Grey" was magnificent. To hear him sing this simple song in person was, again, incredible and difficult to describe. To have "God Speaks of Marty Robbins" come next was the true highlight for me. It is my favorite song from the new Who record and one that, in addition to being a simply gorgeous melody, also incapsulates so many of the themes Pete has wrestled with in his writing for 40+ years. The song finds God, the creator, waking up and basically deciding to create the world so that He can hear music. "Wake up and hear the music/Wake up and hear the music play." Pete does some divine [no pun intended] acoustic picking on this song and his singing is filled with love and gentle wonder. It is a privilege to share the room with him at this point.

Next up is "Let's See Action," which gets the old Who fans in the crowd going, singing along [again at a respectful volume], and even some dancing going on. Pete ends his set with "In the Ether," as Rachel joins him to accompany on piano. Before the song he takes some more playful [I think] jabs at Roger Daltrey, saying that he, Pete, can act too and will prove it with this song. He imitates how Roger has been "acting" some of the new songs on stage, like "Tea and Theatre" and "Man in a Purple Dress." He does his best dramatic, Shakespearian actor imitation and there are laughs all around. It strikes me that even when he is hosting his own incredible evening, surrounded by nothing but adulation and love, he still is prone to having to put down Roger Daltrey. That relationship is so complex. Truly love/hate. In any case, "In the Ether" was fantastic. I know many Who fans don't know what to make of it, but when Pete commits to the "character," the odd voice works beautifully and the song is very moving.

Next up is E from the Eels. I don't know his songs, so I can't comment too much. He is an excellent musician and a very funny man with a wry, offbeat humor. He did a song or two alone and then asked Pete to join him. He had a running joke about Pete being his "opening act," saying at one point, "Keep an eye on this guy, I think he might have promise." After about the 10th variation on that joke, Pete leaned into his mic and said, "You don't think you're taking this too far?" E's set was well-done, but seemed a little too long to me. I wondered if he was going off-message, as they say in Washington. He ended with duets with Pete on "Let My Love Open the Door" [again, a dream to hear Pete sing it himself live] and "The Kids Are Alright." At one point during his set I wandered over to the bar to get a drink and who is standing right in front of me but Jakob Dylan, son of the legendary Bob. Just hanging out, taking in the music.

By this time the show has already run more than 2 hours I think. And only now is Billy Corgan called to the stage. He had been standing in the back with the Smashing Pumpkins' drummer [can't remember his name off hand]. They are apparently hard at work on a new record. Corgan hasn't played live in more than a year and Rachel mentioned this when introducing him. She said she thought he was a little nervous, so they put him on last to make him really nervous. He played several new songs and the room was completely still. His plaintiff voice and deliberately slight guitar work forced us to really listen. He has a dark side, a sad side, that reminds me a bit of Pete Townshend. He is not a man who is able to have frivolous fun. He is an artist doing his thing. It was while Billy Corgan was premiering new material and Jakob Dylan was standing next to me in the crowd that I thought, "This is the coolest place in Hollywood right now!" Rachel and Pete also established a vibe that was so relaxed, though, that the whole thing just unfolded naturally, without any pomp or stress. Kind of magical.

Speaking of magical, at the end of Corgan's set, Pete and Rachel joined him for a verion of Thunderclap Newman's "Something in the Air." Pete produced the original T.N. recordings and hearing him duet with Billy Corgan was something. Rachel accompanied on kazoo! At one point in the middle Pete did an extended bit on the upright piano, banging away with a virtuosity that I didn't know he had on that instrument. Very memorable.

After that song Rachel announced, "Only a right wanker would attempt to follow that." With perfect comedic timing, she added, "I am that wanker!" She ended with a nice version of "Jigsaw," accompanied by Pete, and then Joni Mitchell's "Blue," which she delivered magnificently. In spite of standing for several hot hours now, the crowd was mesmerized. The whole gang crowded the tiny stage for a finale of "I'm One" from Quadrophenia. A perfect ending to a sublimely intimate evening of amazing music.

Thanks to Rachel and Pete for putting it together. And thanks to you, fair reader, if you've made it this far in my series of recollections. If you were there, too, let me know what I left out, or what stood out to you. It was an unforgettable night.

Duck Walking at 80

2006-10-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Today is Chuck Berry's 80th birthday and by all accounts the ever-rebellious rock 'n' roll pioneer is going strong with a dinner party planned for tonight followed by a late-night gig at his favorite St. Louis club. They say he can still do a mean duck walk on stage.

I was just a little too young to feel connected to Berry's music as a teen -- he was closer to the Elvis generation in my young eyes. But as time goes by I appreciate the incredible influence he had on some of rock's greatest -- in terms of music as well as showmanship. Berry's groundbreaking stage moves paved the way for rock 'n' roll showmen from Keith Richards to Pete Townshend to Bruce Springsteen. He showed that a guitar wasn't a hindrance to stage movement, but actually a prop, a tool, a weapon to be wielded and milked for all it's worth.

Berry's personal life has had its darker moments. Jail time in the early '60s for some kind of under-age Mexican waitress business and I believe he spent some time in the hoosegow in the '80s over some kind of tax problem. But he invented some of the most enduring (and frequently "borrowed") guitar licks in the history of rock. "Roll Over Beethoven," "Johnny B. Goode," "Rock 'N' Roll Music" and "Sweet Little Sixteen" all came from the original guitar-slinging outlaw. When Keith Richards inducted Berry into the Rock 'N' Roll Hall of Fame's inaugural class in 1986, he said something like, "It's hard for me to induct Chuck Berry because I lifted every one of his licks!"

It sounds like he lives quietly in Missouri these days, playing monthly gigs in St. Louis with several family members joining him on stage. He hasn't spoken to the press in many years and that's his right. As some of rock's gargantuan classic acts continue to tour into their 60s -- the Stones, the Who, Paul McCartney, Eric Clapton (close to 60, anyway!) -- it's fascinating to see that one of the originals still straps on an electric guitar and hits the stage at 80.

Have a great party tonight, Mr. Berry.

Apart from That

2006-07-11T18:09:00.000-07:00

I think if you look up "pedantic" in the dictionary you might well get a hyperlink to my previous post. I stand by the idea, but am a bit embarrassed by the reality of it, I guess.

Meanwhile, my favorite genius curmudgeon, Harold Pinter, made an appearance on BBC's Newsnight a couple weeks ago. He sat for a far-ranging interview that covered a lot of ground, including the fact that he is determined to perform Samuel Beckett's Krapp's Last Tape at the Royal Court Theatre in London this fall. The play is about an extremely old man listening to a tape of his own voice from 30 years earlier, reflecting on life, etc. My older brother Rob recently recommended that I make a recording of the young Krapp's taped lines to have in my back pocket in old age should the urge to perform Krapp ever wield its ugly head -- it would be a rare thing, indeed, to have an actual recording of the same actor's younger voice to use. I have a feeling that it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, and if I actually record young Krapp's lines, I will, indeed, make a point of doing the play at some point in my dotage. Perhaps I should add that to the to-do list.

In any event, Mr. Pinter was fascinating and precise as ever. But at the end of the interview he read a short [seriously ... like 1 minute ... ] new piece called Apart from That. Pinter read along with the disembodied head of Rupert Graves on some kind of remote video hook up. It's a piece inspired by Pinter's loathing of mobile phones and all they represent. It is short and sweet, but cutting in its commentary on how disconnected we've become while simultaneously being in constant "touch." It is doubly moving when one considers the serious health problems Pinter has faced in recent years, with more than one Certs encounter with Death.

Thankfully, some smart person managed to swipe a recording from the Web because the BBC takes such things down within a week. So here's a link to a video of Harold Pinter performing Apart from That. It's worth watching just for the painful and perfect expression with which he ends the piece.

Enjoy.

.

A colorful Black Rider

2006-05-03T10:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't been blogging lately because I am in the final weeks of rehearsal for The Hothouse, the Harold Pinter play I am directing. The last couple days have been major set-building days, laying down the turntable that will spin our wondrous set around. Think screw guns and casters. Then think about them again. And again. And again. Well, you get the idea. All is going wonderfully, though, just keeping me going nonstop.

I wanted to mention that I saw Robert Wilson's The Black Rider last week at the Ahmanson Theatre. The Waco-born Wilson has been stirring things up for 30 years in the avant-garde theater world. He is more readily embraced in Europe, particularly Germany, than in his home country. I saw his one-man deconstruction of Hamlet in New York in the '90s and enjoyed it very much but recognized that it was completely inaccessible to someone who didn't already know Shakespeare's play pretty well.

The Black Rider is a massive, sumptuous visual feast. Based on German folklore, it is basically the age-old story of the simple guy who makes a pact with the devil. When will simple guys learn they never win this one? Desk clerk Wilhelm wants to impress his future father-in-law with his shooting skills (which he doesn't possess), so he makes a deal with "Pegleg" (the devil) for magic bullets. With a text by William S. Burroughs (yes, the Naked Lunch guy) and music by Tom Waits (yes ... him), the show has a fantastic foundation. Wilson's typically outrageous if sometimes infuriatingly slow moving staging is usually a wonder to behold. Sure, there are times of indulgence. Excess. Inaccessibility. But the way he paints with light and color and what he can create with simple shapes and forms in terms of set design is just incredible.

Ahmanson subsribers sitting around me were horrified: "What is this?" "Am I missing something?" "Is it intermission yet?" I didn't always disagree with them, but I tried to allow myself to let go a little more and surrender to the artistry of the piece. When all othe grumbling folks left at intermission [quite a percentage, actually], the remaining crowd breathed a collective, palpable sigh of relief, and enjoyed the second act untroubled by their neighbors' discontent.

It should be said that Matt McGrath as Wilhelm was exceptional. Such precision of movement, such vocal control. In fact, almost all of the performers were wonderful. This isn't the kind of theater I necessarily enjoy creating, but I can certainly appreciate watching others do so.

Speaking of ...

Back to work ...

April Poetry

2006-04-03T19:26:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the highly literate and much more diligent-than-I blogger ginab, I want to salute official poetry month. I wonder what kind of activities does poetry month involve? Maybe students read and write poetry in school. It's been a long time since I was in school. Maybe libraries highlight the work of poets. Too bad we can't have some of our finest actors reading selections of poetry during television commercial breaks. Or, mixed in with the usual coming attractions, have movie theaters show a trailer with, oh, I don't know, Morgan Freeman reciting Langston Hughes. Or Jeremy Irons reading Byron. Print Yeats on the paper bags used by the grocery store. Put a couple of lines of Seamus Heaney on a city bus. Get poetry out there.

I have always enjoyed the rhythmic poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1899). His story fascinates me, too -- he was born into Victorian England but converted to Catholicism and became a priest, living much of his life in Ireland where, by all accounts, he was quite miserable. But all the time he wrote poetry, at times burning it because he felt it was too showy, too vain, too self-involved. Fortunately a friend ignored his calls to destroy his work at his death and quite a bit remains. His innovative use of meter and sound are surprisingly whimsical for such an austere man. Like most good poetry, his work is best read out loud. Here's a lighthearted piece to celebrate both spring and poetry month:

Inversnaid
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

A Starry Orchard

2006-02-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

The other day I had the chance to go to the opening night of a new production of The Cherry Orchard at the Mark Taper Forum, starring Annette Bening and Alfred Molina. Actors love Chekhov because his material is bottomless, you could work on it forever and never stop discovering new nuances and meaning. The relationships are so rich and the characters -- each of them -- so deeply drawn, that it requires an ensemble that is really in tune. That also makes it extremely difficult to do, and is why there is so much bad Chekhov done. Only Ibsen suffers more from poor productions, in my opinion.

With that said, I am happy to report that the Taper production, directed by British theater whiz Sean Mathias using a new adaptation by Martin Sherman (Bent), is quite good. Sometimes you see film stars take to the stage and get eaten up by the large, open space and technical requirements of physicality and vocalization. But Bening and Molina are old pros, both trained, experienced and very much at home on the stage. I was particularly impressed with Bening's physical freedom, and I posted this picture to show that. She was very much in command of the demanding role of Madame Ranyevskaya. Molina is even stronger as the peasant-made-good, Lopakhin, who ends up buying the estate from the profligate Madame R. I've seen Molina do Shakespeare and, now, Chekhov, and his classical chops are considerable. What is especially exciting is you never see him working. It appears effortless and so very real. His third act speech about buying the orchard is a highlight.

For all its quality, though, this starry production plays it very safe most of the time. I was never grabbed by the lapels and made to feel for these people. It is a very well-done production that never fully engages the audience. Perhaps they'll turn up the burner as the run progresses.

The opening night crowd included such famous faces as Mr. Bening, Warren Beatty, who I saw get swamped by photographers and autograph hounds as he approached the theater with his family. He was very generous and good-natured considering they were rather like a pack of wolves. I might have been most excited to see Cherry Jones, one of New York's most fantastic stage actors. Her girlfriend, Sarah Paulson, is in the show and shines as the bordering-on-spinster daughter Varya. Probable Oscar-winner Philip Seymour Hoffman was there as well, appearing completely unaffected by the silly hype surrounding awards season.

An Uncommon Woman

2006-01-30T20:25:00.000-08:00

Sad news for the theater world today as it was announced that playwright Wendy Wasserstein died at the terribly young age of 55. She won the Tony and Pulitzer for The Heidi Chronicles in 1989 -- the first woman to win the "Best Play" Tony all on her own, as a matter of fact. Her plays were wickedly funny at times, but always had a melancholy underbelly, usually not too far below the surface. Ms. Wasserstein never married, but in 1999, at the age of 49, she gave birth to a girl, Lucy Jane, who was quite frighteningly premature. Like her character Heidi -- who 10 years earlier ended her eponymous play by adopting a child as a single parent -- Wendy decided that motherhood was something she was called to, regardless of her marital status. She never made it public who the father was.

Wendy Wasserstein battled lymphoma for some time. I feel sorry for all theater lovers, myself included, who will never know the plays she would write in what should have rightly been the second half of her career. And, mostly, I feel sorry for Lucy Jane, who will grow up without the mother who moved mountains to have her.

Say a prayer for Lucy Jane. And for Wendy.

Farewell to a pro

2005-12-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

There aren't too many television programs that I watch regularly, or would worry about setting the VCR for (no, I don't have TiVo yet), but The West Wing has always been a favorite of mine. And a big reason for the show's appeal was the beautifully nuanced work of John Spencer as Leo McGarry. I was surprised by how sad I was to hear of his sudden death last Friday. It must be because he let so much of himself seep into his portrayal of Leo that I felt I knew him somehow. He was a fantastic actor, whose thoughts registered in his eyes with a subtlety and truth that is not easy to find when surrounded by crew, lights, sets and a camera. And his Leo was not only wonderfully human, but he also made us believe he could run the country. Some actors get on that show and seem lost in the haze of dialogue, acronyms and Washington-speak. Not John Spencer. He owned every word with a quiet dignity. In reading obituaries it sounds like he had his own demons. A drinking problem that he finally kicked about 15 years ago. No mention of any kind of family. But his work lives on every night in the endless West Wing re-runs (that I must watch if I stumble upon them!). I chose this picture because he is receiving his one Emmy for Leo (he was nominated, I believe, five times), and the quiet, dedicated actor looks so happy for the recognition. God bless.

The Givers

2005-12-19T17:10:00.000-08:00

I remember when TIME magazine's "Man of the Year" was a real media event. Partly because we didn't have too many media events. There was the newspaper and the evening news. On only three networks. Now the airwaves are filled with media events. Top 100 everythings. Best of this. Best of that. Constant competitions, battles, titles, and ceremonies to review and honor them. So TIME's renamed "Person of the Year" now seems something of a quaint holdover from another era.

Nevertheless, each year I wonder who it's going to be. This year I was sure they'd name Mother Nature. After all, between hurricanes, tsunamis (I know that was 2004, but it was after last year's Person was named), and earthquakes, that cranky old broad had arguably affected more lives than anybody else in 2005. And, perhaps most important, it was during the Hurrican Katrina media coverage that the American media finally got over its fear of criticizing our callous and incompetent president and his pathetic appointments.

I was not alone in my surprise, then, that the editors at TIME picked Bill & Melinda Gates and Bono as Persons of the Year. High level philanthropy. Debt relief. The global battle against HIV/AIDS . These three "haves" have advocated articulately and persuasively on behalf of the have-nots, and the Gates family has certainly put their money where their mouth is. But at first it seemed jarring to see their faces on the magazine cover. I wondered if their outside-the-box thinking and generosity had somehow been coopted in a way that made them less effective. I wondered if they were now the do-gooders whom we can all feel good for praising, but, with their wealth and status, we'll continue to let them do the work now, thank you very much.

Then I took a breath and realized how great it was to acknowledge that one of the most powerful forces on earth this past year was the simple act of thinking about others. That "good news," for a brief, shining moment, had won the day, earned the banner headline, and made the top story. Hooray for the guys in the white hats.

And, as someone who spends a good deal of time working on fundraising projects, how fantastic to have the idea of philanthropy celebrated. JFK was fond of the biblical quote, "Of those to whom much is given, much is required." How nice to see some living embodiments of that ancient sense of obligation to a greater good.

Microsoft products often make me crazy. I hate monopolies. And Bono's messianic missions can be a little hard to swallow sometimes. But after letting myself think about it for a few moments, I am now thrilled that, for a day, Bill, Melinda and Bono are the story. Good move, TIME.

A memorable Goat

2005-12-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

I've been asked to write a "best of" article about 2005 theater for a local magazine. This has gotten me thinking about productions I've seen this year. There has been a lot of great theater this year in Los Angeles, some of which I missed, unfortunately, but one production really stands out in my memory: The Taper's winter production of Edward Albee's The Goat: or, Who is Sylvia?

I knew the basic premise of the play going in, but I was not prepared for the power of the production or the play. Brian Kerwin (pictured here) played Martin, an architect at the top of his game who, as he turns 50, is the youngest man to receive the treasured Pritzker Prize. But all is not well in Martin's home, despite a longterm, seemingly happy marriage with his only true love, his wife Stevie.

The problem is Martin has fallen in love. With a goat. A goat named Sylvia.

At the top of the show he is trying to figure out how to tell his wife. Instead, he confides in his best friend, Ross, who ends up spilling the bestial beans to Stevie. Then all hell breaks loose. Throw a gay teenage son into the mix, and Albee has given himself ample opportunities to raise all kinds of interesting questions about passion, attraction, betrayal and hurt.

What made this fable-like premise work for me were the performances of Kerwin and Cynthia Mace (Stevie). They were so committed to the reality of the situation that it was sometimes difficult to watch them. Her pain was so real (and therefore hilarious) and he was genuinely conflicted about loving this goat. He really did want his wife to understand. Which of course is preposterous on its face, but quite moving when played with conviction and honesty. Kerwin and Mace were masterful and I genuinely believed they had been married for 20+ years.

The whole thing eventually heads into Greek tragedy territory, but comes back down to earth for a messy, human ending. I left the theater asking all kinds of questions. Obviously Albee raises questions about "acceptable" love. But there are more universal issues in The Goat. How much pain do we have the right to inflict on those we love? What would happen if we acted on every passionate impulse? Would that be so bad?

Now in his late 70s, Albee is a clever cat who can still surprise us, shock us, and move us. He's been showing us how dysfunctional we are for more than 40 years. And as I look back on 2005, his Goat is a dramatic highlight.

Lear

2005-11-09T09:58:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about King Lear the last couple of days as I may return to directing a staged reading projec that almost happened this spring.

To me, Lear has all of life in it. Lear is a king, but he is also a father and a man. It is an epic tragedy and a family drama. While it is almost mercilessly tragic, I believe the play, ultimately, is about redemptive love.

The picture here is from a production that Christopher Plummer did in New York (following a stint at Canada's Stratford Festival) in 2004. Lear is pictured with the lifeless body of his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he banished in the first scene because she would not play along in a public competition of "who loves daddy best" with her two scheming sisters. By the end of the play Lear has lost just about everything, including his mind depending on how you interpret things. But his last words, as he mourns over his daughter's body, are, "Look there. Look there." To me, those lines are filled with hope. Hope for those of us who have watched this spectacle of our human capacity for cruelty. After being horrified, angered, and moved by Lear and his family, we can finally learn from them. That is what makes this such a rich and timeless work, in my opinion.

This morning I am just ruminating on how much of a family drama King Lear is. Yes, he is a king and the daughter's are scheming to control a kingdom. But it could be the family estate they are after. The family business. The family china. Strip away the royal trappings, and I believe you can trace a line from Lear to Strindberg (Dance of Death), to O'Neill (Long Day's Journey), to Albee (Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, A Delicate Balance) to Pinter (The Homecoming).

You don't have to be a mad king to be tempted to ask your children, "Which of you shall we say doth love us most?" That is Lear's question that sets in motion the tragic events. A parent needing a declaration of love.

There are so many other themes and ideas in this play. I may use this blog to sort more of them out. But for today, King Lear is a domestic drama that shows our human penchant for cruelty and our potential for forgiveness and love. Probably wouldn't need one without the other.

An august playwright

2005-10-02T23:33:00.000-07:00

August Wilson - 1945-2005

Sad news tonight for anyone who loves theater, storytelling or bold, fearless artists. Playwright August Wilson died Saturday at the age of 60.

Eerily, Wilson just completed a cycle of 10 plays chronicling the African-American experience in the 20th century, with a different play set in each decade. I just saw RADIO GOLF, the final installment, set in the 1990s, at the Mark Taper Forum in August. It was an inspirational work, filled with Wilson's signature searing dialogue and soaring, poetic monologues.

In August it was announced that he had been diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer. But one always holds out hope. How sad to read the obituaries already appearing on the Web. This was a man with an incredible talent for telling stories and giving life and voice to characters not often given center stage in America.

I left the performance of RADIO GOLF feeling inspired to write again. Wilson's largely self-taught skills were considerable. He could combine the vernacular of the street with poetic examinations of life, relationships, history and politics. His characters could hold you for extended exhortations on race, responsibility and relationship, or level you with a single brutal sentence.

Aside from his legacy as a writer and chronicler of American history, Wilson was also inspiring for his devotion to the theater. This was a man who could have made a fortune writing for the screen, but he held to his belief that it was in the theater -- where actors and audience share the same space, air and DNA -- that true communion could take place.

As I left the Taper after RADIO GOLF, the final play in Wilson's monumental cycle, I overheard a patron ask Gordon Davidson, the theater's former artistic director, "What is he going to do now?" How sad that we'll never know.