by "The Real A"
July 26, 2000 - #108
The Real A
Wasn't that a poetic license? What the hell am I talking about?
Oh, yes, the 4th of July weekend which has no July 4th. Being the
4th of July weekend, I hope all of you will be celebrating. I
hope we will light our sparklers, shoot off our fireworks, roast
our weenies, and frolic. Above all, frolic (cilorf, spelled
backwards). One can never frolic enough. However, if one grows
tired of frolicking one can always cavort, for a change of pace.
I have been feeling very stressed lately (so much to do, so little
time, especially for frolicking or cavorting). What I like to do
if I'm feeling stressed is eat many and varied desserts. Yes,
desserts, dear readers, they are the antidote to being stressed.
After all, what is "stressed" but "desserts" spelled
backwards? Speaking of desserts and the 4th of July weekend,
there's one more celebration that I haven't mentioned yet. What
is that celebration you might ask and I might tell you because
frankly I don't want you being stressed so that you have to eat
many and varied desserts and then put on weight which will just
make you more stressed and whoa Nellie if this hasn't turned into
one of those ungainly run-on sentences where the words just tumble
one after another willy-nilly and also nilly-willy with no end in
sight and if I can't find a way to stop this whole column could
turn into one long run-on sentence and then where would we be
that's what I'd like to know and actually I do know because I am
an expert on run-on sentences and there is only one way to stop
them and that's by putting on the run-on sentence brakes which I
fully intend to do right about now. Whew. Do you know what, dear
readers? My brilliant handy-dandy computer just told me I wrote a
run-on sentence. What the hell was I talking about? Oh, yes, the
4th of July weekend and the other event that was cause for
celebration. And that event, dear readers, was the actual
birthday of the actual Mr. Mark Bakalor. Yes, Mr. Mark Bakalor is
no longer the sprig of a twig of a youth that he was. He is now
an adult. Being an adult, he is also now living in his very own
home, sans parents. He can now do impulsive things like throwing
strawberries at the wall without fear of parental reprisal. Or is
it reprisal parental? No matter, fling those strawberries against
the wall he can and there is no one to say "boo" to him about it,
unless someone just happens to show up at his door saying "boo"
which would be a hell of a coincidence, flinging strawberry-wise.
You know, there is a word we haven't used in quite awhile, but I
feel we should use it now because it so encapsulates and captures
the entire paragraph that I've just written. And that word is
drivel, dear readers. Drivel, pure and simple. Every word,
every sentence, drivel personified. In any case, perhaps the next
paragraph will be better - perhaps the next paragraph will provide
us with some intellectual stimuli or stimulus or whatever the hell
stim it is.
Perhaps if we lit a sparkler this column would have more sparkle.
Perhaps if we set off some fireworks this column would have more
pizzazz (zzazzip, spelled backwards). Has anyone noticed that
intellectual stimuli or stimulus has not shown up in this here
paragraph? Drivel, however, we have in spades, of that there can
be no doubt. "Doubt". What is that "b" doing in that word? That
"b" is just sitting there like so much fish with no purpose
whatsoever. Either "doubt" should be "dout" or "out" should be
"oubt" - you simply can't have it both ways, you word people. And
why is it "drivel" in "spades"? Why not drivel in "hearts" or
"clubs" or even "diamonds"? Who decided on "spades"? Perhaps the
same person who wrote Yes, We Have No Bananas.
Well, you won't believe it, dear readers, but, despite all good
intentions, it is now two weeks since I wrote the above. Here I
was, making up for lost time, and then fershluganah time got lost
again. So, I have not made up for lost time, despite the fact
that I started out to make up for lost time. I am sans makeup for
lost time and that's all there is to it. However, what we lost in
time we will now make up in excitement. That's right, you heard
it here, dear readers, excitement is running rampant around these
parts. I, for one or two, would like to know how rampant feels
being run around these parts by excitement. As far as I know,
rampant doesn't even like excitement, so why rampant is
allowing excitement to run it around these or any other parts
is an enigma wrapped up inside a conundrum or vice versa and also
versa vice. What the hell am I talking about? Oh, yes, the
excitement that's running rampant around these parts. The
excitement is that I have a brand spanking new handy-dandy laptop
computer, and I am, in fact, writing this part of the column on it
right this very minute. But that is not all the excitement, oh
no, not by a long shot, or even a short shot. No, there is more
excitement and that is that I am writing this here part of the
column on my brand spanking new laptop whilst sitting on an
airplane en route to the city known as New York. Can you believe
it? This is a first, dear readers, an on location column being
written from an actual airplane high above the ground. That said,
it is not easy writing a column on a handy-dandy laptop computer
on an airplane if the cretin who is sitting in front of you has
his seat all the way back and thereby keeps bumping the screen of
this here fancy shmancy laptop computer. Not only that, the
cretin's head, at least from the top view, is quite nauseating as
was the "new" breakfast we were served. Yes, we were served a
"new" breakfast after having the same food on this flight for the
last ten years. Today, instead of the usual omelet with ranchero
sauce, we had scrambled eggs with ranchero sauce, said scrambled
eggs with ranchero sauce sitting in a cup made of potato. These
eggs in a cup came with hash brown potatoes in the shape of toast.
The hash brown potatoes in the shape of toast were inedible, but I
did eat the potato cup in which the scrambled eggs with ranchero
sauce sat like so much fish. Here's one thing you can't do whilst
writing an on location column from an airplane: You can't write
anything pithy or witty or caustic about the person sitting next
to you because the person sitting next to you could inadvertently
glance over and read what you are writing, just like the person
who is sitting next to me just did and now she is laughing because
she just read what I wrote. It's a good thing I didn't write that
she was a sexually omnivorous Lesbian vegetarian because then
where would I be? She is trying not to laugh because then I'll
know she's reading this, but she is having a hard time because she
keeps reading it and stifling her giggles (she is doing
this right now) but I'll just pretend I don't notice that she's
reading this here column which can be found on an erratic schedule
at www.sondheim.com. Isn't this fun? This damn ugly head
sitting in front of me keeps trying to put his chair back further
even though it can't go back further. Excuse me for a minute.
There. I just asked the ugly head if he'd like to come sit in my
lap since that was where his seat practically was. He merely
looked at me like I was an open wound. Perhaps a bit later I'll
use the Das Knaben Wunderhorn treatment on him. In the meantime,
I'll just continue writing this here on location column. And soon
I'll be sitting at Table 20 at Joe Allen. Perhaps I'll even write
a bit of this here column from Table 20. The mouse on this laptop
computer is very strange. It's a tiny little bulbous knob, which
sits in the middle of some letters on the keyboard. You place
your finger on this bulbous knob and gently flex the finger
thereby causing the cursor to move around the screen. It's a
peculiar sensation, working this bulbous knob with your finger,
but let's just leave it at that, shall we? Well, I'm already four
pages into this column and I'm still in the first section.
Perhaps we should end this section right here and now and also
right now and here, because frankly it's starting to feel like the
musical Footloose: Ending not a moment too soon. But enough about
me.
Well, dear readers, continuing our new on location column, I am
now in New York City, New York or Manhattan as we bi-coastal
people like to call it. I am sitting in my handy-dandy hotel room
overlooking handy-dandy Broadway. In this section of the column
I'm going to write about the shows I saw last time I was in New
York, so I will be having a sense of déjà vu as I write in the now
about the then. By the way, it is mid-July as I write this and it
was pouring rain upon my arrival. I had to buy a four-dollar
umbrella on the street so as not to muss myself with unseemly
raindrops. Why if one didn't have a four-dollar umbrella one
could sing that wonderful song by Mr. Burt Bacharach and Mr. Hal
David entitled Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head, but I had the
four-dollar umbrella so I kept my mouth shut and sang the songs
from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg just to be jejune and obscure.
Although I think I merely achieved being obscure with no
jejuneness whatsoever.
In any case, when last I was in New York I saw several plays and
one musical. First, let's talk about the plays, in order of their
appearance.
I arrived on a Friday evening and saw Mr. Arthur Miller's play The
Ride Down Mt. Morgan. I'd heard mixed things about it, but the
fact is I rather liked it. Mr. Miller writes good words and it is
always a pleasure to hear good words in the theater. The
production was splendid, with Mr. Patrick Stewart (with hair)
giving a very nice performance. But the evening's acting honors
went to the extraordinary Francis Conroy, whose work, I'm ashamed
to admit, I was not familiar with. But I'm familiar with it now,
and oh boy is she a terrific actress. The other players were just
fine in a variety of roles. I didn't care for the lady who played
Ms. Conroy's daughter, and I would have much preferred to see her
understudy, the superb Jennifer Piech, who played Kate in
Broadway's Titanic. First of all, she looks just like Francis
Conroy. Second of all, she's a better actress. Third of all, I'm
obviously biased, but I'm also correct. Anyway, it was a nice
evening.
The next afternoon I saw an Irish play called Our Lady of Sligo.
It was one of those dreary heavy dramas with much angst but it was
well done and featured a fantastic performance by Sinead Cusack
(not related to John or Joan, she's the daughter of Irish actor
Cyril Cusack and the wife of someone named Jeremy Irons). Do you
know that if Ms. Cusack were ever to throw her husband in the
fireplace she'd have all her Irons in the fire? Just asking.
Later that evening I saw a play entitled Copenhagen, by the
wonderful English author Michael Frayn (he wrote Noises Off). It
was a talking play with three actors and three chairs. It was
brilliantly directed by Mr. Michael Blakemore and each of the
actors did excellent work. Their names are Philip Bosco, Blair
Brown and Michael Cumpsty. It was a lot of talking, a play of
ideas, but Mr. Frayn is always interesting and the ideas are
potent if a little obscure and jejune. At intermission, one
beleaguered-looking young woman was tersely talking to her date in
an agitated way, saying, "I'm tired. I don't want to see anymore
of this - I have to think, I can't believe you brought me to
something where I have to think." The rest of the audience,
however, was riveted and seemed to enjoy it tremendously.
Interestingly, in twelve short weeks it's managed to pay back its
entire investment, thereby becoming that increasingly rare animal,
a successful straight play.
The next afternoon I journeyed to the Papermill Playhouse to see
the revamped version of Pippin. Getting there was an ordeal,
however. I was to go with a friend of mine and I told her that I
would not take a train or a bus or a plane or any mode of
transportation that Mr. Stephen Sondheim mentioned in his song
Another Hundred People. My friend was supposed to arrange a
rental car and then come pick me up and drive to the Papermill
Playhouse. But things got fouled up when her flight arrived late
and she didn't have time to arrange the car. So, she asked me to
arrange the car. I don't know from arranging cars, but I
dutifully called a place called Hertz. They told me that I'd have
to come uptown to pick the car up and it would take fifteen
minutes to fill out the paperwork if there were no people before
me. I asked how many people were there currently and he answered,
"10". I realized I could be there for an hour or more waiting and
I told him that was unacceptable. I said I wanted him to bring
the car to my hotel and that I'd fill out the paperwork there. He
laughed. He thought that was funny. Then he realized I was
serious and he told me that that is not the way Hertz works. I
told him I didn't care how Hertz works, this is how I work.
This made no difference to him and he hung up on me after I called
him a low-life piece of dog snot. I then called a limo company
and that is how we went to the Papermill Playhouse.
Unfortunately, the limo driver was French and spoke almost no
English and had no sense of direction. Luckily my friend had done
a show at the Papermill Playhouse and so she directed him and we
got there in plenty of time. I wish I could tell you that I loved
this revamped production of Pippin, but I can't. The original Bob
Fosse production of Pippin was one of the most extraordinarily
directed shows I've ever seen. I saw it fourteen times on
Broadway and the road. I thought Mr. Fosse took a problematic
show and made it brilliant. Mr. Robert Johanson, who directed and
reimagined the show at the Papermill, simply isn't good enough to
go around directing and reimagining shows. I'm not saying there
isn't another way to do Pippin besides Mr. Fosse's, but this
clearly wasn't it. I knew I was in trouble when the opening
started and we saw a stretch limo engulfed in smoke with writhing
bodies inside doing all manner of decadent things, and then the
Leading Player, looking like a refugee from Rent, got out and sang
Magic To Do, a song about the magic of making theater. Not in
this version. No magic whatsoever, so why were these writhing
people singing a song entitled Magic To Do? They should have
changed it to Writhing To Do or Limo To Do, but no, there they
writhed like so much fish, singing Magic To Do for no reason
whatsoever. There were many walkouts during the show. The songs
have had new arrangements and orchestrations thrust upon them, but
I actually liked some of them very much. I certainly did not like
Miss Charlotte Rae who played Bertha, or Mr. Jack Noseworthy who
played Pippin. Mr. Noseworthy is my least favorite kind of actor,
the poseur kind, the narcissistic kind, the kind who looks like
they'd like to have sex with themselves and probably do. I did
like Natasha Diaz as Catherine. The choreography was not too
good, very Studio 54, but not far enough. I mean, if that's your
take on this show then go all the way, really do it. Nothing
about this revamped version worked, and while some thought the new
ending was good, I didn't.
And there you have it - an on location report of my last visit to
New York. Of course, I'll be writing about this visit
while I'm actually here. Isn't that exciting? Isn't that just
too too?
Well, dear readers, here I am, on location, at Joe Allen, my
favorite restaurant in New York. I am sitting at my usual beloved
Table 20 and I have just eaten my caeser salad and am awaiting my
grilled chicken sandwich with grilled onions and Cajun mayonnaise
(a delicious new menu item). I am sitting with a very nice group
of people who are trying not to notice that I have taken out my
laptop computer and am sitting at the table writing this here
column. It would be rude and unseemly to continue doing this for
too long, but I felt it was important to actually write this from
actual Joe Allen. Why look, there's Nathan Lane coming in with a
bevy of friends, fresh from a preview of The Man Who Came To
Dinner. Joe Allen is the favorite meeting place for actors after
their shows, so you're always sure to see someone interesting.
Last night I saw someone interesting in Joe Allen. It was a three
hundred pound man sitting at a nearby table with a nice-looking
lady. He spent the first twenty minutes after his arrival talking
on a cell phone while the nice-looking lady twiddled her thumbs
(no mean feat). He then left the table for ten minutes. As he
left, I noticed that his three hundred pound girth was situated on
a 5'4" body. He then returned to the table, only to talk on his
cell phone for another five minutes. Then his steak and fries and
several side dishes arrived. Only the arrival of the food made
him put away his cell phone. Now, I don't know about you, dear
readers, but if I were that nice-looking lady I would not have
been sitting there watching this ruder than rude golf ball talk on
a cell phone, leave me alone for ten minutes, and then shovel his
steak and fries and several side dishes down his gaping maw. Oh,
no, I would have leapt across the table and throttled that ruder
than rude golf ball to within an inch of his life, that's what I
would have done. Where was I? Oh, yes, sitting in Joe Allen
writing this very paragraph. Why look, sitting at a nearby table
is Jerome Robbins. No, that can't be right. Jerome Robbins is
dead. Well, sitting at a nearby table is someone who looks
just like Jerome Robbins used to look when he was alive (I have no
idea what Jerome Robbins looks like now that he's dead, but I'm
certain it would skeeve me). Ah, well the food is about to
arrive, which means that I'd better sign off for now. Time flies
when you're having fun. Excuse me for a moment.
All right, call me crazy, but I'm having fun so I went out with a
stopwatch and timed some flies. First of all, have you ever timed
flies? Very difficult and really what is the point. But someone
once said "time flies when you're having fun" and I'm certain that
this had some meaning for them, but to my mind I just don't get
much of a thrill or a lift or for that matter a lift or a thrill
from timing flies. Perhaps I'll eat my grilled chicken sandwich
with Cajun mayonnaise and ponder the timing of flies whilst having
fun.
Well, here I am, once again on an airplane and heading back home
to the city known as Los Angeles. I don't care for the person who
is sitting next to me. He is dressed in large baggy shorts,
smells, and keeps twisting and turning in his seat trying to find
a comfortable position to sleep in. What I find interesting about
this is that this person is, as I am, in first class. Now, as
most people who fly these days know, it is fairly easy to upgrade
to first class. That is obviously what this baggy-pants smell-o-
thon did. But why? He isn't eating, he's just sitting there like
so much smelly fish and it's obvious he's going to sleep the whole
time. So, why upgrade? I don't profess to understand, although
sometimes I understand to profess. Prior to leaving New York I
bought a DVD of a movie called Isn't She Great? and I watched it
on my handy-dandy laptop computer because said handy-dandy
computer has a handy-dandy DVD player. I'd heard that this film
was terrible, but I wouldn't believe that a film based on the life
of Jacqueline Susann could possibly be terrible. Well, it was
terrible. Truly, truly terrible. How can you take a life like
the one Jackie Susann had and make a boring unfunny and pointless
film from it? The first problem was the script by the usually
talented Paul Rudnick. How can the usually talented Paul Rudnick
have written this tripe - totally unfunny, and totally
uninteresting? Then there's Bette Midler. What has this woman
done to her face? Her lips are the size of a canoe and she
doesn't even look like herself anymore. Why do people do this to
themselves? Can we really be this obsessed with youth that people
will totally ruin their faces to look "younger"? I can't even
watch Mary Tyler Moore anymore. Or Goldie Hawn. Or Cher. Or
Carol Burnett. Or Faye Dunaway. They just don't look natural or
normal and I think all that work robs them of some intrinsic part
of their personalities. Anyway, Bette Midler is a) badly cast,
and b) badly cast. You can add four more "badly casts" for Nathan
Lane as Jackie's husband, Irving Mansfield. I love Nathan Lane as
much as the next A, but he's just not right for the role and he
can't overcome that. But I lay everything wrong with this film at
the feet of one person - director Andrew Bergman, truly the most
untalented filmmaker working today. And why is he working today?
He makes bomb after bomb and yet they keep letting him make more
bombs. Maybe after this bomb they'll think twice, although
knowing Hollywood as I do, I doubt it. This film isn't even worth
a rental - you'd be much better off watching Valley of The Dolls
or The Love Machine. What am I all of a sudden, Roger Ebert?
Wow, I nodded off for an hour. Yes, you heard it here, dear
readers, I, The Real A, nodded off for an hour. Here I was, on
the airplane, typing away on my handy-dandy laptop computer. The
next thing I know I open my eyes and I'm staring at my screen
saver (my screen saver says "What is it, fish?"). Somehow, after
writing "Roger Ebert" I nodded off. How can one just suddenly nod
off like that, out of the blue? And can one nod off out of the
red or green? Just asking.
Well, dear readers, this plane ride
will soon be over, and the battery is just about gone, but we
haven't had a letters column in quite some time, so here's a few
now...
Jeff writes to ask what is happening with Mr. Stephen Sondheim's
new musical entitled Wise Guys. In a nutshell, Sam Mendes is out
as director and Harold Prince is in. So, they are going back to
square one and redeveloping the show with Mr. Prince. How long
this will all take is anyone's guess, and how much of the previous
material will remain is a mystery. I, for one, think it's great
that Sondheim and Prince are together again. Also, Mr. Sondheim
has said the show will get a change of title. Wow, that was a lot
of information to be housed in a nutshell, but there you are.
Gabrielle, who is the daughter of Henry Lascoe wrote and said she
was totally disgusted with this here site because of some less
than flattering posts about Mr. Lascoe over at Finishing The Chat.
As you know, One From Column A has nothing to do with Finishing
The Chat so I can't really say anything at all, having never seen
the thread in question. But there is a lesson to be learned here:
You never know who's reading and sometimes it's good to remember
that.
seanm is currently playing the role of Lt. Cable in the musical
entitled South Pacific. When South Pacific was written there was
no cable, so James Michener, Joshua Logan and Rodgers and
Hammerstein were very forward thinking if you ask me. More
importantly, during a rehearsal for said South Pacific the
director stopped and had everyone sing Happy Birthday to seanm.
That is because it was seanm's birthday, don't you know, and seanm
is now sixteen years of age. I'm sure all you dear readers will
halt your very own rehearsals of South Pacific and join me in
wishing both seanm and Mr. Mark Bakalor a Happy Birthday.
William F. Orr hates me because I got him hooked on Free Cell. He
feels he will soon have to join Free Cell Anonymous. The game is
addictive of that there is no doubt. I myself am currently up to
1,723 games, out of which I have won an astonishing 86%.
Ed wonders when I will bring back the My Favorite Songs section of
this here column. Well, Ed, ask and ye shall receive, as some wag
or other said. In the very next column we shall resurrect My
Favorite Songs. Ed also asks what I think of his favorite
musical, Fiddler On The Roof and his favorite Sondheim musical
Pacific Overtures. Well, it's hard not to love and admire
Fiddler, as it's a virtually perfect show, with a great score and
script. As to Pacific Overtures, it's a show I liked very much
when I saw it in its original run. I think it has some of my
close personal friend, Mr. Stephen Sondheim's most luscious music
writing, and Mr. Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations may be the best
theater orchestrations I've ever heard. That said, I must tell
you how disappointed I am in Mr. Tunick's work on the recent
Saturday Night cast album. Just my opinion, of course, but I
really find them dreadfully dullsville.
Pat King (he of Wheaton North) is frustrated, because his school
was told not to do West Side Story because of its story of gangs
and violence. The fact that that story has a lesson about said
gangs and violence seems to have eluded those in power at Wheaton
North. So, they have decided to do one of the most violent and
radical of all musicals in its place: Bye Bye Birdie. This tale
of a rock and roll singer bringing havoc to the small town
of Sweet Apple is filled with provocative and dangerous numbers
such as The Telephone Hour and An English Teacher. I just don't
know about those Wheaton North people. Of course the irony is that
Wheaton South is doing Oh, Calcutta.
Well, dear readers, I am making up for lost time with another
brand spanking new handy-dandy column. Have you ever made up for
lost time? I, for example, am making up for lost time, using a
nice blue eye shadow and some subtle lip-gloss, with just a hint
of rouge. Why I feel I should make up for lost time when lost
time just shows up without any makeup whatsoever, not even
eyeliner, is beyond me. And yet, here I am, making up for lost
time. I look quite lovely, though, so there you are. I have
returned from yet another trip to New York, New York and I have
seen yet more plays and musicals which I will discuss ad nauseum
later in the column. But for now, let us light our fireworks and
sing patriotic songs like Yes, We Have No Bananas because it is
the fourth of July weekend. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers,
it is the weekend of July 4th, even though July 4th appears
nowhere in this weekend. This July 4th weekend is just a bit of
poetic license, isn't it? My driver's license is also
poetic - and to prove it here's a copy of it:
Will drive today
Don't get in the way
Or there'll be hell to pay.
THE PLAYS I SAW AND WHAT I THOUGHT
THE ON LOCATION COLUMN CONTINUES
LETTERS... WE GET LETTERS!
Send all email to me at real@sondheim.com or use the form below...
Well, I'm back in my handy-dandy home working on my big-boy
computer, although I like my laptop computer better. It is faster
because it has Intel inside and Pentium with three exclamation
points and this is apparently a good thing to have. My big-boy
computer only has Celery in it or Celeron or whatever the hell it
is, and that is simply not as fast as Intel and Pentium with three
exclamation points. Well, I've been having so much fun that I do
believe I shall go time some flies just to see if it's more fun
the second time around, timing flies-wise.
Until next time, I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be...
Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours.
“Assassins is about how society interprets the American Dream, marginalizes outsiders and rewrites and sanitizes its collective history. "Something Just Broke" is a major distraction and plays like an afterthought, shoe horned simply to appease. The song breaks the dramatic fluidity and obstructs the overall pacing and climactic arc which derails the very intent and momentum that makes this work so compelling...”
- Mark Bakalor
“I found [the Sondheim Celebration's Company] to be completely delightful. Almost all of the numbers excited and energized me, and most of the scenes were about as pitch-perfect as you can get. I just sat there with a big smile on my face the whole show.
Which is not to say that it is perfect...”
- popcornonmyknees
Explore the rest of the Finishing the Chat Community Forum
 |
|
CD: $13.99
DVD: $25.49
VHS: $19.98
|
Browse additional merchandise...
