Happy Birthday, Jesus! Part 2

Link to Part 1

After the Methodists, the Pineda family singers took a well-deserved food break. And if you’ve spent any time with my family, you know not to get between us and our plate unless you’re looking to lose a finger. Unfortunately, the time between the Methodist service (aka church job 1) and the Catholic Mass we were scheduled to sing at next (aka church job 2) didn’t give us the requisite nap and digestion period we normally require. This, of course, left us all nauseous and extremely irritable for the Catholics.

So grudgingly, we jumped in the van - bloated bellies and all - and headed to Our Lady of Lourdes to rehearse for midnight mass. Another nasty side effect of eating right before a performance is increased phlegm production. So halfway to the church I had worked up a nice, juicy loogy and had nowhere to spit. Trish asked Val for a plastic water bottle she had left in the front seat. I dutifully deposited my spit in the empty container when Trish remarked, “This bottle wasn’t empty before.” To which Val replied, “No, I was really thirsty earlier and drank it.” After an initial confused/horrified look on Trish’s face, she started cracking up and said, “I’ve had strep throat the last couple of weeks and I’ve been spitting in this bottle that whole time. And you drank it - the whole thing!” Of course, normal people would have been sickened or nauseated by the thought, but we’re not normal people, Dammit! We’re Pineda’s, and we thought this was the most hilarious thing we’d ever heard and couldn’t stop laughing all the way to Church. Val then reminded us how she had been complaining all week about not feeling well, and that made us laugh even harder. Aren’t we just sick?!? Of course, Trish immediately had to call our white son, Chris Grimm, and tell him all about how Val drank Trish’s nasty spit water. FYI, Chris thought it was hilarious, too, and that’s why he fits perfectly into our sick little family. And although still painfully bloated, we at least arrived at Church giddily happy.

Once there, we thought, “This’ll be easy. Just sing a couple of carols and we’re out of here.” Of course, nothing is easy. As soon as we arrived, John, the musical director asked if any of us knew the recit before the "Glory To God" from Messiah. I wanted to say, “Hell’s no.” But instead, we all just looked at each other and shrugged. Of course, being siblings, I knew in their heads both Juan and Trish were saying, “There is no way in hell I’m going to learn three pages of recit at 11:30pm at night for $75.” Being diplomatic, Juan said, “Why don’t we all look at it and then decide.” Which of course meant, “Fausto, you’re the oldest, so you’re gonna’ have to take one for the team.” So we, meaning me, grabbed the music and hatefully, though with a full smile achingly stretched across my face, learned the recit. After that, the rest was painfully easy - just your traditional choral part-singing.

In the spirit of Christmas and love and all that good sh*t, I won’t go into the quality of the other “paid singers” except to say that John only asked the Pineda’s about learning the recit. Well, OK, I lied, I will go into it, a little. The attitude that some of these singers were swinging around, you’d think we were competing at the Met finals. I mean, we were not being snooty or aloof. We were actually on our best behavior. But a certain singer, who shall remain nameless and sexless and who obviously had sour grapes for dinner, refused to shake my hand at the “sign of the peace.” With a smile, I offered my hand, (s)he blatantly pretended not to see me and turned her back on me. Ouch. I mean, come on. You’re a thirty-something year old (wo)man (and I’m being kind) and you’re still gonna’ play High School popularity games? Grow up already, (girl/boy)-friend! Okay, sorry, back to the spirit of the season. It was nice to sing with the timpani, organ and full brass quintet. And after staring at the first trumpet player through the whole mass, Val and I finally figured out he had played in the pit for our production of Millie. And yes, sometimes it wasn't exactly clear which verses we were supposed to sing (often we'd start a verse only to realize the congregation was singing a completely different one) or that sometimes the harmonies written for the brass didn't always match what was in the choral books. But these are all minor details. All in all, it was a successful evening of winging it.

Finally, after 1am, tired and spent, Trish, Val and I jumped into the van to head home for last minute gift wrapping. Juan had left just moments earlier with mom and dad since they weren't quite sure how to get home. You'd think we'd have been rewarded with good traffic karma for pulling double duty on Jesus' Birthday, but instead got slapped across the face with a sober dose of reality. Just minutes after pulling onto Route 22 and only a few miles from home, traffic came to a complete stop. We were literally trapped in the middle of the highway, a cement barrier to our left, and only dead end streets to the right. We sat for over 45 minutes and moved maybe three feet. Our only thrill was seeing the guy in front of us jump out of the car, whip out his weenie and pee on the barrier.

To be continued...

Happy Birthday, Jesus! Part 1

I am truly thankful that Christmas only comes once a year. It’s just way too much stress, anxiety, energy and happiness condensed into too short a time frame. After staying up late throwing out garbage and wiping down coffee stains and brownie crumbs from the stage of the CDC theatre, I wanted nothing more than to relax and enjoy my Holiday. Unfortunately, real life always gets in the way of even my best intentions. So instead of spending Christmas eve sleeping in and watching those whining, overpaid bitches on "The View" while sipping on hot cocoa in my pajamas, I was standing in the freezing rain at the train station.

Although I was well aware that no work would be done and that no banker in their right mind would venture into the office, it is company policy that a skeleton crew of admins come in to make sure there is “adequate coverage on the floor.” Meaning I get paid to sit in an empty office watching the clock tick away at any remaining shred of life and hope left in my dying soul.

So anyway, after a day of surfing the net and answering one phone call - “Hi, is Mr. So-and-so in today?” “No, you imbecile, it’s Christmas Eve and these bankers have real lives, unlike you and I!!” - I headed home to Astoria to change into my suit and immediately turned around to head back to NJ for church job number 1 of 2. Some of you may wonder why your Holiday church choir always sounds so amazing at Holiday times yet sounds like a bunch of drunk hyenas the rest of the year. It’s no accident, silly. It’s because most places pay professional singers to sit in with their choirs to “fill out their sound” so as to impress those people who only come to church at Christmas and Easter. Next holiday, take a really close look at the people in the choir. No one look familiar? Well, maybe you should go to church mare than twice a year. But honestly, it’s because they don’t go to your church, they’re paid to be there. In the biz, we call these mercenaries of song “ringers.” Honestly, wouldn’t you join the choir if you were paid to sing? What goes through people’s minds? "Wow, they sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir tonight when only just last week they sounded like a pack of castrated wild dogs." Please people, it’s all part of the holiday illusion.

Anyway, job number one was harmless enough. The full Pineda clan was hired to supplement the small choir at a Methodist Church in Scotch Plains, NJ, where my brother, Juan, is musical director - pretty easy stuff, just some traditional carols plus Juan asked me to do some piano accompanying. I actually enjoy working here because unlike other places, the congregation actually does know that we aren’t regulars and thanks us for lending our talents. So I don’t feel so much like a chorus prostitute. The one sadly uncomfortable part of this evening's service, however, was the special song prepared by the pastor’s children. Not because they performed badly, but because it was obvious from their scowling faces that they’d have been happier receiving full rectal exams with bowling pins than standing in front of the congregation and performing. These are grown children out of college, not trained monkeys. Please pastor, if your children don’t want to sing, let them enjoy their Christmas in peaceful silence. Believe me, from personal experience, I still get a slight panic attack if I'm at a party with my mom and there's a piano. In the back of my mind, I still think she's gonna scream out, "Play Für Elise. Now. I don't care if you have a broken finger!" and I'm a 38 - er, um, I mean - 29 years old.

To be continued...

Billy Elliot

Let me start off by saying that sometimes great praise can be the cause of great disappointment. Many of the “big time” reviews (NY Times, Variety, etc.) greeted BE with such gushing praise, it reminded me of when I was little and my mom bragged about us to anyone willing to listen. Her hyperbolic praise so effusive you’d think I was the love child of Albert Einstein and Mozart (not that she was too far off, mind you). I should know better than to let reviews cloud my opinion. But they were so darn good and shows lately have been so darn mediocre, I wanted to believe I’d be witnessing the next West Side Story or Sweeney Todd.

As you can probably already guess, I didn’t love BE, although I didn’t dislike it either. I’d say it’s a better than average show, staged and choreographed dazzlingly well with a mediocre score and jaw-droppingly bad lyrics. And I’m being kind about the lyrics. A fourth grader could write more original rhymes. An example - and I’m paraphrasing a bit, but not much, because I don’t have a photographic memory:

Billy’s brother: What should we do? (in reply to an argument regarding letting Billy audition)
Billy’s father (sung): Let him shine, let him grow, let him go.

Ugh. These people are working class, not f*cking idiots. Sir Elton didn’t help much either, supplying forgettable melodies to trite sentiment.

What it lacked in a memorable score, it made up for in near cinematic staging, lighting and choreography. At times, the numbers became morphed into modern dance pieces, the story-telling done through movement and the weaving of disparate groups on stage. For example, in one extended section, choreographer Peter Darling juxtaposed tutu-clad girls with baton-wielding cops to create some dramatic and striking visual images.

Unfortunately, whenever people spoke or sang, the wonderful momentum and excitement created by the dance/movement grinds to a halt. Literally. The stage manager needs to plug up the many “dramatic” pauses littering the performance. These little black holes sucked the life out of whatever forward movement had been created in the preceding dance sequences. I don’t mean that the actors need to bulldoze through the dialogue, but there seems to be a lot of “thinking” going on up on that stage rather than “doing.”

Regardless, the cast works their asses off and all the leads acquit themselves nicely. Of the rotating Billy’s, we saw an amazing David Alvarez. I would kill for his calf and forearm muscle definition. Most of the other actors were solid - acting-wise, that is - but sometimes made some abrupt character choices/changes later in the show that didn’t seem to fit the characters they created at the beginning of the show. I tend to think these were probably directorial choices, so I won’t hold it against them.

For my money, the could have just as well been a theatrical dance piece, minus any sung music. The songs were that forgettable. Otherwise, it’s definitely worth trying to catch for the unique staging, dancing and performances.

Roadshow

Experiencing a new Sondheim show, you realize just how inadequate other modern composers are. Roadshow may not be the next Sweeney Todd, but it’s like pizza, even when it’s bad it’s good. And it’s not bad either, it’s just not Sondheim’s most brilliant work. After being brainwashed into believing that corporate-churned modern spectacles are “quality” and that pop scores with generalized, unspecific lyrics are adequate; listening to the intricacies and nuances of a Sondheim score/lyrics is almost like experiencing a musical theatre multiple orgasm after having subsisting on a steady diet of boring, drink-induced, pity f*cks. It’s almost criminal that we let such mediocre fare, like Legally Blonde and The Little Mermaid - both shows that I don’t necessarily dislike, but could have been much better - become representative of the modern Broadway musical. But I’m ranting way off topic here.

Like most of Sondheim’s oeuvre, at first reading, the story doesn’t exactly scream out to be musicalized: the relationship of two brothers turned conmen who lose their fortunes on risky schemes and bad business decisions. But again, Sondheim makes a detailed and interesting case study of the brothers’ psyches and explores how their deeply destructive relationship develops over a series of soured relationships and business ventures. All the while incorporating humor, interest and just the slightest bit of pity (although not much) for these unsavory characters.

The tone and style of the show are reminiscent of Pacific Overtures and Assassins in that the structure, though loosely linear, is a series of vignettes illuminating the high and low points of both brothers’ lives. There are some wonderfully melodic and touching songs, notably, “The Best Thing That Has Ever Happened to Me,” sung by Addison and his lover.

Lyrically, Sondheim is still untouchable. He makes everyone else sound like elementary school students forced to write poetry for class. His rhyme schemes are never obvious and are always unexpected - unlike most modern day composers, whose rhymes you can spot a mile away. All the while, he creates lyrics that are character, time and situation specific.

The cast is uniformly excellent and both Michael Cerveris and Alexander Gemignani, as Wilson and Addison Mizner, respectively, turn in believably nuanced portrayals. Not usually a fan of Gemignani, I found him likeable and extremely believable as the well-intentioned, but self-destructive brother. Through the show, I grew jealous of the ensemble of actor-singers who had the pleasure of interpreting Sondheim’s lyrics.

My only regret is that our country’s greatest living theatre composer may not be for long. Nearly 80, his output has vastly dwindled in the last few years. Here’s hoping he can churn out at least a show or tow more before departing.

Hairspray (#3)

Harvey and Marissa are f*ckin’ amazing together. I didn’t see Marissa the first two times I saw the show years ago and I always thought she sounded annoying on the cast recording so I was pleasantly surprised by how wonderful she is in the role. For my taste, her vocals are still a bit nasal and pinched, but it really didn’t make a difference since she was just so likeable. As for people complaining that she’s too old, must be sour grapes, because she didn’t read any older than her jailbait co-star, Constantine Rousouli. I must also admit that when I first laid eyes on the handsome young Constantine in the first scene, my first thought was, “He’s way too attractive to have any singing ability.” (God, have I really gotten that jaded?!) But thankfully, I was again proven wrong.

Even though Marissa appeared to be sick - she was carrying some major dark baggage under the eyes - her performance didn’t seem to be affected. In fact, she seemed almost unnaturally energetic and enthusiastic. It was like like Tracy Turnblad on coke - in a good way, of course.
The show is in great shape. The ensemble was extremely tight and precise, Trish and I both noticed cast members eyeing their numbers on stage. No signs of long-run-itis here. Harvey seemed completely at ease and natural. He was fully invested and committed to every moment onstage without resorting to mugging or pushing punch lines as he’s has been known to do.

There’s also a natural chemistry between Harvey and Marissa that I didn’t notice between other pairings. Both actors seemed to have a genuinely wonderful time onstage. Although (disappointingly), the entire rear mezzanine was empty the night I attended, the audience’s reactions were out of control and it was like a rock concert, with Harvey receiving an extended entrance applause and the audience erupting into cheers throughout. It’s closing in January, so check it out before it’s gone.

White Christmas

Well, I thought the show was enjoyable enough, with the dance numbers definitely the highlight. The book is almost groan-worthily bad, but hey, it’s White Christmas, not Hamlet. It’s corny, sappy and sentimental, but a nice way to spend a holiday evening. Trish sat basically annoyed through the whole show. The movie is one of her all time favorites and the show didn’t hold up to her high expectation. I, on the other hand, wasn’t burdened with memories of the movie, having watched it years ago and only remembering the great Irving Berlin songs.

They don’t dance like this on Broadway anymore and it was a treat to see a stage full of tap dancers as well as the old school, Fred-and-Ginger style, partner dancing. It really made me think of the inferior state of Broadway choreography today. Not that today’s dancers aren’t of the highest caliber, but modern choreography so lacks the sense of style, poise and precision so inherent in this period. That being said, there was a certain sense of remoteness, a lack of emotion, in the dancers themselves. Their dazzling precision was marked by painted on smiles and an almost mechanical twinkle in the eye. A certain exuberance was lacking throughout, though the angles and timing seemed almost robotically perfect. Perhaps they were just tired from performing the matinee, but it did add a distancing sheen to the whole affair.

Otherwise, Jeffry Denman and Meredith Patterson are period perfect. From their singing voices to their acting style (cheesy, yes, but right for the period), they seemed straight out of a vintage movie from the era. Stephen Bogardus and Kerry O’Malley as the more “serious” couple were solid but seemed to be a bit modern compared to the rest of the cats. O’Malley also seemed to be vocally tired, but still quite strong.

Overall, it’s a solid, though not outstanding production. Worth a TKTS or TDF ticket.

Happy belated T-day! Gobble, gobble

Well, I've finally found some time to update. I can't believe how much sh*t's happened since my last non-review entry before Thanksgiving. It's all a nauseating blur. I'll just run down the bullet points.

I flew to Richmond the night before Thanksgiving. It was my first time home in over a year. We released mom from her oven shackles, unbuttoned our pants and went to a local buffet. Why did we never do this before? I mean, you can sleep in, eat all the turkey, ham and trimmings you want and you don't have to clean a single dish. Genius. The rest of the day was spent wallowing in gastric pain and watching really bad TV - a perfect holiday scenario.

Since we lazed around the house all day, we decided last minute to make a Black Friday run to the outlet mall in Williamsburg, VA, which opened its doors at midnight. As it turned out, we were one of thousands of families that thought this was somehow a good idea. Even before we got to the exit, it was stand still traffic miles away from the shops and it was friggin' 12 o' clock at night! When we finally got to the entrance of the mall, all the parking lots were full and barricaded closed. So we had no choice but to turn around and drive back to Richmond. Three hours later and empty handed, we arrived back home. Everyone decided to get up at 4am and head out to the stores. I decided to go to bed and not get up until my bladder forced me.

Since Juan, Val, Trish and Billy (Trish's best friend from Richmond who recently moved to Astoria) had driven to Richmond earlier in the week, I road-tripped back with them rather than fly. The ride was uneventful, unless you'd call a painful case of nearly explosive diarrhea an "event." Soon after getting home, I realized I had gotten some crazy food poisoning or caught a stomach virus. So I ended up missing Sunday's all day tech rehearsal for HSM. I'm not sure what's worse, ten hours of tech or ten hours on the toilet.

Anyway, the rest of the week was spent at my daily 9 to 5 and commuting back and forth to NJ for rehearsals. I would not recommend this schedule for anyone trying to recuperate from illness. One five-show weekend later, I'm finally feeling better. I dropped off 20 pounds of dirty laundry (literally), cleaned all the dishes in the sink and cleared the debris from my living room floor. I'm finally returning to the land of civilized behavior just in time to start rehearsals for our Holiday concert, prepare for Carmen rehearsals and finish up the run of HSM with a six-show weekend. Yippee!!!

Me feeling bloated and nauseous after way too much turkey and stuffing.

Pal Joey - Rizzo's all grown up and still a slut!

Going in, I didn’t know the show very well except for the brilliant, but mega overdone (usually badly) classic, “Bewitched”. Talk about your depressing endings (minor spoilers ahead). I mean, nothing works out for any of the characters except maybe the nightclub owner and Gladys. But even they have to resort to extortion to make their “dreams come true.” Every character is seedy and deceitful except for the ingénue, and she basically gets screwed at the end as well.

So uplifting and feel-good, Pal Joey is not. Which isn’t to say there aren’t any laughs or fun musical numbers, it IS a musical comedy after all. Actually, I think the audience’s mixed response to the show stems from mistaken expectation. I mean, you hear the words “Rodgers & Hart” and “musical” together and automatically you think of zany Broadway a la Guys and Dolls. Wrong. I mean, there are some wildly funny characterizations, especially from the ensemble of nightclub dancers - the cigarette-smoking butch chorus girl is a hoot. And both Stockard Channing and Martha Plimpton will probably get Tony nommed for their work, but there was definitely something missing.

That missing "something" might be attributed to leading man Matthew Risch, who inherited the role from Tony winner Christian Hoff after Hoff suspiciously withdraw from the project a week into previews because of a foot injury. Darkly handsome, Risch sounded like a young Frank Sinatra and danced with finesse and ease, but lacked a certain “star” charisma that couldn’t match Channing or Plimpton. Maybe he’s just too young and lacking in life experience to really inhabit the role of a womanizing user.

Channing, however, is the real deal. Rizzo’s all grown-up and looks pretty damn hot as the rich society matron who keeps Joey as her sex pet. Her Vera is sexy, funny, vulnerable but self-assured all at the same time. Though obviously not a singer, her incredible phrasing and interpretation make you forget her vocal shortcomings. My only complaint - fix her dance! She was a hot mess in the first act ballet, making even Risch, a spectacular dancer, look clumsy and uncomfortable. It probably doesn’t help that her skin tight gown (which she and her boobs look spectacular in) doesn’t allow her legs to separate more than about a 18 inches.

Plimpton, too is a surprise, having only scene her in straight plays. I had no idea she had that crazy low belt. And she, too, looks great in skimpy costume and garters.

I'm still here...

Thanksgiving, stomach viruses and tech week have kept me busy as hell! But I will update as soon as I shovel out from under the piles of dirty laundry on my floor, clean my grimy bathtub and wash all the crusty dishes in my sink. Happy Holidays! Go Wildcats!

Rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals

At the moment, my life seems like one never-ending rehearsal of revolving shows, casts and production teams. I’ve just finished an excruciatingly painful week of rehearsals and run-throughs with what amounts to basically a 90-minute piece of fluff (High School Musical). The truly sad part of it all is that it isn’t in better shape, considering we started rehearsals in SEPTEMBER! Granted, there have been some breaks and it’s not like we rehearse everyday, but still, three months is an awfully long time for what amounts to a cheesy after school special. Hamlet it ain’t.

I might get busted on this one, but I think a lot of the blame goes to the rehearsal schedule. Of course, I should have spoken up. But hey, what can you do? I mean, 30 seconds of choreograph can potentially take half an hour to teach while a corresponding 30 seconds of dialogue may take five minutes. That’s a 6:1 ratio that wasn’t remotely reflected in the rehearsal breakdown. But then again, how many cast members have a nearly 2 hour commute each way to rehearsal? Anyone…anyone? No one? Well, me, for one. So I wasn’t exactly begging to have additional rehearsals added to the schedule. For perspective, Val schedules an hour or two of initial rehearsal time per ensemble number for our operas. Operas! And believe me, there ain’t a lot of full out dance breaks in Puccini.

A lot of the HSM “songs” - and I use the term loosely - straddle the line between requiring blocking and/or musical staging. Here’s where some major miscommunication took place. I really think we (the director and I) assumed the other was “blocking” certain numbers, so when we finally got to the run-throughs it was like, “Oh, I thought you were doing that?” Big time, “oops.” Anyway, it looks as though it will all work out.

This is the director’s first big show at the helm, so she seemed a bit stressed out when some dance numbers seemed a bit shaky. And by shaky, I mean fell apart completely. But, hell, It’s not uncommon for a Pineda Production to have its first full run-through on opening night. So compared to that, I guess we’re way ahead of the game. Wait until I decide to re-choreograph the entire opening number before the final run-through. Kidding - well, only half-kidding.

Rock Of Ages

Stupid, cheesy, campy, tacky and I loved it! Well, “love” may be too strong a word, but I am a child of the 80’s so I may have been seduced by an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. Then again, what else could I expect from a show based on the LA glam rock scene of the 80’s? I mean, come on, two of the biggest hits the year I graduated were “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses and “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard. ‘Nuf said?

I think a serious review of the show would be ridiculous. It’s pretty light on plot and costumes. I’ve literally never seen so many thong-ed, bare ass cheeks on a stage. And there’s plenty of “hang loose” arm waving, extended flicking tongues and androgynous bare torsos in leather vests. The show’s fun, extremely loud and the producers encourage drinking during the show. What else do you really need to know?

What's That Smell: The Music of Jacob Sterling

Imagine an extremely good SNL skit (you’d definitely have to go back to at least the Molly Shannon years) about a second-rate musical theatre composer presenting excerpts from his very questionable songbook. That basically sums up What's That Smell: The Music of Jacob Sterling in a nutshell. There’s definitely some great material, with surprisingly tuneful music disguising some of the best bad lyrics ever written. But like almost every good SNL skit, it ultimately doesn’t go much further than surface parody. I found my thoughts wandering at about the 50-minute mark (the show runs a sleek 70-ish minutes). And although thoroughly entertaining and fun, ultimately it left me wanting something more than surface laughs.

I know plenty of you will say, “Fausto, you’re such a typical theatre queen snob. What’s wrong with a show that just entertains? Do I have to be bludgeoned like a baby seal with important ‘messages’ and ‘meaning’ every time I go to the theatre?” Well, no. But shows like Title of Show and even Nunsense all have something else to say about human nature and life and still happen to be wet-your-pants funny.

The show’s got plenty of laugh-out-loud moments, but if not for TDF, I’m not sure I would have paid full price to see the show. Part of the problem is that the best parody song is performed first, setting the audience up with extremely high expectations. None of the songs that follow quite measures up to the delicious “oh-no-she-didn’t” reaction that the first song elicits. I mean, how do you top a song called “He Died Inside Me” (no pun intended) written for the title character of a fictional musical adaptation of Private Benjamin? That’s pretty genius. The 9/11 section (though we are now years removed from the event) still made me squirm just a little. On paper, the premise sounds good - musical reminiscences of what people were doing when they heard the news. And the situation - a gal who is embarrassed to admit that on that fateful day she was getting breast enlargements - seems ripe for comedic development. But somehow the moment doesn’t quite hit the mark.

David Pittu embodies the over-the-top flamboyance of the title character. He’s self-assured, yet completely ignorant of how ludicrous most of his ideas are. He truly believes he’s the next Sondheim. Luckily for audiences everywhere, his every near brush with success is thankfully thwarted by ever more outrageous circumstances. His complete ignorance about his limited talent immediately endears us to him.

Peter Bartlett plays loveable Leonard Swagg, the host of Leonard Swagg’s CLOT (Composers and Lyricists of Tomorrow). Swagg is the apparent love child of James Lipton and Nathan Lane accept that Bartlett imbues him with a warmth and wide-eyed adoration of his guest that Lipton and Lane could never duplicate.

Unfortunately, loveable characters can’t sustain the entire evening. The one joke conceit, though original and extremely funny at times, simply can’t sustain an entire evening. Cheap tickets are available, so I would recommend it if you aren’t paying full price.

Semi-celebrity sighting: Marc Shaiman, composer of Hairspray sitting two rows behind us.

Merry Widow is finally over and I can start getting six hours of sleep a night instead of four. Yeah! Performances were well-received and the houses, though not sold out, were full. Our Widow, Christina Rohm, pretty much kicked everyone’s ass on the stage. She sang gorgeously and was the only one of the “professional” singers that gave a full, sincere character portrayal. Not that I’m dumping on the other leads, but she was the only one who seemed to back up an over-the-top comedic performance with real emotional honesty - not an easy task given our admittedly skimpy rehearsal schedule. Carmen’s coming up in four months and already the phone’s ringing like crazy for tickets. What’s up with that? I guess sex and murder really do speak to the American public, at least in NJ. Hmmm, what does that say about Jersey?

Driving back from High School Musical rehearsal last night, I realized that my commute back and forth to the theatre was nearly equal to the length of the actual rehearsal time. I thought to myself, “Am I just a dedicated artist, committed to enriching our young people through the arts, or just plain stupid?” And no need to comment, it was rhetorical. I know what most of you jaded biyatches are going to say anyway.

Speaking of HSM, it’s hard to believe that we’ve been rehearsing for nearly 3 months and we’re still behind with staging and music. Who would have thought that a ninety-minute piece of substandard (though I have to admit there are some insanely catchy tunes) music theatre could take so long to get on its feet? We still have a couple of weeks, so I’m staying positive.

I know my last couple of blog entries have been bitch and moan sessions, but my schedule does lighten up a little - very little - now that Widow’s dead and buried. But now comes the dreaded (cue ominous underscoring) Holiday Season!! Eeeeeek!!! Sitting at the Outback Steakhouse Sunday night (yeah, classy, I know) after we - meaning the Pineda’s and a handful of loyal opera company folk (thanks Glasser-Bakers, Loves and Chris Grimm) - struck the Widow set, we heard the familiar jingle of sleigh bells and a sickly-sweet, generic soprano start singing, “…have yourself a merry little etc.…” I threw up a little in my mouth. And bloomin’ onion does not go down well the second time. I mean, really?! It’s the first week of November! Can we at least get through the horror of Thanksgiving first? I ended up getting pounded with Holiday Spirit the next night, too, having been stuck running a rehearsal for the Caroling company I’ve worked with for the past several years. Nothing like two hours of non-stop a capella Christmas Caroling to bring out the Scrooge in you.

Anyway, a busy week continues with weekend HSM rehearsals and a list of shows we (the Pineda's!) must go see. And I don’t mean the NYC variety (although Trish and I are seeing What’s That Smell tonight), but the do-your-penance variety. One necessary evil of having so many talented students spread out over many different schools is that you can’t discriminate as to which productions you’re going to see. If you make it to one school’s production, you have to at least make an effort to go to see all the other ones. Of course, it doesn’t help that schools seem to schedule all their shows on the same two weekends! So it looks like it’ll be Museum at Westfield High on Saturday and Forum at Somerset County on Sunday afternoon. Peace out, homies.

Crazy-ass Week

What a crazy-ass weekend. It started off last Thursday with High School Musical rehearsal and ended Monday with a hellish late night bus ride back from a Merry Widow sitzprobe. I take that back, the crazy-ass weekend didn’t really end officially until after Trish and I voted Tuesday night after work. No, wait, I take it back again, I guess it didn’t really end until after Obama’s speech later that night. Oh, wait, I forgot about yesterday’s first dress rehearsal for Merry Widow. And I have to head back out to NJ right after work today for the final dress. So actually, my crazy-ass weekend hasn’t ended at all and has sort of turned into a crazy-ass week. No, I take that back, too, it’s actually turned into a crazy-ass month. Oy!

Adding to the weekend merriment was my cousin, Al, and his new girlfriend Bridget. He was here to run the NYC marathon. So on top of commuting back and forth to NJ for rehearsals, we had to entertain and host out of town relatives and try not to look like raving lunatics in front of his new gf. I think for the most part we succeeded on the latter, but Sunday’s post-marathon dinner in Long Island definitely did not help our cause. More on that one later.

After work on Friday, Trish and I planned on going back into the city for an evening of Halloween freak watching with Al since Bridget didn’t arrive until Saturday afternoon. Alas, witches and vampires were not in the cards for us this year. Upon arrival from the airport, Al promptly crashed on the couch complaining of general sluggishness. We settled for Brazilian and Thai take-out (yeah, weird combo) and watching movies in the comfort of our living room. We were hoping Al hadn’t been infected by the bug that Trish had passed on to the rest of the Pineda clan earlier in the week - definitely not a good thing if you’re planning on running 26 miles the next day. Case in point, I felt like shit Thursday night after rehearsal so I took some cold medicine that totally knocked me out. I then ended up sleeping through my alarm clock and getting to work late. Not 10 minutes late, not half an hour late, not even an hour late, but THREE hours late. Luckily (or sadly), no one seemed to notice until I called in. Oh well, who needs self-esteem anyway?

Early Saturday afternoon I headed to NJ for a nasty five-hour Widow rehearsal. I won’t even go into the agony of it all except to say that we had to finish blocking the show that day, meaning all of Act III. I left Trish in the city to cousin-sit because in addition to Al and his gf, our cousin Rosanna and her bf, Jamie, flew in from Michigan, and another cousin, Margot, and her husband, Jim, drove in from Long Island. I love my family dearly, but the idea of spending the entire day traipsing around the city with them sounded like torture. Don’t get me wrong, they’re lovely people, but walking around midtown Manhattan on a weekend afternoon with six people in tow is like me trying to squeeze into a pair of speedos - it’s possible, but not pretty. Apparently, there was some minor restaurant trauma because the group decided to stray from Margot’s Nazi itinerary and not go to the village for dinner. A table for seven at a nice restaurant in midtown on a Saturday night without a reservation? - good luck. (I was going to throw in another speedo analogy here, but I’m sure you’re still recovering from the horrific image conjured by that last one.) Well, I guess luck was on their side because they ended up at some great Cuban place knocking back Sangrias, while I, on the other hand, settled for dried out steak-um strips at a diner on scenic route 22.

weekend festivities continue under "Crazy-ass Week Part Deux"

Crazy-ass Week Part Deux

Cut to marathon Sunday. Happily, Trish and I didn’t have to wake up at 5:00am to get Al on the shuttle bus to the starting line. That’s what girlfriends are for. Instead, we agreed to meet at a more civilized 11:30am on the Queen’s side of the 59th Street Bridge (a.k.a. mile marker 15). If you’ve never attended the NYC marathon in person, you really can’t get the full emotional impact of those thousands of runners from around the world being cheered on by several thousand more spectators for the entire length of the 26.2 mile course. I, of course, joke about watching the “cripples get over the bridge.” But in actuality, it’s just my pathetically cynical way of hiding the fact that watching the handicapped runners go by actually makes me weep like a 12-year-old girl at a Jonas’ Brothers concert.

After a couple of missed “where-are-you?” calls, we finally hooked up with Bridget under the Queensborough Plaza subway station. We then waited patiently behind the throng of spectators pressed up against the barricades, looking for our chance to pounce on any unsupervised front row real estate. Finally some unwary German tourist accidentally took half a step backward and we made our move - you snooze, you loose. After insinuating ourselves in front of the stunned German, we hunkered down to wait for Al to run past. He was obviously not trying to break any world records, because he arrived well after his projected time. His modeling and smooch session with Bridget at the mile marker didn’t help him out with the clock either. But hell, we were just happy he was still standing considering he had just run the Chicago marathon three weeks ago and was complaining about how tired he was after walking three blocks to his hotel just 24 hours earlier.

Since standing still and watching athletes push themselves to their physical limits is actually quite tiring (and it was friggin’ cold out), we decided to screw Al and get some food instead of trekking to the Upper East Side for more cheering. I mean, there were thousands of other people to encourage him along the route, right? Why use up all our valuable relaxation time? - so selfish. Anyway, after warming up and grabbing some food at the Time Warner Center’s Whole Foods, we headed to the 26 mile marker for the final push to the finish. This is always my favorite marathon viewing spot because the runners either look crazy-happy being so close to the end, or look like they are going to die. Either way, it’s always a good time. It’s also a good spot to yell out runners’ names and confuse they hell out of them and probably fuck up their concentration really close to the finish line. Hilarious. And before you get all, “Fausto, you’re so mean” and shit, the runners voluntarily sprawl their names on their t-shirts. If you don’t want me (or the thousands of others screaming out names) to fuck with you, don’t wear your name across your chest in 5-inch high letters. Anyway, Al breezed by us a few minutes later than expected - probably because he was so busy texting us through the whole race.

After another frigid wait on Central Park West, we finally met Al almost an hour after he actually finished the race. Turns out getting your belongings and finding your loved ones is a pretty difficult task with over 30,000 runners. Some of which, according to Al, were dropping like flies around him after crossing the finish line. We walked (Al limped) toward his hotel and then Trish and I headed home to get ready for the after-marathon dinner at Margot’s place on Long Island. Again, let me preface this by saying that I love my cousins. But it was sort of a pain in the ass to drive an hour into Long Island to eat dinner and then just turn around and come back, especially with a tired and hobbled marathoner in the back seat. But family is family and I’m sure we’ll eventually have to ask them for some horrible favor that they’ll now be forced to return. We did score on the food front with lots of tasty Filipino leftovers to take home with us, so the evening wasn’t a complete wash-out. We also had the pleasure of skirting around some dirty family laundry so as not to scare the bejesus out of innocent family-dinner-first-timer, Bridget. She’ll be entangled in the Pimentel-Pineda web of intrigue, lies and uncomfortable family secrets soon enough. Girl, get out while you still can. We finally got home well after midnight after dropping Al and Bridget off in the city. Even we’re (make that “I’m”) not mean enough to make someone wait for an N train at midnight on a Sunday.

Continued under “Crazy-ass Week Part Trois”

Crazy-ass Week Part Trois

Monday morning at the office was painful. I was late again (although only 20 minutes this time and not 3 hours) because I just couldn’t force myself out of bed. But somehow I made it through the day and hopped on the 5:30pm bus to NJ for our Merry Widow sitzprobe. Work on Tuesday was torturous since I hadn’t gotten home from rehearsal until well after midnight the evening before. But at least I managed to get there on time. Since I was extremely excited to Barack the vote that night, I got through the day on sheer adrenaline (and diet coke).

I highly doubt a more historic election will happen again in my lifetime. The energy and anticipation was palpable on the streets, especially in Times Square (where I work). I giant TV screen was set up smack dab in the middle of it and throngs of people were just watching and waiting. In anticipation of long lines at the polls, Trish and I headed to our voting site as soon as I got home from work. I know New York is waiting for new voting machine technology to be perfected before replacing the old voting machines, but come on. Those huge hunks of gray steel are positively ghetto. They could at least throw on a coat of paint or change those moldy curtains. The old voting booths remind me of a cross between those huge old computers from the 1970’s (you know, the ones that used to take up a whole room) and a peep booth at an adult video store - not that I’ve had any experience with those, of course.

I just want to say how proud I am of our country’s choice. It almost makes up for the fact that Bush was voted into office two terms in a row. Almost. Unfortunately, I feel like Obama is in a no-win situation. Intellectually, people know that he can’t change the country overnight, but Americans are emotional and fickle. Can they wait a couple years to see his policies start to take effect or will they have the unrealistic expectation that the economy will turn itself around instantaneously? I guess we can only wait and see. Whatever happens, I’m glad that all Americans, not only the rich, white ones, are finally starting to take ownership of their voting rights as citizens. Let’s hope that in four years, we haven’t returned to our old, apathetic selves. But enough politics, let’s get back to me, me, me!

I was a hot mess at work again on Wednesday morning. I thought I’d finally get a full night’s sleep, but I just couldn’t stop watching the election results. I got so swept up in the emotion and momentum of the election that I inevitably stayed up for Obama’s acceptance speech and didn’t get to bed until well after midnight. So once again I had to rely on a steady stream of diet coke and tootsie rolls to get me from 9 to 5. As has become an almost daily ritual, I boarded a NJ Transit bus after work and headed to the first dress rehearsal of Widow. I can’t honestly tell you how the run went because my back was to the stage the whole time. I’m playing in the pit, supplementing the orchestra on the piano. I can, however, tell you that the cast doesn’t know their lines. That much was clear even without seeing their faces. Some of the “acting” on stage was embarrassingly amateurish. Of course, some of the blame does fall squarely on Juan and me, but come on, people! We can’t memorize your lines for you. The show opens in three days and you’re still stumbling over dialogue? That’s just plain sad. Anyway, I was just too tired to even take notes. But regardless, the show looks and sounds lovely. The audience will just have to grit their teeth through the book scenes. They should be used to it anyway if they attend opera with any regularity.

It looks like sleep just isn’t in the cards for me, at least until around mid-December. I ended up missing the last bus back to NYC by five minutes. Damn NJ Transit for actually running on time! Again, home after midnight and my alarm set to go off way too early Thursday morning for work. The rest of the week's schedule? - Thursday: work then NJ for final dress, Friday: work then NJ to finish building set, Saturday: set up for champagne event and opening night, Sunday: reception, closing performance and strike. Then Monday we start all over again with High School Musical. Yeah!

Merry Widow Sitzprobe

I know, sounds like a nasty alien abduction story. But for those of you opera performers in ‘da house, you’ll know the term refers to the first orchestra run-through with the singers, minus blocking. It’s basically a chance to get accustomed to the orchestrations without being encumbered by blocking, costumes or annoying directors yelling at you. In some instances, it’s also a chance for the conductor to say, “Count, you friggin’ &%$*# singer! There are 20 other musicians here and I can’t read your mind. Watch me!” Except it comes out like, “It’s OK, we’ll try to follow you.”

Yesterday’s sitz was actually pretty tame compared to some past seasons. We’ve finally got a core set of musicians that play with us on a regular basis as well as some veteran Pineda Lyric performers. For this show, I’m playing the piano in the pit to supplement a smaller chamber group. We’re trying to save some bucks so we can splurge on a larger orchestra for Carmen next spring. I was worried that I’d be laying clunkers all over the place, but since I’m not doubling any other orchestral parts most of the time, the score is way simpler to play. I won’t actually have to practice. Don’t tell Mark.

Thankfully, tonight is a day off. But the hell of tech week begins again on Wednesday with the first dress rehearsal. Yippee! I just have to keep telling myself to make it through Sunday evening’s load out. Then it’s time to start stressing out over the opening of High School Musical in December. And then Carmen, and then Beauty and The Beast, and then Summer Conservatory and then…it never ends, does it?

Palin ♥'s Rod

I just wanted to post a link to a funny interview on www.afterelton.com with closeted gay Republican puppet, Rod, from the Broadway show Avenue Q on his long friendship with Sarah Palin. Here is an excerpt:

AfterElton.com: I must say, I’m surprised to think of you and Governor Palin as friends. I mean, what do you even have in common?
Rod: Well, we’re both from Alaska. And we’re both Republicans. And, of course, we both love c*ck.
AE: Excuse me?
Rod: C*ck. We both can’t get enough of it. Like we’ll be out hunting elk together, and I’ll say, “Sarah, honey, you’ve got to c*ck that pistol properly or you’ll bag nary a squirrel.” And she’ll say, “Golly, Rod, you know I’m savin’ that fer later. Cockin’ that pistol’s my favorite part. That and the disembowelin’.”
AE: Are you still in touch with her today?
Rod: Of course! I see her and Todd for dinner all the time, although, for some reason, the kids are never around when she has me over. But anyway, she’ll have me over and get out that special drinking glass she keeps just for me. And we’ll sit at the table, and her pastor will say grace, and it will usually be something really moving that shows how much they worry about me, like, “We thank you God for this food we are about to receive. And please help Sarah’s friend understand how icky his lifestyle choices are. Amen. Oh, and protect us from witches, trolls, and vegans.” Then Sarah will bring out that delicious roasted badger she specializes in and say to me, “Pass the salt, you godless sodomite.” And we’ll all laugh and laugh. Good times, those.

Hilarious

Some Enchanted Evening

Well, our benefit concert for Our Lady of Lourdes last Friday actually came together quite miraculously. Perhaps performing on the altar of a church does carry certain unaccountable benefits. Too bad no one saw it. Well, I exaggerate, there were a good 30 people scattered throughout the mainly empty pews. Oh well, so much for the "benefit" part of the concert. After paying for the accompanist, the wine and cheese platters for the reception, I think we'll have to hold a benefit concert to help pay for the benefit concert. Perhaps we'll have more luck if we hold the next one in a Synagogue.

As for the concert itself, it went way better than expected considering we "blocked" it an hour before the concert started and had one rehearsal with the pianist the night before. And by rehearsal, I mean singing through some of the music with lyrics in hand. Talk about pulling it out of our asses. The first time singing some numbers memorized - and I use the word "memorized" very loosely - and with the pianist was during the actual concert. Yeah, nothing like preparation, right? And blocking? Why rehearse when you can wing it at the performance. The only real blocking we were able to set before the show was along the lines of "this is where you get up and sing."

The highlight of the evening for me was the reception. Why? Because that meant we actually got through the damn thing. And add in free booze and food, well, what's not to like? You better believe I knocked back a couple of glasses of vino before hitting the tables to schmooze with the mainly elderly crowd. Don't get me wrong, they were all genuinely gracious, enthusiastic and complimentary, but it was like walking through a casino floor in Atlantic City on a weekday afternoon. Anyway, onward toward tech week of The Merry Widow!

Neverending rehearsals

My apartment is a pigsty, I'm carrying heavy duty American Tourist-ers under my eyes and I've got a severe case of brainal leakage. Between my 9-5, rehearsals for two shows and our benefit concert on Friday, I'm just about ready to step over the ledge.

I'm still only about 80% memorized for Friday, which doesn't bode well considering tomorrow is our first and only rehearsal with the pianist (not to mention our first and final run-through). We're basically winging all the blocking. Good times. As a stress reliever, Trish and I saw "Quarantine" last night. It was mindless good fun. And though I wanted to bitch slap the leading lady for her annoying screaming and hysterics, it was still worth ten bucks. I do think the shaky, hand-held, "you are there" gimmick has run its course. But no matter how stupid, I just can't pass up a good zombie flick.

Brainal leakage

You all know the warnings on those fat free products and foods cooked with synthetic oils: MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE. Well, I've decided to coin a new term describing what happens when you have too much information to learn in too short an amount of time - Brainal leakage. I can't believe how many songs I have to memorize for next week's benefit concert. I think my brain might literally explode, leaking rhymes and poetic metaphors about birds and the moon and all that other bullsh*t all over the floor. I'm even starting to get dorm room flashbacks from those all-nighters I used to pull for my chem and bio classes in college - Intermediary Metabolism, Hystology, Genetics, Physics - I used to be a f*cking genius. Now I can't even memorize two verses of a song. Oh, for the simple days when you could just roll out of bed, grab a piece of 2-day old pizza from the box under your mattress and just head to class in the clothes you had slept in.

One benefit from all this cramming is my newly realized appreciation for the art of lyric writing, especially the old schoolers. Take Oscar Hammerstein (we're performing a butt load of his songs from South Pacific, Sound of Music and State Fair). His lyrics always make emotional sense and seem to fit Rodgers' melodies perfectly. He is succinct and specific. And when he goes off on a poetic tangent, it is always for a reason (to clarify a point, accentuate a previous idea, or as a riff on an existing "trite" phrase thereby reinventing it for a fresh perspective). Take the opening lyric for "It's A Grand Night for Singing": "...the moon is flying high. And somewhere a bird who is bound he'll be heard, is throwing his heart at the sky." Hammerstein takes a metaphor that in lesser hands would read cliche, and through an unexpected adjective and verb, creates something original.

I even have to give props to Andrew Lloyd Weber for being smart enough to borrow T.S. Eliot's poetry for his snoozefest, Cats. And I'm not being sarcastic, I literally fell asleep during the second act pirate ship scene. Anyway, I've always tuned out during any rendition of "Memory." But now that I have to memorize it (yes, I have to perform "that song" at next week's concert), I can actually see why ALW was drawn to the text in the first place.

Speaking of genius lyricists, I just purchased tickets for the New York premiere of Sondheim's newest musical, Roadshow. Yippee! It's playing a limited run off-Broadway at the Public. This will be my second time seeing an original production of a Sondheim show (the first being Passion). I'm so excited, yet a little depressed thinking that at the ripe old age of 78, this may be his last. Hope to report good things about it soon.

Salome

The Met has certainly decided to takes its place in the R-rated, youtube generation. First, a shirtless, studly Giovanni humping Anna all over the stage last week and now a nasty Salome grinding her behind into a Hasidic Jew. It sure isn’t your grandparent’s Met, that’s for sure. I’d never actually seen a live performance of Salome, although we studied it at Conservatory, until last night. But nothing can prepare you for the antics of a middle-aged soprano (here, beautifully sung and dynamically acted by Finnish soprano, Karita Mattila) obsess “Fatal Attraction”-style over a Holy Man she can’t have. I don’t think I’ve ever, nor will ever, witness an opera singer extend down into a full split or finger herself while singing. Yes, you read that correctly, finger herself. She also dry humps her uncle, goes “full monty” in the dance of the seven veils and literally dives into a vampiric French kiss with the disembodied head of Jochanaan (the audience audibly gasped at that moment).

Shock value aside, Mattila certainly can sing. A huge voice with a seemingly endless range, she seemed to jump from full-throated top to full-chested bottom within the span of a measure. That b*tch was loud. And unlike other dramatic lyrics, her voice never seemed strident or ugly and she maintained a warm roundness of tone throughout the extreme range of her voice. However, the men (with the exception of tenor, Joseph Kaiser) couldn’t match Mattila’s instrument and were often lost in fuller orchestral moments.

The modern day Middle Eastern setting worked for the most part, hinting at the current world political climate. But the staircase to nowhere on stage right seemed wasted and could have been better utilized for staging. The black-robed angels watching the proceedings from the dunes also seemed like an interesting concept that didn’t seem fully fleshed out. But in spite of these few complaints, it was a truly thrilling, surprising and uncomfortable (in a good way) evening at the opera.

Though this is a revival (from 2004), hopefully the Met will continue producing challenging, innovative productions to balance the popular old warhorses in future seasons. It’s definitely made a difference in audience demographics at the productions I’ve attended. Trish and I both noticed groups of young men (who appeared to be - wait for it…straight!) in the audience at the last several productions we attended. Imagine that, straight young men at the opera. What next, a gay football league?

Do we never learn?

We’ve screwed ourselves again. We (the Pineda foursome, of course) have scheduled a fundraising concert for Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church smack dab in the midst of rehearsals for two other productions, High School Musical and The Merry Widow. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal. We’d just trot out our standard dog and pony show and add some spiced up banter. But no, we’ve promised them a theme concert. Namely, a best of Broadway concert spanning the last fifty years to commemorate the Church’s fiftieth anniversary. Clever, huh? I mean, a Church is celebrating its existence with an art form that was basically created by a group it denounces as sinners and sodomites (I’m talking about the gays, for those who didn’t get my subtle clue). Well, it’s not like the Catholic Church is exactly a stranger to hypocrisy. Anyway, back to topic. I know what you’re thinking, “A concert of Broadway hits doesn’t sound that difficult to pull off.” Well you'd be wrong. First off, we are expecting an audience of mainly senior citizens, so nothing too pop or unfamiliar. Then we have to make sure we evenly represent the decades following 1958. FYI, the bulk of Rodgers & Hammerstein was composed before 1960. And don’t even get me started on the barren wasteland that was Broadway in the 1990’s. Then throw in the fact that we won’t get to rehearse until probably the day before since our calendars are full of rehearsals for other shows. It’s going to be a hot mess.

I wasn’t even worried until just yesterday. I decided to get a head start and begin memorizing the “easy” stuff, the stuff I thought I already knew. Turns out I don’t really know the classics all that well. I mean, everyone knows “Some Enchanted Evening,” right? Go ahead, try singing it. I’ll wait. . . OK, did it go something like “Some enchanted evening, you me see a stranger, la, la, la, la, la, la…” pathetically trailing off into nonsense syllables? Exactly! Everyone thinks they know the classics, but turns out everyone knows the first lines of the classics. And damn, those classics all have, like, four verses.

To please the senior masses, against our wills we’ve included some totally cheese ball songs. Val refused to sing “People” (“I don’t want to be compared to Babs!”) so to compromise, had to bite the bullet and take on “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.” It gets better. Since she took it for the team on that one, I volunteered to sing two of musical theater’s all time cheese-tastic classics, “Memory” and “Send in the Clowns.” Hell has just frozen over. Oh well, it all benefits the opera company so I guess we’ll just have to suck it up. Hopefully, no one we know will come hear us. So keep it on the DL.

Don Giovanni w/ Netrebko's baby-daddy

I admit it. The #1 reason I went to see the Met’s current production of Don Giovanni was to catch “Hott Schrott” (aka Anna Natrebko’s baby-daddy) shirtless. I mean for Pete’s sake, it’s the Metropolitan Opera. How often does half-naked eye candy cross that stage? Sure, they have their ballet dancers, but this is an opera singer. You heard me right, an opera singer. And a straight one at that - surely a sign of the Apocalypse. I wanted proof that this unicorn actually exists. Anyhoo, the Met knows when to exploit a good thing, because we only had to wait for his first entrance to catch the shirtless baritone virtually humping poor (or lucky?) Donna Anna (a beautifully-voiced Krassimira Stoyanova) on the long staircase that dominates the first act set. And damn, he's also got a huge . . . voice - though it seemed a bit unfocused last night. He plays pompous great, but if the gossip columns are to be believed, he's just playing himself. Regardless, he was an impressive and well-cast Giovanni.

But the real surprise of the evening - oxymoron alert - was the handsome Leporello, Ildebrando D'Arcangelo. Can you imagine two hottie baritones singing at the Met in the same production? Times sure have changed. When I was studying voice at conservatory, my teachers told me it was OK to carry some spare padding around the middle for added resonance. I guess I can't use that as an excuse anymore. Regardless, D'Arcangelo was funny and charming and possesses a large, warm, round voice. Hope to see more of him in the future.

Donna Anna's bell-like soprano - pure, clear and perfectly placed - was matched by lyric tenor, Matthew Polenzani, who impressed with endless legato phrasing. He never seemed to breathe. Unfortunately, mezzo Susan Graham, in the demanding role of Donna Elvira, didn't fare as well. Although a large voice, she always seemed to be pushing and often sang under pitch. The role is definitely not a good match for her. And given her fach, I'm surprised that she even considered performing it.

The physical production was bare, but adequate. And the staging, at least the first act, was better than usual for the Met (i.e. no "park and bark"). I would even say it was clever and original. But that second act? What were they thinking. It was as if they spent all their time rehearsing the first act and all of a sudden found themselves at opening night without having rehearsed the second act. The graveyard scene was totally lame. No better than your neighbor's front lawn Halloween display. It basically consisted of a stone grave that spit out pathetic wafts of smoke every time the (offstage?) voice of the Commendatore sang. I want my big stone statue coming to life, dammit!

Giovanni's descent into hell was even more disappointing. I mean, come on, this is the Met. Where were the flames? the pyrotechnics? the excitement? They actually made the Commendatore sing behind a plexiglass wall so his entire last scene sounded like he was singing into a paper bag - all muffled and dead. And I say they made him do it, because no singer in his right mind would agree to sing behind a wall knowing he'd have to fill a cavern the size of the Met. And then it snowed. WTF? It snowed for his descent into hell? Made no sense at all. And it wasn't like he was dragged down into hell. He literally stepped in front of the Commendatore and seemed to willingly be sucked into the floor. Slowly. Really slowly. I mean, he could have totally stepped off that platform, condsidering the glacial pace it was descending into the floor, and saved himself from eternal damnation. Oh well, I guess I can't complain. Half a good production is better than nothing.

The Seagull

I have to admit I’d never actually sat through a live performance of a Chekhov play until the current Broadway production of The Seagull. It was a smash hit in London and stars movie actors Kristin Scott Thomas and Peter Sarsgaard. I prepared myself for the stereotypical notion that I’d be bashed over the head with depressing, unfulfilled Russian peasants whining about their sad lives. And in actuality it basically was depressing, unfulfilled Russian peasants (and actors and writers) whining about their sad lives, except it was all quite entertaining and surprisingly funny.

Thomas deserves the hype from her glowing London reviews. Her portrayal of the larger-than-life actress, Arkadina, never became a caricature. She has taken a role that on the surface could appear to be, well, a bitch, and transformed it into a character the audience instead sympathizes with. She makes clear that the character’s insecurities and self-doubt are what fuel her ego and need for attention.

Sarsgaard, an actor I admire from his screen work, doesn’t fare quite as well. Perhaps his long movie stint has rendered his stage chops a bit rusty? His performance in the first half of the play seemed under-powered and under-focused. Some odd hand gestures, combined with weird line breaks and pauses in his speeches, interfered with the clarity of the text. And his every appearance seemed to suck the energy from the stage. He did improve after intermission, but someone needs to tie his hands behind his back to stop all the pointless flailing. Since the play is still in previews, I can only hope he’ll improve with more performances under his belt.

The remaining cast is wonderful all around, especially Carey Mulligan. Her wide-eyed Nina, is a wonderful foil to Thomas’ insecure aging diva.

Maybe I’m just a product of the MTV generation, but in spite of mostly engaging performances, sitting through a three hour Russian drama in a tiny Broadway theatre seat is a lot to ask of someone. Especially when your neighbor is, how shall I say, large of frame and spilling over the armrest into your personal space. Regardless, it is easy to see how in less capable hands, this could definitely be an extremely tedious evening.

13

Busy, busy, busy! With all the stock market craziness, work has been just action-packed. Therefore, some of my normal blogging time was consumed with frantic calls from bankers’ wives screaming for their husbands to sell, sell, sell! We actually hit $11 a share at one point - ouch. Nothing like having your beach house and retirement plan melt away before your eyes. Luckily, I am burdened with none of the above. So I’m just now catching up writing reviews for a couple of shows I saw this past week.

Although I didn’t love 13, I’m encouraged to hear they are actually taking advantage of the preview period and doing some real revising and making changes. I grudgingly may have to revisit it - granted I can get a cheapo TDF ticket. As we left the theatre last Thursday, the first thing Trish said to me was that she thought it should just be one act, no intermission. Lo and behold, today on All That Chat someone posted that last night’s show was indeed intermission-less and two (really bad, IMO) songs have been cut! Perhaps Trish should look into becoming a show doctor.

As for the show, it’s cute, I guess. But who wants to shell out $100 for cute!? I can get that for free walking Chris and Dan’s dog. The storyline is thinner than Mary Kate's waist and just about as substantial: NYC-raised teen Jew moves to Indiana and tries to get the cool kids to attend his Bar Mitzvah. Of course, there are no other Jews at his new school because everyone knows that Jews only live in NYC. How does he do it? By guaranteeing the coolest guy in school some tongue time with the hot chick. No, really. The whole first act is devoted to the pursuit of French kissing. Throw a brainy handicapped kid and nerdy girl outcast (who happens to be way prettier than the hot chick everyone is pursuing) into the mix and you’ve got a Broadway show. Thankfully, Jason Robert Brown’s score saves the evening with his always tuneful, folksy-pop ballads and some insightful lyric writing suitable for a 13-year-old. Unfortunately, the book writer thinks he’s writing a "Friends" episode, having teenagers spouting one-liners way too sophisticated and knowing for their tender 13 years on earth. Imagine teen age Ross, Monica and Chandler belting show tunes on an ABC After School Special but without the teen pregnancy, booze and drugs to keep us interested.

As for the 13 child actors (get it? 13 actors playing 13-year-olds? Clever, aren’t we?), no denying they are talented, but that’s not enough to sustain a show. The three lead nerds are exceptionally good, especially Allie Trimm who plays Patrice. She has more control over her belt/mix/chest voice than most adults I know and her acting is sincere and unfussy. I hope she doesn’t turn into a total bitch when she realizes she’s more talented than everyone else. Otherwise, the rest of the cast runs the gamut from “very good” to “just fine.” As much as I can appreciate how talented these young people are, without any adult (read: experienced) presence on stage to anchor the production, many of the young performers (unintentional, I think) drift into cheesy overacting and one-dimensionality. It’s not helped by the audiences’ over-enthusiastic response to any remotely impressive sung note or dance step. The night we attended, the house was clearly papered with family members and friends. I must note that Trish and I (and the gay couple in front of us) were kept entertained by the beauty-pageant-worthy cheesiness of one young actress who shall remain nameless. Her consistent sh*t-eating grin and blatant winking to the audience called to mind the best of Junior High School dance recitals and kept us quietly chuckling through the whole evening. Brava!

On the whole, unless some radical changes are made to the book, it’ll be just another great JRB CD to add to the collection.

Young Frankenstein

OK, so I finally made it to Young Frankenstein, mainly because I just wasn’t willing to pay full price. Luckily for me, but not so much for YF, I didn’t even have to wait a year before it found its way onto TDF.

Though it’s not as bad as the reviews made it out to be, it’s certainly not on the level of The Producers (although even Producers was a tad over-rated if you ask me). The best YF could do was elicit an occasional chuckle. The mezz, where we had choice third row aisle seats, was only 2/3’s full. At that rate, it’s doubtful they can hold on much longer given the size of the cast and the set/special effects. The bottom line is it’s just not that funny. Maybe some of the jokes play well to the over 70 crowd, but someone please tell Mel that it’s 2008. Double entendre “knocker” jokes just don’t go over anymore (the crowd audibly groaned after that punch line). Frankly, most current TV sitcoms display better writing.

Otherwise, kudos to the hard working cast for a fairly tight performance that hasn't yet shown signs of long-run-itis. And what the physical production lacks in creative design (other than the "Roll In the Hay" sequence), it made up for in sheer size and pyrotechnics - although perhaps that isn't exactly a compliment. The score was adequate at best and boring at worst. Songs were mostly one joke punchlines carried out over three useless versus and rarely did they move the plot forward or illuminate much about the characters. Stroman's choreography and staging showed glimpses of creative fire, but were mostly just adequate as well. Although I must point out the terribly staged/choreographed number where the ghosts of Victor's dead relatives haunt his dream. It literally seemed like she threw some vaguely Slavic dance steps into a hat, picked them out randomly and strung them together. From all that, it may seem like I hated the show, but I really didn't have a strong feeling for or against it. It just sort of filled two hours. It was overwhelmingly mediocre.

Ah well. It seems I'll again be suffering through a period of "I hate musicals." I was taken by this gloomy affliction last year as well, after seeing a slew of mediocre to bad musicals. Hopefully, upcoming performances of Billy Elliott, White Christmas and Shrek will prove a quick cure. If not, I'll have to start hitting the plays and the opera house again for a theatrical pick me up. I guess the jaded theatre queen in me is starting to rear its bitter head more and more often these days as I near, gasp, middle age. Or maybe Broadway's rank commercialism really is starting to effect its quality. Or maybe musicals are just plain STUPID! Why ARE the cowboys dancing!?!? Oh dear, I think I just had an outer body experience. Anyway, I'm sure I won't be giving up musicals anytime soon, so I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that things will improve.

Perry Awards or Long Days Journey Into Night

Well, I’m fairly bursting to write about last night’s Perry Award presentation. As any of my regular readers know, I’m certainly not one to censor my - how shall I put it? - strong opinions. But since what I write may have a trickle down effect on one of our partners, the CDC theatre, I’ll simply leave the cattiness to my private blog (email me if you’d like to be added to the guest list).

For all you casual readers, let me just say that it was an excruciatingly long evening. I left after 10 pm and they had only just started the “second act” of the ceremony. Without commenting on any award winner or specific presentation, some of my observations:

The cost versus food ratio: Jeez, for $60 a pop, you could at least have an open bar or maybe free beer and cash bar for liquor. And crackers and cheese are not that expensive. Those cheese platters were virtually licked clean 15 minutes into the cocktail “hour.” The main entrée was just sad. 400 chickens died for naught. But you better believe that for $60 I forced that dry chunk of poultry down my throat. To be fair, the mashed potatoes and pasta were quite good. But how much does a sack of potatoes and a carton of dried pasta cost?

The host: Oy vey! I understand that he’s the president of NJACT, but really? His most tacky moment (in a string of tacky moments and bad jokes) was encouraging the audience to “boo” an award winner that wasn’t in attendance. I mean, I’m sure he was probably trashed, but that’s not a good enough excuse.

The cruise video: They showed a five-minute video-commercial for a Caribbean cruise where the passengers will be made up entirely of community theatre people. That’s the selling point?! I cannot think of anything less appealing than being trapped out at sea in a boat filled with thousands of theatre queens, fag hags, wannabees and their admirers - in other words a floating Sodom and Gomorrah accompanied by show tunes. Um, count me out.

The performances: Eight minutes to present scenes from your nominated show is just too long. Considering the nominated performances have all closed and we can’t see them anyway, why bother? How about letting nominees perform no more than two selections from their show not to exceed 3 minutes and then showing a couple of production photos. And since it’s just ridiculous to compare community theatre choreographers to Michael Bennett, NJACT can get off its high horse and give the outstanding choreography nominees at least a minute to showcase their work. And trust me, some of those nominees would have been better represented were they given less time. I’d have given my left nut to see the thought bubbles popping up around the room during some of the performances. Although the amount of raised-eyebrow looks across tables was nearly as amusing.

The Best Stage Manager category: I think my thoughts were best summed up by the winner herself, and I paraphrase, “I’m not sure what criteria you used to judge this category, but thanks.”

By the way, I didn't win for "Outstanding Choreography" but am still immensely proud of my cast, who managed to bring the restless, noisy crowd to complete silence during their 40 seconds of stage time. Congratulations! No award can equal the satisfaction of completely captivating an audience.

Harry's all grown up

Thank God the theatre season is back in full swing. Literally - with “little” Harry Potter giving the full monty last night at Equus. I’d never actually seen a staged version of this play until last night and although there are some wonderful performances, I think the play itself may be a bit dated. Especially considering that Dr. Phil assaults us on a daily basis and people go to therapy more often than they get haircuts. I mean, really, who isn’t psychologically scarred by their dysfunctional parents? The incident that is the impetus for the whole play is still shocking and its portrayal at the end of the play, though stylized, is disturbing. But I could see how the hypnosis scene and some of the psychotherapy sessions could have come off almost comically in the hands of lesser performers.

Although Daniel Radcliffe’s nudity was partial inspiration for buying the ticket, I was thoroughly impressed with his acting chops (and his abs). I honestly didn’t think he would be able to translate his movie acting to the stage, but I guess he showed me.

Richard Griffiths is just incredible. You really feel sympathy for the Doctor. His unfulfilled marriage and the jealousy for his patient’s misguided passion is heartbreaking. My gripe here is with the director, who kept planting Griffiths downstage front, conveniently blocking whole scenes upstage with Griffiths’ enormous frame. Thank God he moved him upstage for the nude scene. It would have been embarrassing trying inconspicuously to crane my neck around Griffiths’ stomach to get a peek at Radcliffe’s goods.

As for the rest of the cast, Kate Mulgrew is loud. It was like she was in a different play. I wouldn’t say she was bad, but she’s playing Medea. Bring it down a notch, lady, and match the tone of the rest of the cast. I’m actually surprised since I do think she’s a very good actress. Maybe she was having an off day. Oh well.

The horses were impressive and for the most part, the movement was creepily accurate. I’m not sure if the circular galloping that ends the first act was completely successful, but it was certainly athletic.

Up next is 13 tomorrow night. Looking forward to the JRB score but not so much watching a bunch of 13-year-olds “rocking out” for two hours. At least School of Rock had Jack Black.

Young at Heart

Watched a great documentary last night, Young at Heart, about a chorus of senior citizens in Northampton, MA that perform pop music. Wow, these are 70, 80 and 90 year olds gettin' their groove on! Embarassing for me, considering I was just complaining how tired I was from holding dance callbacks the other week for High School Musical. Even more embarassing, they're more hip to current pop music than I am. I don't think I've ever even heard a Coldplay or Sonic Youth song until watching the movie. Shows how square I am.

Anyway, what struck me most was the emotional and lyrical clarity these performers were able to convey through stillness. I don't want to get all Stanislavski on your ass, but we so-called "professional" actors could learn alot from their delivery - honest, heartfelt and unobstructed by useless physicality. Granted, their delivery choice is mainly a result of old age, but that doesn't negate the validity of their performances. Watch and learn people.