Post Turkey Day Festivities

With the ‘rents in town for the entire Thanksgiving weekend, we decided to do brunch in the city Saturday morning as a dual Birthday (for Trish) and Anniversary (for my parents) celebration.  Trish decided on Mesa Grill since Juan, Val and I had such a great experience at Bobby Flay’s other NYC restaurant, Bar Americain, last year. 



Me and the Birthday Girl at Mesa Grill

I had to work the day after Thanksgiving, so instead of enjoying the stampeding crowds at the mall on Black Friday (not), I was casually surfing the net at my empty office, lulled by the buzz of institutional fluorescent lighting.  The rest of the Pineda clan did make it out to Kohl’s for some early morning retail therapy, but only lasted a few hours before giving up and settling for a day of lounging and grazing on microwaved leftovers.

What a difference a day makes.  By the time I met up with the family Saturday morning at the Union Square Holiday Market, they were back in full Pineda shopping mode.  It was only 10:30 and they had already managed to do some major credit card damage at the Filene’s across the street.  Dad even got into the spirit by purchasing a couple of Calvin Klein sweaters. 



Should anyone wonder where I got my sense of humor, one need look no further than the senior Fausto.  After Juan tried on a sweater that was a bit on the snug side, dad nix-ed the garment with the comment, “You look like a bratwurst.”  Ouch.

The happy anniversary couple waiting for brunch

It was getting close to brunch time, so we headed over the block to Fifth Avenue where Mesa Grill’s located.  It seemed we were the first guests to arrive for the day.  The restaurant was not yet set up for seating so we hung out in the front lobby and waited for Trish’s perpetually late friend, Billy, to arrive.  

We were finally seated 10 minutes late - odd considering the restaurant was completely empty - and Billy made his triumphant entrance just a few minutes later. 

I was honestly disappointed a bit by our meal.  Not that it wasn’t good.  It was fine - tasty, spicy, southwestern dishes - but nothing particularly outstanding.  I guess I was expecting something more “special.”  Instead, we got your basic brunch fare dressed up with chilies and spices.  It may well have been a case of "too-high-expectation."  And though the presentation was beautiful, the portion sizes were on the stingy side.  Oh well, at least the lower price point made up for the lack of culinary excitement.




My Cuban pork loin sandwich - one of the table faves.

 The décor didn’t help much either.  The designer seemed to be going for a “lived in” sort of shabby-chic southwestern vibe.  With its vaulted ceiling and mismatched Corinthian columns, I instead felt as though I was dining in the lobby of a Mexican courthouse. 

The room is screaming out for a David Tutera-style glamour make-over.  Someone at least slap a new coat of paint on the walls and replace the faded, 1980’s style graphic art work. 

On a related side note, I realize it was daytime, but the restaurant’s harsh lighting does no one any favors.  Mesa Grill is not the place to meet for brunch if you’re trying to hide the fact you’ve been out on an all night bender or if you’ve had recent “freshening up” done to your face. 

Still, with the meal bookended by shopping, the day wasn't a total lost. 

Turkey Day

Val getting saucy with the turkey.

By past holiday standards, this year’s Pineda Thanksgiving was strangely uneventful - nay, downright boring (in a good way).  Mom and dad decided to drive up from Richmond on Thanksgiving morning, so we had all day to relax in our jammies, watch the parade and prepare for the obscene gluttony to come.

This year’s theme was “A Food Network Thanksgiving.”  Yes, we actually had a theme.  We’re cheesy like that.  What do you expect from a family of thespians?



My from-scratch pumpkin gnocchi with spinach pesto.

 Val, per usual, was in charge of the turkey, so she tasked the rest of the siblings to prepare a side dish by one of the food network chefs.  Over achiever that I am, I combined a couple of different recipes to come up with my final dish - pumpkin gnocchi with spinach pesto and pine nuts.  Sounds impressive, no?  Going for those extra credit points (can you tell I was a total nerd in high school?), I also decided to prepare a dessert - Chuck Hughes’ chocolate stout cake.



Having worked a half day at the Morg (i.e. Morgan Stanley) Wednesday, I headed to Jersey that same night looking like a bag lady.  I wanted to make everything fresh, so I lugged all my ingredients on the bus with me.  At least I was able to snag a double seat for myself. 

All was calm when I got to Juan and Val’s.  Even the turkey was relaxing, brining casually in a giant cooler in the kitchen.



My stout cake fresh out of the oven.

We got up Thanksgiving morning just in time to watch the Broadway shows embarrass themselves on the Macy’s parade telecast.  Not that any of the participating shows are that bad (with maybe the exception of Spider-man), but seeing the performances out of context without sets and in the middle of a street aren’t exactly optimal viewing conditions.  I’m sure Joe Schmoe in Idaho was wondering why anyone would pony up 130 bucks to see a bunch of dancing nuns.  It’s all about context.  They should scrap the live performance element altogether and just show a pre-taped clip from the stage of the theatre.  It’s not like the performance is really “live” anyway, since the cast is lip-synching to a track. 

When mom and dad finally arrived, we broke out the chips, dips and cheeses and started our slow descent into Thanksgiving madness.  By the time dinner rolled around, our appetites were completely ruined and I could barely manage to force down a bite of turkey and just a fork-full of gnocchi. 

Ah well, that’s what the holiday is all about, isn’t it?  Eating until you need your stomach pumped and then sleeping it off?  Anyway, my gnocchi was a big hit, even though mom couldn’t pronounce it, and the

stout cake was delish. 

A close-up of my lip-smacking chocolate stout cake.

My newest sweet obsession...

isn't Top Chef Just Dessert's hot host and pastry chef, Johnny Iuzzini, but the new chocolate chip cookie sandwiches at our local Italian bakery, Terrizzi Pastry Shop.  Trish or I stop in here at least once a week for a sugary carb fix.  Trish spotted these lip-smacking lovelies in the display case a couple of weeks ago on one of our regular bakery outings. 

These cookies are crack-o-licious! 

Imagine, if you will, three drool-worthy bites of cookie heaven - two super soft mini chocolate chip cookies with a gigantic dollop of sweet cream (a cross between vanilla icing and a marshmallow). 



Johnny Iuzzini

It’s impossible to eat just one, which is why Trish and I bought a box of six just for the two of us. 

Don't judge us until you've taken a bite and a lick...

...of the cookie, that is, not Johnny.  Though how could you blame anyone for wanting a bite of Johnny?

The Blue Flower & Lysistrata Jones

I'm so behind with postings.  Here are a couple of missed reviews from the past couple of weeks.  My "Thanksgiving with the Pinedas" coming soon!

The Blue Flower

Second Stage Theatre

Sunday, November 13, 7pm performance

This quirky, ensemble show is one of the reasons I love living in NYC.  It’s the kind of cerebral, experimental piece that’s a difficult sell most anywhere else in the country.  It’s subject matter, the relationship between a couple of artists, a scientist and actress set during Germany’s Weimar era, isn’t exactly family friendly - lots of sex, violence and drugs.  So it’s a perfect fit for me, natch.  It’s got a downtown sensibility, but with the expected gloss of a production playing just off Broadway.

I liked the show more than Trish and really connected with the movement-inspired staging and direction and its sometimes non-linear, quasi-Brechtian presentational style.  With the multi-tiered set, almost constant choreographed movement and video projections, it’s almost a “musical theatre-performance art” hybrid. 

The score is a pop-folk-country hybrid with nods to Weill and German cabaret sung gorgeously by a cast led by Broadway vets Sebastian Arcelus and Marc Kudisch. 

On a side note, seeing publicity photos for the show I kept thinking how old Kudisch looks now.  Then I realized I’m only four years his junior.  Do I look that old?  So depressing.  Thank God for my Asian genes.

Lysistrada Jones

Walter Kerr Theatre

Tuesday, Nov 17, 8pm performance

I’m sure this show was hip and hilarious when it played in a real school gymnasium downtown off-Broadway last year.  But in a huge Broadway house at $120 a pop?  Not so much. 

The cast works it’s ass off to fill the enormous Walter Kerr stage, but from our highly discounted TDF mezzanine seats, the stage looks woefully empty.  Literally and figuratively, the show doesn’t have enough substance to fill a Broadway stage.  That, of course, doesn’t stop many current Broadway hits from playing for years (I’m talking about you, Mamma Mia!). 

The set serves its purpose, but isn’t very imaginative and looks, well, cheap.  Streamer curtains?  Really?  The only appropriate place for streamer curtains are proms and Bar Mitzvahs.

The score might be catchy at a dance club, but doesn’t leave much of an impression in the theatre.  While the lyrics never quite match the sarcastic wit of Douglas Carter Beane’s hilarious book.  Frankly, the music mostly hinders the momentum of the book with its extended (though impressive) dance sequences that seem to go on endlessly for no reason other than to show off the casts youthful, athletic bodies.  On the flip side, songs seem to end abruptly, with the ensemble indicating this with full show choir, extended-arm group poses. 

I’m also confused as to what the show is trying to say.  Woman should use sex to get what they want?  The only motivating factor for young men is boobs and vagina?  Don't get me wrong, I'm not against frothy fun and fluff but it's 2011.  Lysistrata Jones makes Legally Blonde look like Shakespeare.  

I’ll admit the second act improves on nearly all counts, but it’s too little too late.  Great performances from an attractive cast doesn’t - well, shouldn’t - cut it on Broadway. 

Somber Sunday and Crazy Memories

With Trish’s friend, Jamie, in town for the weekend, we decided to finally make our pilgrimage downtown to visit the new 9/11 Memorial.  For safety reasons, you need to reserve advanced timed-entrance tickets.  So we wrangled another fellow Richmond-ite, Trish’s friend, Billy, and made it an even foursome. 

Emerging downtown from the subway was a strange sort of déjà vu for me.  I worked at the now defunct New York Society for the Deaf years ago, just a few blocks from the World Trade Center.  I had just returned from a summer theatre gig and hadn’t yet re-started work when the twin towers fell.  I was staying Chris and Dan’s couch in Astoria (now my apartment) and we awoke to a strange phone call from our friend, Damienne, saying a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. 

We actually watched the first tower collapse from the roof of our apartment building.  It was all so unbelievable.  It just didn’t seem possible something of this magnitude, of this scale, could actually be happening in America - in New York City - in our backyard.

Bleary-eyed from staring at the TV and the hours of non-stop coverage on every channel, we finally decided to just stop watching and get out of the apartment.  We walked down the block and sat outside at a nearby diner.  We couldn’t go far because the subways were shut down.  The phone lines were jammed, so we couldn’t contact family and friends to let them know we were OK.  What other option was there but to just sit and stress eat?

Dan, not particularly known for his stress-coping skills, ran off to the gym, of all places.  We wouldn’t see him until much later in the day because of the transit stoppage.

Halfway through our meal, we started seeing them.   Ash-covered men and women in business suits, staring down at their feet, dazed and silent, shuffling passed us.  With the trains out of commission, it had taken all morning for these people to walk sixty blocks from downtown, then across the

59^th Street

Bridge and finally home to Astoria.  No one spoke. 

Fast forward ten years and downtown is now an obligatory stop for every tourist.  In perhaps the ultimate form of rubber-necking, curious folk from around the world surround the chain link fence, snapping photos of the demolished site and the emerging 1 World Trade Center.  It’s a strange and sad inevitability that the site is now a tourist must-see.

On our way to the memorial, we pass Zuccotti Park and the Occupy Wall Street protestors.  A foul combination of B.O. and human waste wafts through the air and we quickly cross the street to avoid further exposure.  Typhoid, anyone?  In theory, I support the 99%, having lived the “starving-artist” lifestyle for some 15 uninsured and intermittently-employed years.  But sadly, the 1% now pays my rent and contributes to my 401(k).  Morgan Stanley is my daddy now and I’m his bitch.

We wait on a long, winding line on

Albany Street

.  Confused tourists surround the entrance gate, surprised to find out that tickets are required.  We’re herded through a security checkpoint and metal detector much like those found at the airport, except we get to keep our shoes on.  Finally, we make our way down a gated path lined with surveillance cameras and into the memorial proper.  Along the way, we are required to show our passes at least half a dozen times.  Security is expectedly extreme.

There’s a phone app (and computer kiosks throughout the memorial) to find specific names.  We look up our only acquaintance, the brother of a family friend.  The app is surprisingly thorough, with a detailed bio of each person.  I scroll down to see that a picture is also included, and sap that I am, immediately start tearing up.  Trish, of course, knows where this might lead and grabs the phone out of my hand before I go into full on weep mode. 

The museum is still under construction, so we wander around the site, leisurely taking it all in.  I’ll let the pictures below speak for themselves. 

Hugh Jackman on Broadway - the hottest, gayest show on earth

Still wandering around in a haze, mesmerized by his manly physique, dashing good looks and sparkling smile, I completely forgot to post my thoughts on Hugh Jackman's one man Broadway show.

The duality of Hugh, his shit kickin' side and...

With prime orchestra seats topping $300 each, Trish and I had resigned ourselves to admiring the adorable Aussie's beauty from afar.  But preview performances had been popping up on TKTS so we decided to take a chance.  We lucked out, and last Thursday we snagged a pair of mid-mezzanine seats for 40% off. 

The show itself is just a glorified cabaret act, not even Vegas-worthy due to the lackluster production values, but who cares?  It's Hugh-freaking-Jackman!  The audience was pumped, cougars and queers waiting breathlessly for his entrance. 

Here's the play-by-play:


...his "softer" side.



The lights dim and the strains of the overture begin - a medley of "One Night Only" from Dreamgirls and "Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'" from Oklahoma!  Can it get any gayer?  Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins, just you wait.

Hugh's disembodied voice begins the a capella opening from Oklahoma! and the crowd goes nuts.  Then he enters.  Trish and I and the entire audience gasp, blinded by his beauty, then sigh in unison, hypnotized by his shimmering, white teeth.  Seriously, this is what I imagine it must have felt like to be at a Beatles concert.  I was surprised panties didn't get flung onstage.  I gripped Trish's leg and I think we were both just one breath away from hyperventilating and passing out.

After some opening patter, Hugh goes into his next number, "One Night Only."  And just to make sure no show will ever top his on the gay-meter, the evening continues with a cover of "Fever", a snippet of patter from The Music Man, a medley of movie musical numbers and a tribute to Peter Allen with Hugh decked out in tight, gold-lame pants and shimmering gold top.  The only thing that could possibly make the show any gayer would be a guest appearance and duet with Liza Minelli. 

Sure, the show's cheesy at times (which actually adds to the show's charm) and Hugh's voice is strong if not conventionally beautiful.  But he's an incredible entertainer, performer and actor with charisma to spare and an easy and honest stage presence that makes you feel like you're hanging out with him in his living room.  It doesn't hurt either that he shows some bare chest and air humps the audience.

I was most impressed by his "Soliloquy" from Carousel.  He needs to get his Billy Bigelow on film before he ages out of the role (Hugh currently owns the film rights to the musical).  Incidentally, Cameron Mackintosh was in the audience (he's producing the Les Mis movie that Hugh's starring in).

I'm not surprised the show is selling out, Hugh's appeal crosses every demographic - straight gals want to fuck him, gay men want to get fucked by him and straight men want to be him. 

My one complaint?  Lose that long-haired brunette chorus girl.  She's dead weight and fell out of at least three turns at the performance we saw.  You have to suck pretty bad to pull focus from Hugh.

My friend, Chris, the business rep for AGVA, had been fighting to keep the show - clearly a variety show - under AGVA's jurisdiction.  Sadly, Actors' Equity yanked it away from under him.  Come on, now, Equity, way to kick a girl when she's down.  Cheer up, AGVA, at least you still have The Radio City Christmas Show.

Broadhurst Theatre
Thursday, November 3
8pm performance

Bonnie & Clyde or Let's Distract the Audience with Jeremy's Pecs

The real Bonnie & Clyde

If my review were based on the old adage, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," it would be a one-liner:  Bonnie & Clyde has a beautiful set.  But lucky for you, it isn't.  And  how boring would that be, anyway?

Actually, I didn't hate the show.  I love the unit set (a perfect combination of constructed pieces and projections), the moody lighting design is gorgeous, the orchestrations and costumes are stylistically on point and the cast is uniformly excellent. 

Laura Osnes and Jeremy Jordan are both sickeningly gorgeous and vocally stunning.  Although it's pretty obvious a gay man directed the piece given Jordan was shirtless at every possible opportunity the story permits - just an observation, not a complaint.  Don't worry you straight men (though I doubt any read this blog), Osnes gets to show off her six pack and ample bosom as well.  There's plenty of flesh and sex for everyone.  Both also have charisma to spare and should, and likely will, become big Broadway stars - though inevitably more lucrative TV and movie deals likely will steal them away from us.


The Broadway Bonnie & Clyde - nice mic wire Jeremy

The book is also unusually strong by modern standards.  Like the golden age classics of the 50s and 60s, we get book scenes that don't merely string together songs, but are actually compelling and emotionally complex - no self-referential audience-winking here, thankfully.  Sad that this should be the modern exception rather than the rule.  In fact, my recommendation would be to scrap the score altogether and make the darn thing a play.  Speaking of the score... 

Full disclosure - I'm not a Wildhorn fan.  I do admit, however, that he has a talent for writing memorable pop hooks.  Unfortunately, that talent isn't displayed much here.  The score does have a couple of strong songs - and I mean "couple" literally, as in "two" - both of which are delegated to our heroine. 

The first is unusually sedate for Wildhorn, no cheesy strings or high belting.  It's supposed to be a period hit Bonnie knows from the radio.  It works, but seems like a show-horned in trunk song.  The second is Bonnie's 11-o'-clock number resigning herself to an inevitable youthful death.  It's soaring melody and pop sensibility show Wildhorn at his best.  I'm sure we'll be hearing the 16-bar version ad nauseum in audition rooms across the country soon enough.

Sadly, poor Jeremy Jordan isn't given comparable material.  Where's his "This is the Moment"? His "Soliloquy"?  That soaring tenor seems sadly wasted, though he gets several random consolation high notes throughout the evening.  Hopefully - if internet rumors are to be believed - he'll be able to get the hell out of dodge and move on to the Broadway production of Newsies! - not a perfect show either, but at least gives him a couple of show-stopping vocal moments.

The men in general are given short shrift.  Given the luxury casting of Claybourne Elder (Clyde's brother, Buck) and Louis Hobson (the upstanding cop competing for Bonnie's affections), the men's music is disappointingly bland.  There's a cheesy duet for Hobson and Jordan and a fun, but dramatically inert song about Clyde's love for the open road for the Barrow brothers.  Sure, there's high belting galore, but ultimately their material doesn't leave a lasting impression.

My straight show crush, though, is Melissa Van Der Schyff as Blanche, Buck's upstanding wife.  I'm obsessed with her voice.  It has a Dolly-Parton-on-helium quality that I find strangely exciting.  Someone in Nashville get her a recording contract, stat!  She also nearly steals the show from our title characters with her comedic charm, then turns right around and almost crushes us with her dramatic chops in her closing scene.  I say "almost," because right at the moment I thought I was actually going to lose it emotionally (at a Wildhorn musical, no less!), the mood is broken by a cloying faux-gospel number.

I do have to cut Wildhorn a little compositional slack.  His lyricist, Don Black, sabotages him at every turn of phrase.  Black's lyrics manage to be both tritely sentimental and nursery-rhyme embarrassing at the same time.   

My other major gripe with Bonnie & Clyde is that Wildhorn many times chooses the wrong moments to musicalize.  Regardless of their quality, the placement of the songs stop the book's momentum cold.  It's frustrating because Bonnie & Clyde's story is so fascinating and inherently dramatic; a real-life American fable ripe for musicalization.  Wildhorn lucks out, though, with a cast that makes his score seem better than it actually is.

Schoenfeld Theatre
Thursday, November 10
8pm performance

Christmas in November

Oh, sweet Jesus on a biscuit, I've seen it - my first holiday-themed TV commercial of the season.  Really?  In the first week of November?  I'm still figuring out what to do with the four pounds of half-priced Halloween candy I impulse purchased at Duane Reade the other day.



Spooky Halloween Tree



Sorry, but there should be a law banning Christmas-themed promotion until at earliest, the day after Thanksgiving.  Has America's attention-span-deficient, multitasking-obsessed culture led marketing exec's to mirror our twitter feeds and facebook updates by incessantly running holiday promotions over a two month period? 



Seriously, is there anyone in America over the age of eight who does not know when Christmas is?  It's the only Birthday - besides my own - I don't need to set an Outlook reminder for.  It's not as if the date catches anyone by surprise - unlike my entire family (parent's included) who, three or four years ago, completely forgot my birthday.  I'm still in therapy over it.  Not really. 

I love the Holiday Shops at Bryant Park, but they opened their season on October 27th!  Are we now starting to lump Halloween into the "Holiday Season"?  If so, perhaps we can now put up our Holiday trees in October and just change out the decorations every month or so.

Marathon Sunday photo shoot

What's my favorite fall event?  Marathon Sunday!  The last couple of years, Trish and I came out to support our cousin, Al.  Al didn't run this year, but we decided to join the cheering throngs anyway at our usual spot, the mile 26 marker in Central Park. 

Mile 26 is a sadist's wet dream.  You get to see the limping, grimaced masses hurl themselves toward the finish line in return for a gold medal and a foil blanket.  It's also where all the cheering, happy, Oprah-live-your-best-life, sensitive souls go to restore their faith in humanity by screaming words of encouragement to an 80-year old man whose legs look like they're just a stride away from splintering in half.  Trish and I like to hang out there as well. 

All joking aside, it is the best spot for an inspirational moment.  I, myself, have broken down in tears on this very spot, usually cheering some kind of "challenged" person make their way toward the finish line surrounded by a group of friends in "Team (insert name here)" T-shirts.  But perhaps I'm not the best person to judge.  I cry at any movie that ends with a marriage proposal, surprise reunion or death from fatal disease.  This year, we dragged along Trish's friend Billy, a marathon virgin. 

Hopping the subway into town, we emerged at the 59th Street-Fifth Avenue subway stop to a wave of cheers and applause.  Not for us, of course, but for the runners along 59th Street.  We cut across the southwest corner of the park to our usual spot, right in front of the "26 mile" banner, next to a young, enthusiastic couple with noisemakers.  What better way to get into the spirit of the marathon, right?  Wrong.  This couple was hardcore. 

For those of you who've never attended the marathon before, most runners print their names on their t-shirt so you can cheer for them as they run by.  This couple managed to scream out every single name, non-stop for the whole hour we watched, all the while ringing their cowbell and screaming encouragements like "You're almost there!", "Looking good Inge and Yamahiro!" and "Keep up the good work - this is the best part!"  Really?  The best part?  Compared to what?

Anyway, with our voices horse from screaming and hands red from clapping, we decided we'd had enough marathon excitement for this year.  With the daylight savings sun fading fast, Trish whipped out her camera for a festive fall photo shoot in the park.

I've recently been updating Trish's photography website and noticed that her gallery lacked ethnic spice.  Enter Billy.  He's black.  'Nuff said?

Sadly, we waited just a bit too long to start our photo shoot.  Trish uses natural light and no flash, so all the pictures turned out just slightly blurry.  Still, they were fun and festive.

Godspell!

After being violated by an old lady in a bakery, it seemed fitting that I should cleanse my soiled soul with show tunes and bible stories. 

Circle in the Square

Sunday, October 30

7:30pm Performance

Godspell! is still in previews at the intimate Circle in the Square Theatre, hiding below the monstrous Gershwin and those Wicked witches, also a creation of composer Stephen Schwartz.  Word on the street (and on the chat boards) has been rough on the 40-year-old tuner that unapologetically embraces the trippy-hippy decade in which it premiered.  Prepared for the worse, I stepped into the theatre with extremely low expectations.  Oh well, watching a good train wreck is always fun.   Hell, if I’m lucky I might even get to see Hunter Parrish’s six pack.  I mean, how can you cast Parrish and not have him shirtless at some point?  On second thought, I guess it might be a bit awkward for teens and queens to be lusting after hot Jesus.  Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised.

Since it was an early Sunday night show, we invited Juan and Val along.  Their teaching schedule rarely permits a late night adventure in the city, especially on a school night.  As we approached the lobby, we were surprised (happily) to find a crowd much younger and hipper than your average Broadway audience.  Plenty of actor types, too, given the Sunday night timing.  Just before the show began, the director got on stage to announce they were taping this performance for future commercials and promotional material.  Seems the creative team wanted to stack the audience in their favor.  I made sure to freshen up my mascara and straighten my wig.  The theatre is in the round, so I’m bound to get some face time.    

The good news?  The ensemble cast is unique, diverse and extremely likeable.  Thanks in part to the many actor friends in the audience and all the cameras, the energy level onstage hit Charlie-Sheen-on-crack proportions.  And those voices - finally a cast of real singers in a Broadway show - no cookie cutter belter chicks or whiny faux pop tenors riffing the melody into oblivion. 

The updated musical arrangements didn’t really bother me either.  I actually enjoyed the 60s mod take on “Turn Back, O Man” and the rock star performance by Celisse Henderson of “Learn Your Lessons Well.” 

The prologue, now arranged for a cappella voices a la Glee, is impressive at first, but sort of fizzles out when the voices sing in counterpoint.  The magic of the closing section (as originally arranged) is hearing all those voices finally coming together.  Having the cast accompany themselves vocally from the top of the number sort of diminishes the end mash-up effect. 

The ending “Long Live God” also suffers from over-arranging.  The bits and pieces of songs interjected over the melody sound messy and seem to muddle the arrangement and diminish the power of the final stage imagery.  The original “Prepare Ye” sung over “Long Live God” is much cleaner and more powerful.

The bad news?  The book pretty much bites.  The show is really just a bunch of parables strung together with great tunes.  Sure, the second act is slightly more linear, but just barely.  If you didn’t already know the story, you’d likely have no idea what was happening.  Any foreign language visitor is probably thinking, “Wait a minute.  They were all having so much fun in the first act and now they’re gonna' string that Jesus guy up?”   

And character development?  Well, there isn’t any.  Of course, the incredibly hard-working cast makes you believe that there’s more “there” there, but ultimately, it’s a glorified Christian Saturday Night Live skit.  Though SNL hasn’t been this original or funny since the Gilda Radnor days.

If anything, it’s great to see how professionals are able to exult the material - through clever updates and ad libbing - beyond what you normally get to see at your local High School.  I’m just not sure if a cute chamber show warrants Broadway prices.  Though the tiny Theatre in the Square is a perfect fit for this size show.

I have to give Asian props to Telly Leung and his bit/tribute to classic movie moments.  I won’t say more because I don’t want to spoil it.  I’m so glad I’m not auditioning anymore because I’d have to compete with him.  We actually worked together years ago on a reading of a (terrible) new musical, back when I was a working actor and he was just a fetus.  I also got a kick out of Anna Maria Perez de Tagle’s unexpected tagalog rant.  Go, Asian power!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Parrish keeps his shirt on but does appear in boxers and a wife beater at the top of the show.  Impressive.  So don’t be late.