A Whirlwind Theatre Week

From classic farce, to Shakespearean comedy, to a tragic love story, from the Westport Country Playhouse, to the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival on the grounds of Boscobel, to the Imperial Theatre in NYC, it has been a whirlwind week of theatre, the commonality being relationships of men and women and some of the most glorious acting and staging we’ve ever seen in such a concentrated time period.

Last week we saw A Flea in Her Ear, a new version of Georges Feydeau’s classic early 20th century farce at the Westport Country Playhouse where we’ve been going for some 40 years now.  Although the old playhouse has been renovated, it still retains its old time charm as their collection of playbills of yesteryear attest, such as this one which featured Tyrone Power.

And, under the artistic direction of Mark Lamos who also directed this particular production, the old WCP is in good hands.  Its new doorways beckon its patrons.

A Flea in Her Ear is such an ambitious, interesting selection, made possible by a co-production with the Resident Ensemble Players from the University of Delaware, 14 actors in perfect harmony, choreographed with such precision, that the laughter was non-stop.  It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard at a show which, at its heart, is nothing more than intended to do just that.

The acting made it something special.  How often have you been at a three act play with two intermissions, which seemed to pass in a flash?  Michael Gotch played an unforgettable Don Carlos de Histangua and whenever he was on stage, laughter was uncontrollable.  That does not mean to distract from any of the other players, all pros at the top of their game, as was the technical staff of the Westport Country Playhouse.  We’re so grateful for our summer visits to Connecticut, and to our old home town of Westport which continues to keep this jewel of a theatre in mint condition.

Three days later we went up to the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival at Boscobel in Garrison, NY.  This is outdoor theatre is in a large, well appointed tent, a sand floor for a stage and some of the most breathtaking views.  Before the show begins, the grounds make an ideal setting for a picnic.  As the production begins, the sun fades to twilight setting just to the right of West Point on the other side of the Hudson in the distance.  In fact the players emerge over the lawn and some of the action takes place there, although the play proceeds in the tent.

From farce to comedy. The Taming of the Shrew must be close to the way the bard intended except for all the modern references, including even some music of the Village People.  Once again theatre magic emerges from some clever choreography and a group of ensemble players who are deeply immersed in Shakespeare’s intent.

These are not easy tickets to get.  Plan in advance.  In fact, Ann and I could not get good seats together but fortunately the people sitting in back of me saw us chatting and as Ann went to her seat, they offered us the two front row seats as their friends had booked them and last minute had to cancel out.  But as the show began we learned why they preferred the second row, as the actors frequently interact with those in the front row, so it was not unusual for one to sit next to Ann, take her bottle of water, look through her program, even commenting on it, all in fun of course and it just added to the immeasurable pleasure of seeing Shakespeare performed in this setting.

Liz Wisan played Kate with a fiery demeanor, but Biko Eisen-Martin who played Petruchio, usually in torn jeans and an undershirt, had the cunning and patience to wear her down.  Comedy is different from farce, the latter designed for belly laughs while Taming’s  comedic elements brought out some of  Shakespeare ‘s  more serious observations  regarding male - female relations of his times (the “Me Too” movement might not wholeheartedly approve of Kate’s final relenting to her taskmaster’s Pavlovian training, but all is in fun).

Like the Westport Country Playhouse’s presentation, this show is performed by a talented ensemble that performs four other plays in rotating repertory.  Everyone in the cast is perfectly fitted into the director’s take on the show.  It was more than theatre; it is an experience when performed in the open air, in a tent, after an early evening picnic.

Last year we were part of the picnic festivities, but we’re getting a little too old to spread out a blanket or to cart chairs so we had an early evening dinner at the nearby the Bird and Bottle, an inn which has operated since 1751 and used to be a stage coach stop between New York and Albany.  The food and ambiance were special.

But the highlight of “our theatre week” was going into New York City yesterday to the revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel.  As soon as we heard of the serendipity that it was going to be performed while we would be in the area we booked tickets, front row, as we did not want to miss a word or even a mannerism of the performers.  It is the kind of show that one only wants to see on a Broadway stage, although there have been good scaled down or concert versions. 

It’s hard to say that one has a “favorite” R&H show, sort of like saying of your children, one is the favorite.  But when I play their music on the piano, I seem to gravitate to Carousel or The King and I, although South Pacific and Oklahoma are in the mix too.  Maybe my preference for Carousel is partially because it takes place in New England, or the “Carousel Waltz”, a rousing piece of musical composition, or the incredible comic/moving piece, “Mr. Snow.”  All the songs fit perfectly in the book but the one weak song, and I think it is simply our times, verses when the musical was written, is the (now) somewhat schmaltzy “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” which unfortunately, is the emotional finale. Still, it works.

“Soliloquy” which concludes the first act is perhaps the longest solo in all Broadway repertoires, one I’m constantly seeking out for piano time.  Joshua Henry, who plays the wayward Billy Bigelow in this production and sings his parts with powerful gusto, performs this song a little too quickly.  I simply feel it needs to be finessed in all its normally allocated time.  Perhaps this is his take or Jack O’Brien’s direction, I don’t know, but I missed the pauses, or even the phrasing which some have brought to the song, including Frank Sinatra, who’s voice cannot hold a candle to Henry’s, but he knew how to sell the emotional content.

There.  The end of picky criticism as one has to judge a performance of Carousel by its gestalt.  The orchestration is per Richard Rogers’ intent by Jonathan Tunick and a 30 piece orchestra under the solid Musical Supervision of David Chase brings out the highs and the lows.  The singing is splendid, the voices soaring, and how could they not with Renee Fleming among the leads?

I’ve heard some criticism that the dance portions of the play were not the Agnes de Mille’s original.  Given what Justin Peck accomplished with his award-winning choreography, transparent and perfect, it is hard to accept that criticism.  After all, every artist has his/her take.  Look at the liberties the Hudson Valley players took with Shakespeare, only to arrive at the same destination.  Maybe I’m  not being impartial as Peck once worked with the Miami City Ballet and one of the performers in the Carousel ensemble is Leigh-Ann Esty who Ann actually watched “grow up” in the Miami City Ballet over the last decade.  Ann adored watching her every move and avidly enjoyed her perform in one of the greatest musicals of all time on the Broadway stage.

An outstanding cast, a classic musical, a full orchestra, and many of the best technical people in the business, make this production so memorable, even if I have to leave the theatre humming “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” after wiping away the requisite tears.

So after meeting our son, Jonathan, and his fiancée, Tracie (the BIG event in only two plus weeks), for a dinner adjacent to Bryant Park, we scurried back to Grand Central and from there to our boat, our home away from home.  This morning my daily walk took me to Shorefront Park and the placid water of the Norwalk Harbor to reflect on the wonderful theatre of the past week and to think of writing this entry.

  

Appropriate

A return to our Connecticut roots would not be complete without attending a play produced by the Westport Country Playhouse where we’ve gone over the summers for some forty years.  The playhouse retains its essential “country” character although the old wooden bench seats are gone (thankfully) and air conditioning has been introduced (in fact too air conditioned), but the essential mission of presenting the highest caliber theatre has been retained.  The play we saw – Appropriate -- just closed, so writing a full-blown review is not my intent.  For that, there is always the reliable New York Times – a review of the play when it opened Off Broadway in 2014.

Without having seen that performance I imagine the Westport Country Playhouse’s production is every bit as successful,

The play was, as the author admits, “appropriated”  in some way from a number of the finest American family dramas of our times.  In particular there is attribution to Sam Shepard’s Buried Child, Horton Foote’s Dividing the Estate, and Tracy Letts' "August: Osage County”.  And to say the play is derivative of such works, to me, is not a criticism but a compliment.  Branden Jacob-Jenkins’ dialogue is really a new voice in American theatre and even though every family may be unhappy in its own way, eventually it all boils down to dreams deferred or unrealized and the blame that hangs heavily in rare family reunions.  When that reunion is over the death of a patriarch, and there is a dark secret that explodes on the family, as it does on the adult children, Toni, Bo, and Franz, the stage is literally set for conflict.  And when you take your seat, the chaos of the gloomy stage foreshadows of what will unfold.

I was amazed at Jenkins’ ability to draw such well defined characters and to write such potent dialogue.  There is even a “fight director” for the play as verbal accusations, not only become loud, but physical as well.  And the three siblings are not the only ones caught in the fray; there is an aggrieved spouse, a new age girlfriend, and children of the spouses.  The dysfunction is multi-generational. No one escapes the tragedy, which is eerily heightened by a decaying ancestral Arkansas family home (think Tennessee Williams), the increasing intensity of the sound of cicadas, and the suggestion of ghosts haunting the property.  And of course, the secret,  the inexplicable discovery of a photo album containing pictures of lynching’s among their father’s property (in addition to the home being on the border of a white graveyard with stones, and unmarked graves of blacks on the other side):  the original American sin and their father’s potential complicity confounds and divides the family further.

The Westport Country Playhouse has spared no expense in scenic design, lighting, and sound.  They recognize Jacobs-Jenkins as an astute dramatist who is at the beginning of an important, noteworthy playwriting career.  We were fortunate to catch this production.  This is what great theatre is all about and we will be watching for future works by this talented and gifted writer.

Wistful Remembrances

Scrolling down my, now, all-too-ridiculously-lengthy  key word index to “Westport”  there is a score of entries, a testimony to the strong feelings I have towards where I worked and lived for some thirty years of my life, receding with the speed of light into the forgotten past.  The essence of this blog is a written record of remembering.  I speak not of major events, but the nuances of fleeting feelings.  I was reminded of this today by an entry from more than six years ago.  Although it is a review of Happy Days by Samuel Beckett, bravely produced by the Westport Country Playhouse, it evoked surreal feelings of place and time.  I quote the first and last paragraphs of that piece.  It could almost be read as a stand-alone (without the details of the theatre production) as it says as much about time, and wistful remembrances.

  

What a cynical title for Samuel Beckett’s brilliant play, courageously presented by the Westport Country Playhouse to celebrate its 80th anniversary. It is not the kind of light fare one might expect on a languid summer’s night at a country theatre far off Broadway, and it was a brave choice by the Theatre’s Artistic Director, Mark Lamos. But this is Westport, Ct - a bedroom community of NYC where we lived for so many years. In fact, we were there during the celebration of the Playhouse’s 40th anniversary – half of its lifetime ago -- so although we are now only summertime visitors, its byways are subliminally imprinted on us.

It was a night of powerful theatre. We exited to the parking lot. It had just rained and the humidity hung in the air, also rising off the steaming macadam and fogging our glasses. So we drove the back roads of Westport, returning to our boat, passing landmarks indelibly imprinted and always remembered such as the location of the old Westport National Bank (gone) turning left onto the only road that runs west and parallel to Riverside Avenue, along the southern side of the Saugatuck River, passing homes where we had partied in our youth (including one Christmas eve where guests in an alcoholic induced stupor set a couch on fire and it had to be dragged out to the snow to extinguish the flames), the building our first Internist once occupied (who later died in the same nursing home as Ann’s mother), the Westport Women’s Club where my publishing company held our annual Xmas party for so many years, my old office itself across the river where I worked for the first ten years in Westport, now the Westport Arts Center, past the street where Ann and I went for Lamaze classes when she was pregnant, over the old bridge crossing the Saugatuck, turning left then right under the Turnpike past the structure which used to be The Arrow Restaurant (long gone) where Ann reminded me they made her favorite dinner, crispy fried chicken, and then further west to Norwalk, all fragments of our own earth mound, being earth bound, trying to understand. Theatre to think about. Oh, happy days.

View of Westport, CT from my office circa 1972