Ranting Details

The Stoppard Experience

I would like to preface this by saying it's all in good fun.  I  realize I'm probably about to get shot for this opinion.  I've got my bullet proof vest on.  I would also LOVE to hear anyone's opinions on Stoppard and/or this particular show. 

Tom Stoppard.  Take a seat. We need to talk.  Roughly eight months ago, I attended the first part of your quaint Russian trilogy known as “The Coast of Utopia.”  There were lots of mannequins on stage, a cast that involved about a third of the city’s population, and more Russian pizzazz than a Vladimir Putin bathing in Stoli.  Were it not for a little nagging illness known as Epstein Barr, I would have made it to the remaining two installments that I paid for in advance. 

Even after your Tony Award winning drama put me in the sick ward for eight months (I kid, I really loved what I saw of “Utopia”), I was still willing to give you a chance Tommy boy.  Really, I was.  So last week I decided to sandwich my silliness (Xanadu (#5) and The Little Mermaid) with a healthy dose of intellectualism known as “Rock N Roll.”  You’re so trendy spelling it that way, really.  Little did I know what I was getting myself into. 

When I took my seat I expected the usher to hand me a monocle and caviar, but sadly all I got was a Playbill with enough pre-show reading to fill a semester at Harvard.  I skimmed the program insert, and to be honest, I was lost already.  Judging from the crowd around me, I’m not exactly your target audience, but I can’t help but wonder who you are writing these shows for. 

Let me get the inevitable out of the way.  You’re very smart (a cruel understatement), and the amount of knowledge you cram into your plays is mind-blowing.  I’m just not sure if it’s in a good way.

I’ve come to realize that I savor your plays more for the ideas that they prompt in me rather than the actual material on stage.  I should admit that I’m no Stoppard connoisseur; the show of yours I enjoyed most was “Arcadia,” and that was when I was ten.   Still, it’s refreshing to see something on Broadway that doesn’t supply answers to the audience from the get-go, but the discussions it elicited out of my friend and I were more geared toward the state of theater than the subject of your play. 

With your latest, a dashing tale of communist repression set against the backdrop of the rock and roll revolution, you’ve taken things to a whole new level.  Part of what struck me as strange was the fact that I don’t believe anyone talks the way you’ve written.  As the play unfolded and spanned all the fashions and hairstyles from the 60’s to the 90’s, one thing remained constant, the bizarre monologues.  These indulgent speeches that journey into political territory before veering into existentialism were so frequent that they lost their impact.  Sure, there must be elitists out there who spend their nights dissecting government repression in heated debates with Brian Cox under Howard Harrison’s brilliant lighting.  But under Trevor Nunn’s direction the actors came across so broad in their portrayals at times, that I almost wondered if I was watching a musical. 

At times it felt like I was.  The transitions between scenes, when the action would switch decades, often went on for what felt like…well, decades.  Using classic rock songs to spruce up the evening seemed refreshing at first, as it gave my mind much needed breaks to process the story being told, but by the end I felt like I was listening to the Tom Stoppard iPod commercial.  Who needs Mary J. Blige when you could have someone like Tom? 

The turntable set, that spins as furiously as a worn out record, was inspired in it’s simplistic changes that framed the action on stage through the decades.  Yet the show itself never managed to excite me as much as the set.  Artistic repression to the extent that took place in Czechoslovakia is something I cannot even begin to fathom.  As the heart of your show, I found this subject fascinating but was distracted by the rambling that should have stayed on the periphery but forced its way to the forefront. 

I fear that with shows like this three-hour political drama you have created, audiences are afraid not to like it.  With names like Stoppard and Nunn attached, and a set that acts as a mind-sucking vortex, the audience is stunned into submission by the time the curtain comes down.  Ultimately I did my best to retain my mind throughout.  The idea for the show was fantastic, but the execution left me wanting more.  Am I in the minority?  Sure.  Although I like to believe there are more out there that agree with me but haven’t figured it out yet.       

Lazy Post of the Day: Travel Day Email

I don't think I've ever received as many emails containing the same information as I did in the past week with regards to the following picture (which let's face it, that only means I got three emails with this picture in it.)  While I'm parked in the Minneapolis airport, I decided I wanted to post something but wasn't quite sure what to write about.  So...instead, you get David Beckham's new underwear ad.  I mean, can this really be considered an ad?  It seems slightly pornographic. 

It just doesn't seem fair for a human to look like this.  As one of my friends described it in an email:

"Yeah, I totally saw David Beckham's package. I think Victoria Beckham described it as a, "tractor exhaust pipe." She is terrifying." 

Enjoy your Wednesday!

Goodbye New York

(With Blaine and Marcelo saying goodbye for a few months.)

Setbacks are frustrating, whether they are professional, romantic, mental, or physical.  Over the past eight months I seem to have encountered just about every kind of setback there is.  With the recent addition of a horrible cold into the blender of my life, I’m confined to my apartment for what were to be my last triumphant days in New York until Spring. 

The past week has been extremely emotional for me.  As my departure to Montana draws nearer and nearer, there is no doubt that I am a little bit in denial about it.  While my friends assure me that it is just the type of thing I need right now, I am scared for a variety of reasons. 

Most pressing of those reasons is my health.  After eight months of trying almost everything except drinking my own urine (urine was the answer to every ailment to one of my Russian teachers in high school) I seem to be inching, rather than leaping along to full health.  Over the past two weeks, I was bouncing around more than ever and reveling in the fact that people were taking note of my improved spirits.  But every time someone noted the improvements, I heard silent thunder echoing in my brain.  What I’m starting to learn, as I ride the ups and downs of my illness, is that I always have an impending sense of doom.  I have started to live a bit in fear that for every good day I have, there will be a horrible day in the near future.  So far, I’ve been right. 

Even as I type this, I can logically say to myself that this is no way to live.  People in peak health have ups and downs.  To have every day bring constant sunshine and singing birds would become nauseating in its own right.  Yet, after eight months of fighting a sickness that still lingers, I have adopted this negative mindset, much to my dismay. 

With the arrival of my Dance Spirit article, I am elated to finally have a (fairly) definitive and concise account of my battle.  All of the friends who have stood in front of me, bewildered by my seemingly healthy self, will begin to have a sense of what has gone on beneath the surface. 

When I started writing the article, and working on different drafts, my editor and I joked that by the time the issue hit newsstands I would be living a normal life again.  Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.  If I were healthy, I wouldn’t be surrounded by two large bags and piles of books that I’m transporting to Montana tomorrow. 

I haven’t lived at home with my parents for more than a month since I was thirteen.  Suddenly I’m dependent on them monetarily, and leaning on them more emotionally than I wish to be at twenty-one.  Again, I’m able to see the foolishness of the words I type.  Parents are there for you to lean on and I’m fortunate to have fantastic parents that can support me through this difficult time.  Yet after years of working towards financial and emotional independence, it’s jarring to know that I need them more than ever. 

It will be nice to spend time with my family and a variety of friends who I haven’t seen much since jetting off to boarding school at thirteen.  I’m looking forward to working on photography, writing, and perhaps I’ll even start breeding dogs, or capturing leprechauns; there are so many possibilities.  Whatever I’m doing in Montana, there will always be the fact that my friends in New York are continuing on their own journeys.  The other night I had to say goodbye to Marcelo, Jackie, Blaine and David which was harder than I imagined.  Walking home through the wind as snow attacked my face, I noticed how much my inner mood matched the outer tumultuous night air.  Let’s hope that my mood and health will match the spring flowers upon my return to New York in March.

HERE IS AN ARTICLE THE MISSOULA PAPER DID ABOUT ME LAST WEEK:
A Bittersweet Homecoming

Oh, Blog

I've been a bit consumed over the past few days with these two sassy boys to your left.  After a brief trip to Ann Arbor last week, the lovely Michael and Max have blessed me with their presence in NYC this week.  Due to roaming around the LES with the boys, going to see some shows, writing final papers for class, and most unfortunately, catching a horrible cold/flu (on top of my friend Eppy) I'm having a bit of blog delay at the moment.  There's much to catch up on...most importantly sleep.  It's 8:30 which for this sick boy means bedtime.  Sorry!

Picture of the Day: 12/17/07

(Sunset flying back from Ann Arbor.)

Lazy Post Of The Day: Old and New Divas

I have a soft spot for belting divas.  In a recent letter from my friend Dan, he noted that when we first met I was "a high school boy listening to bad pop music."  Since then, I have "matured into a young man...still listening to bad pop music."  I don't apologize for my taste in music which runs the gamut from Spears to Shostakovitch.  I love it all and love how different genres of music can give me energy depending on my different moods.  The past eight months have been the most musical of my life.  I've been so confined to my apartment during long stretches that blasting some music helps get me through.  One of my discoveries in the fall was British pop star Leona Lewis.  Her debut album (which is cheesy delicious pop) will be released in the US sometime in March, but for a taste of her debut single "Bleeding Love," check out the video below.   She's a mix of Mariah and Whitney, which ain't too bad in my book.  Lots of crazy singing, and breathy vocals. 

After blasting Leona for the past few days while Michael and Max stay with me, they led me to this BRILLIANT Whitney Houston video for "I Wanna Dance With Somebody."  MUST WATCH IT!  SO 80's.  SO RIDICULOUS.  SO FANTASTIC. 

The Little Bore

Ariel.  She wasn’t content being a mermaid, so she had to go up on land and mess things up for everyone.  Disney.  They weren’t content to leave a beloved cartoon classic intact, so they had to put it on Broadway and mess things up for everyone. 

I recently attended a preview performance of Disney’s latest Broadway juggernaut, and when I walked out of the theater I was amazed that I wasn’t wandering out to Main Street at Disneyland.  On the subway ride up to the theater, I prepared myself for a children’s musical but hoped that there would be moments of magic or humor for the adults in the audience.  What the creative team put on stage at the Lunt-Fontanne Theater is a 16 million dollar theme park show.  It was the first time in my twelve years of theater going that I’ve bought into the mentality that Disney really is ruining Broadway. 

A Saturday matinee at a Disney show almost guarantees an audience with a median age of seven.  With ticket prices hitting the stratospheric $120 range, I assumed the ushers would hand over either an Ariel costume, or seven shots of whiskey, with the Playbill; neither was the case. 

The only thing that greets the audience is a drop full of glow in the dark sea-creatures, reminiscent of stickers I had on my ceiling as a child.  Only these probably cost a million dollars.  There certainly is a lot of money on display as the show flies in and out of the wings, alternating between land and sea.  Huge plates of plastic, the most expensive material on the planet, float together to form suggestive scenery made to resemble the underwater universe. 

It becomes apparent relatively early in the show, that the design team can’t quite decide what it wants to do.  Some costumes appear to be literal (like the Mermaids), while others are odd suggestions of the creatures they represent.  There’s no cohesiveness to the hyper colored sets and costumes, which at times find the chorus dressed in humiliating outfits best suited for a Disney parade.  Halfway through the first act, I almost expected a line of little girls to form, awaiting pictures with their favorite princess. 

Any show Disney transplants to Broadway must undergo changes from the films the audience comes in expecting.  There are additional songs, which are greeted less than enthusiastically, as the toddlers in the audience await “Part of Your World,” or “Under the Sea,” that are created to be the true showstoppers.  For the adults in the audience, the creative team attempts to fashion a full-fledged Broadway musical where there shouldn’t be one.  The paper thin plots of the films are revealed for what they truly are. 

This show exists on land and sea, both of which are the lands of no character development.  It doesn’t help that Ariel and Prince Eric wear wigs and costumes that keep them so closely associated with their cartoon counterparts.  I was amazed they hadn’t surgically enlarged Sierra Boggess’ eyes, and constrained her waist to inhuman proportions. 

The overwhelming feeling I was consumed with while watching the show was pity for the performers.  While they give it their all, they also have glimmers in their eyes begging the adults for forgiveness at the absurd costumes they don throughout.  The design seems so desperate to reach Julie Taymor levels of inventiveness that it tries nearly everything to pull out the stops; it usually falls flat.  The concept of having the “swimming” effect created by putting the cast in “heelies” (sneakers with wheels on the heels) sounds more ridiculous than it looks, but that’s not to give the impression that it has any magic to it.  Even with the movement created by the heelies the staging feels lethargic, at best.  The actresses have been instructed to keep their arms moving to display an "underwater" floating.  For the most part they just stand still while their arms undulate. 

The only time where the show ever truly comes alive is when the goddess Sherie Rene Scott takes the stage as the sea-witch Ursula.  Scott is quickly becoming one of the most versatile actresses working today.  She has a voice that blasts to the rafters, and comedic timing that makes her both an accomplished character actress and a believable leading lady.  Here she picks up the easiest paycheck of her career, appearing in about thirty minutes of the show.  I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it takes her more time to get ready than she spends on stage.  Yet those moments she arrives, tentacles and all, are the best of the show.  She makes the most effort (and is helped tremendously by her costume and wig) to distance herself from her cartoon counterpart.  It helps that she doesn’t play it as an overweight octopus/drag queen like the movie.  Instead, she brings sexiness to the role that adds unforeseen layers to her manipulations.

Perhaps most disappointingly, Ursula’s transformation story line is completely discarded.  Instead of arriving on land, transformed into a vixen with the voice she stole from Ariel, she gets a messy storyline to wrap things up from her underwater den.  This continues the trend of muddy storytelling that overwhelms the second act.  There isn’t a single emotional string pulled by any of the characters on stage.  The only moments that bring any hint of magic are a few brief special effects during Prince Eric’s shipwreck and Ariel’s transformation to a human. 

The rest of the cast has their moments.  Boggess has pipes of steel, as does Tituss Burgess (as Sebastian.)  Choosing Sean Palmer to play Prince Eric was a rather peculiar choice, because while he sings decently, it’s clear he is primarily a dancer.  Norm Lewis gets some of the most absurd book scenes, and is costumed distractingly shirtless and glittered like a go-go dancer at a gay bar.  This is a common make-up choice, as blue glitter lipstick seems to be as common for the boys in the show as a dance belt.

If only that glittery pucker could add some excitement to the proceedings, I wouldn’t have been more focused on my candy than the stage.  You know I’m bored when I actually decide to eat in my seat, a new trend in theater that disgusts me.  Now I’m left thinking that I paid buckets of money for this show and all I got was a lousy souvenir cup.   

Zing Me To The Moon

Ann Arbor is a fantastic city.  A mere forty minutes away from the armpit known as Detroit, it's an artistically fruitful environment with charming boutiques and restaurants on almost every corner.  Chief among those unique Ann Arbor restaurants is the sandwich shop Zingerman's, which is about as close to a tourist destination as there is. 

My first trip to the behemoth sandwich shop, which seems like a cleaner and trendier version of NYC's Carnegie Deli, was a bit overwhelming.  I believe we went on a Saturday afternoon, where the line snaking through the cramped deli counters pushed me up against windows hiding slabs of meat and barrels of mac and cheese.  It was well worth braving the crowd.  The sandwiches are big enough to feed the Big Friendly Giant, which means I can successfully make it through about a quarter of mine. 

Last week, my wife on Facebook Jessica, my brother because we grew up doing musicals together Michael and I, took a walk through the winter snow to stuff some Zing in our bellies. 

(Feed me.)

(Love.)

(Nah, let's shoot a JC Penney ad!)

(She just found out I'm GAY.)

(Top model jump.  Very difficult after gorging at Zingerman's.)

 

Let Me Entertain You

Ballet and musical theater are two different beasts.  I’ve grown up loving both of them, and often find myself mocked by my peers for my borderline-obsessive nature when it comes to singing divas, dancing chorus boys, and Sondheim. Yet I continue to let my musical theater freak-flag fly, and nowhere is this indulged as fully as my time with my University of Michigan friends. 

During my first visit to the campus, over three years ago, I shadowed my friends around for almost every class they attended.  There is such joy watching them grow; being built up (and occasionally torn down) as they journey towards Broadway.  No class will ever rival that of teacher Mark Madama whose masterful teaching has left me questioning the coaching of ballet dancers. 

The class that he teaches is simply titled “Performance,” and it consists of just that.  Every week, students step to the front of their class, one by one, and perform a song.  After the initial performance, Mark leans back in his chair and pauses for a moment to reflect on what happened.  No matter how gorgeous, or grotesque, the previous two minutes were, he begins a private conversation with the actor in front of the entire class.  Through the dialogue , which consists of simple questions, the actor speaking of their character's intentions, analyzing different lines or words, a new understanding of the song begins to manifest in the student's performance.  At moments, the student is caught off guard, hesitating when they ponder the why, when, and who, of their song.  No matter how excellent the initial presentation was, Mark will always find something to make it better.  For anyone who wants instant gratification, with rewarding work, there is nothing like relishing the vulnerability he brings out in the front of the class.

I’ve begun to think of this class as “Extreme Performer Make Over: Musical Theater Edition” because of the incredible results that his coaching yields.  Sometimes it’s not entirely clear what he is getting at, but the moment the performer begins to sing again, the entire song takes on a new life.  Part of what astounds me about his work with students is that he doesn’t let them get away with anything.  He demands, in the most loving way possible, that every moment is thought about and comes from a real place. 

When I first sat in on his class over three years ago, my friends were still becoming accustomed to his way of working.  There was more caution in their performances, and more trepidation receiving his critiques.  Last week, after three years of working with Mark, everyone stood in front of the class eager to work.  The two-hour session was particularly frightening to the students because it was “Rock” week.  During the senior year, each week takes on a new theme.  Of course, the songs end up becoming “Rock, by way of Broadway.”  Some chose to do inspired renditions of Avril Lavigne hits, others opting for more straightforward rock songs by The Who, or Journey.  Whatever the material, Mark was able to allow the performers to stay true to themselves while changing the nuances. 

The type of honesty that he demands in performances, and the nitpicking that he teaches with is something I wish we had a little more of in the ballet world.  Too often it seems dancers perform roles, whether corps, principal or otherwise, of which they have little to no knowledge of the intent behind the choreography.  The choreography is masterfully performed, and at times flawless, but performance wise I find that ballet dancers are often left to fend for themselves.  Of course, my friends are still in school and they won’t receive this type of coaching when they enter the Broadway casting vortex.  However, with the tools they have been handed through Madama’s style, they are more prepared to self-analyze than many dancers I know.  It’s an enriching experience as a performer and yields phenomenal results for the audience.

(I begged her enough, and Lauren Holmes agreed to perform her song from Performance class...at 1 AM. Here is the 80's Heart classic "Alone," in the middle of the Barbie dream house.  After doing her solo rendition, stay tuned for the fantastic remix.)

Deniledis

Contrary to popular belief, I haven't been deniledis.  I have been sidelined.  In case you missed that fact through the past eight months of blogging, it's now in all of its printed glory.  My first ever article for a magazine hits newsstands this week and I couldn't be more excited.  I worked extremely hard on this article, which chronicles the development of my seemingly endless illness.  Through the gentle guidance of my fantastic editor Abigail Rasminsky, I delved into the physical and emotional turmoil that EBV has brought up in me; at least all that could fit neatly into two glossy pages.  PICK UP YOUR JANUARY ISSUE OF DANCE SPIRIT!!!!

Much to the disbelief of my parents (and my bank account) I received my issue at a very special moment.  Are you ready for it?  Tonight was my FIFTH visit to "Xanadu," which officially beats my previous record which was a tie between "Rent," and "Hairspray."  The fantastic photographer Erin Baiano, who has taken spectacular photos over the past year for Dance Spirit (including the January cover)  was one of my dates for the evening.  Right before the show was about to begin, she pulled an issue out of her bag and laid it in my lap.  A pretty cool moment indeed.