Thursday, December 27, 2012

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?


Shh, don't tell anyone. This is last year's
  tree but looks eerily like this year's tree.


Somehow, the family decided that on the one free day between the Conservatory’s biggest concert of the year (A Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular) and the Christian world’s most important holiday, we should host a party.   

Don't get me wrong, Val’s dad certainly deserves the most wonderful 70th birthday party humanly imaginable, but hosting it on that day is sort of the definition of “bad timing.”  No matter, with the catering genius of Mama Love - the mother of one of our favorite Conservatory alums, Zach Love - and a tray full of the best of the donated baked goods from last night’s after-concert reception, we were able to host dadski’s extended family with pride and panache (FYI we call Val’s Polish parents “momski” and “dadski” to differentiate them from our Filipino “mom” and “dad”).

The party went off without a hitch, though Trish and I had to make a beer run early on - those Poles can really put 'em down.  There was the usual gossip, disorderly behavior and inappropriateness that accompanies any family gathering, but after a rousing chorus of “Sto lat” and ice cream cake, all the aunts, uncles and cousins finally bid their adieus and we are able to enjoy the exquisite silence of an empty house.  I decide to spend the night in Jersey because I am just too tired to make the trek all the way back to my apartment in Queens.

With the extra couple of hours I save by foregoing a late night commute, I decide to head to bed early.  Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I’m planning to spend the day with a very special someone --- my work computer.  That’s right folks, after a whirlwind weekend of parties, concerts and rehearsals, I get to relax for a few hours at my desk high atop Times Square.  It may sound like torture to you, but I’ll get to sit in luxurious solitude while surfing the internet and watching Youtube in a deserted office.  Heaven.

Monday morning, while the rest of the civilized world is still dreaming of sugarplums, I’m on an NJ Transit bus into the city.  No matter, it will all be worth those few hours of alone time at my desk.  For later today, I know real life will again sink its dual claws of familial guilt and obligation into my jugular. 

As expected, the office is completely empty except for one or two fellow geniuses who have also decided to take a vacation from their vacation.  The hours fly by, but before I can get through another webisode of The Walking Dead it's time to clock out.  I descend the thirty six floors and exit into Times Square where the cold air slaps me back into reality. 
I rush back to my apartment in Queens to pick-up Juan’s Christmas gift.  I won’t go into the gory details, but the store I had ordered his gift from conveniently “forgot” to ship my order.  All I have time to do is change my clothes before heading straight back to Port Authority where I catch a bus back to Jersey.   

I arrive at Juan and Val’s house just in time to jump into their car and head to rehearsal.  Juan has hired us to fill out the chorus for that evening’s Christmas Eve mass at the Lutheran Church where he is the choir director. We rehearse, perform a prelude concert and make it through the service without any major mishaps.

Before the minister has a chance to chant her last “Amen,” we're back in the car and heading - where else - to another church.  We may worship the same God, but when you’re Catholic, Lutheran service doesn’t count.  With that in mind, as well as a healthy dose of parental guilt in our hearts, it's off to St. Helen's.

By now, the roads are covered in a deadly mix of slippery snow and slush.  No matter, Catholic guilt is way stronger than your basic human survival instinct, so risking life and limb, Juan slips and slides the car into a parking space.  We push open the church doors just in time to hear the choir singing the final chord of the prelude concert.  I'm guessing the median age of the St. Helen’s choir hovers around 110.  It sounds as if the whole group is harnessed into one of those old-fashioned weight loss machines that straps around your love handles and attempts to jiggle your fat away.  In the car home from the service, Juan, Val, Trish and I make an oath that we will smother one another with a pillow before allowing one of us to perform with a crazy-ass wobble. 

The mass is finally ended and we go in peace to love and serve the Lord (that's an inside joke for all you Catholics).  It's still snowing, but we make it home safe and sound.  Christmas Eve 2012 is now almost a blurred memory.  As the siblings and parents rush to secret corners of the house to finish wrapping gifts, I head upstairs and stumble onto the foam pad on the floor I lovingly refer to as "my bed."  I've traversed two states and crossed both the Hudson and East Rivers twice today.

“Wake ahp.  Eets time for brake-fahst!” I hear Antonia Banderas calling for me.  Am I dreaming?  Has my secret Christmas wish come true?  He continues yelling up at me until his voice slowly morphs into my mom’s Filipino-accented voice demanding we come downstairs for Christmas breakfast.  It is then that I remember that the priest at St. Helen’s, Father Jose (no joke), sounds eerily like Puss in Boots from Shrek.  Disappointed, I head downstairs for scrapple and eggs with the family.

Following breakfast, we gather in the living room and exchange gifts.  I make out pretty well - some nice sweaters, a couple of DVDs and a combination speaker/charging station for my iPhone.  The big surprise is for Juan and Val.  This year, me, Gerry and Trish decided to save up and help pay for some of the medical costs associated with Val’s pregnancy treatments.  As expected, along with our gift checks come Val's hysterical crying, but we are prepared and casual ignore her.

What we hadn't prepared for was the appearance of Magic Mike.  He made such an impression on me, that I gave him his own blog entry.

Anyway, after finally wiping the image of Matthew McConaughey's butt cheeks from my memory, I settle down for a long winter's nap.  When I wake, I head to the kitchen to help Val prepare Christmas dinner.  

Like this year's post-Thanksgiving "Thanksgiving" dinner, this year's Christmas dinner came pre-packaged and ready to re-heat.  No regrets here.  Delicious.

The Pinedas and Sierackis Christmas dinner 2012

Leaving no time for the tryptophan to take effect, I pack my bag and head for the bus stop to grab the late NJ Transit bus back to the city.  I need to sleep in my comfy bed tonight so I'm well rested.  I have another hot date with my work computer bright and early in the morning.

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Christmas with the Pinedas OR Things You Should Never Do With Your Mother

Above:  What I like to call the "Magic Mike" effect.
I have just two words for you, dear readers - Magic Mike

Thankful for Santa’s generosity and our hearts brimming with joy in celebration of Jesus’ birth, the Pineda and Sieracki clans gathered around the flat screen on Christmas afternoon for some additional family bonding time.  We decided to pop in the DVD of Magic Mike that Juan and Val had given Trish for her birthday earlier in the month.  I know, it’s not exactly holiday fare, but who wouldn’t want to spend the afternoon with a bevy of loveable male strippers? 

We’d laughed and ogled at the hilarious previews in the theatre, so we thought, “How bad could it be?”  At worst, we’d be in for a reverse-gender Showgirls-type catastrophe and have a few laughs.  At best, we might discovery a hidden gem a la Pretty Woman.

We should have pressed “eject” the moment Channing Tatum’s bare (though lovely) ass strutted across the screen and Olivia Munn’s perky breasts shone into our unshielded eyes. 

Nothing says Christmas like the sight of an engorged male member in a penis pump stretched across the widescreen in high definition blu-ray, am I right ladies?   My only consolation is that I don’t think my mom even realized what she was seeing.  Luckily, the movie cut to the next disturbing scene of drug abuse and wife-swapping before she had a chance to ask any questions.  Awkward. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think Magic Mike is necessarily a bad movie.  In fact, under different circumstances - i.e. not watching it on Christmas day with your mom - I would have better appreciated this surprisingly stark and brutal representation of the male stripper industry. 

Matthew McConaughey was born to play sleazy and there’s a reason Channing Tatum is People’s "Sexiest Man Alive."  But from the movie previews, you’d think Magic Mike was just a more hunky version of The Full Monty.  Oh well, live and learn.  Next year we'll just pop in The Little Mermaid.  Prince Eric is pretty foxy.

Click here to read more about the Pineda's (g-rated) holiday.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Bring It, Woolf, Drood, Scandalous, Christmas Story and Giant

What happened to November?  I can't believe Thanksgiving whizzed by and we're now deep into December.  Here's a quick and dirty rundown of my last couple of theatre-going experiences.  Check back soon for my Thanksgiving posts!  Not to worry, nobody lost a finger this year.

Bring It On: The Musical 
St. James Theatre
July 14, 2pm performance

I guess this show didn't leave much of an impression with me considering it's been nearly five months and I never bothered to post about it.  Not that I wasn't entertained.  It's fun, totally harmless, summer fluff - a High School Musical wannabe with a pop-pastiche score that sort of all runs together, but enjoyable nonetheless.

I'm not sure why they bothered to keep the movie title (other than name recognition) because the characters and story line aren't remotely similar to the movie.

The choreography and acrobatics are impressive, but after the hundredth pyramid I was sort of hoping someone would fall just to change it up a bit.

The cast is super talented and mostly buff, just like real high school students (that's sarcasm, folks).  Of course, all your loveable stereotypes are on display: nerdy-fat-girl-who-blossoms-into-cool-chick, preppy-white-girl-fish-out-of-water-at-ghetto-school, sassy-finger-snapping-black-girl-with-homegirl-posse, dorky-but-cute-techie-nerd, dumb-but-loveable-cheerleader-jock-boy, latin-homeboy-with-borderline-offensive-accent, seemingly-innocent-blonde-underclassman-who's-actually-a-scheming-bitch, and - well, you get the idea.  I do give props to the production team for including a cross-dressing, gay character even if the character is - you guessed it - a sassy black boy.  You go, girl!

In the end, it has a nice message about acceptance and individuality, if you're into that.  The creative team does attempt to seem subversive, but in the end, the whole enterprise still has the whiff of Disney-fied cleanliness.  It's entertaining, if predictable, and definitely geared to captivate the tween-friendly, Justin Bieber demographic.

And the lyricist gets extra points for somehow finding a way to end a song with the lead character belting the word "biyatch."  

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Booth Theatre
October 2, 8PM

Has it really been only seven years since the last Broadway revival of this modern American classic starring husky-voiced Kathleen Turner and quirky clown Bill Irwin?  The current production lacks the same star power but to the benefit of the text, which isn't hampered by a movie star persona.

Tracy Letts and Amy Morton give a more naturalistic performance then some of their more famous predecessors.  Morton in particular gives a more sympathetic portrayal and consequently changes the usual dynamic between George and Martha.  They now seem to be more equally abusive rather than having Martha just dominate George at the outset.

When I saw this play for the first time years ago, I had no idea where the story was heading and by the time act three rolled around (yes, it's three acts long but flies by), wasn't sure if they were all going to kill each other or have an orgy.  But that's the beauty of the play and the writing.  It's totally over the top, but anyone who's been in a relationship can identify with the manipulation, passive-aggressive behavior and general fucked-up-ness that comes with a bad long-term relationship marred with regret and disappointment.  I mean, who hasn't imagined clubbing their loved one to death and then sleeping with the neighbors younger and hotter spouse?  What, just me?

Anyway, if you're looking for intense - I mean really intense - psychological drama, check out Virgina Woolf.  It makes "Grey's Anatomy" look like an episode of "Friends."

For another funny, yet completely accurate review, check out Bros on Broadway at Theatremania.com, a new feature where "ordinary" guys are asked to see and then write reviews of current Broadway offerings.  High-larious!

The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Studio 54
October 25, 8PM

I missed this show in its original run on the Broadway, but I've always had a fondness for the score and for that freakish high "E" belted by La Buckley in the finale.  I'll leave Seth Rudetsky to explain the a-mah-zingness of it all (from his deconstruction series on Youtube).



Stephanie Block comes thrillingly close to achieving the same goose-bump moment, her jaw dropped so far open to make space for the note that I could nearly see her uterus from my balcony seat.  But I digress...

The only production I've seen of Drood was years ago at a high school.  And judging from that production, you'd think Drood was a humorless snooze-fest. Granted, I'm not convinced it's a great show, but it's amazing what a top notch cast and a strong directorial viewpoint can do for a solid, if less than dramatically perfect, show.

The success of the current revival relies heavily on its cast of Broadway A-listers and their ability to charm the audience.  The show-within-a-show structure - a traveling British Music Hall troupe presenting "The Mystery of Edwin Drood" - allows the cast freedom to improvise and address the audience directly.  The constant winking and mugging to the audience, which I usually despise, works perfectly in this context. 

The gimmick, of course, is that the audience gets to choose the ending based on a vote.  As the murderer, our audience chose Jessie Mueller's deliciously campy and mildly politically incorrect take on Helena Landless, the exotic orphan twin from Ceylon.  I'm so glad her career wasn't sunk by that abysmal revival of On a Clear Day... a couple seasons back. 

Yes, Chita Rivera's cockney accent disappears almost as soon as she's uttered her first line and her two ballads are now up-tempos given her inability to sustain a note, but who cares?  She's Chita friggin' Rivera!  A miscast legend is still a legend, says I. And she looks ravishing in a red wig.

Costumes, sets and lighting design are gorgeous.  Sound, however, is an issue and the sometimes overly wordy lyrics are often lost beneath a tinny sound design.  Nonetheless, unlike my endless night at that high school theatre years ago, this evening of frothy fun flew by (how's that for fancy alliteration?). 

Scandalous
Neil Simon Theatre
October 26, 8PM 

Really?  Did no one see this coming?  Is Kathie Lee Gifford so powerful and intimidating that no one dared say, "You're show sucks!" to her face during the show's years of out-of-town tryouts?

Carolee Carmelo is still a Goddess, but they didn't even give her one good power ballad for the gays to cream over.  Seriously, it's Carolee Carmelo, for heavens sake!  Make that gorgeous bitch - and I mean this with all the gay love in my blackened heart - belt a high "E".  We deserve something in return for this very expensive nap time.  Well, okay, I guess you did give us Ed Watts in a loin cloth.  But that doesn't make up for the bland score and lyrics, ugly set, lack of character development or snooze of a book.  It's not exactly thrilling to have the main character narrate her own story by stating, "First I did this.  Then I did this.  And then I did this."  I'm not exaggerating. 

It's not the worse night I've spent at the theatre, but I'd rather hate something with a passion than be utterly bored.  I actually found myself staring at the glossy, white, false proscenium thinking, "Ooh, it's so glittery!" while a faux gospel number chugged away on stage - not a good sign.

There's definitely a compelling story here, but perhaps it's in need of a different writer and composer (but keep Carolee!).

A Christmas Story
Lunt-Fontanne Theatre
November 8, 7PM

It's been a while since I've actually fully enjoyed a holiday-themed Broadway show - probably A Christmas Carol way back in the roaring 90s.  Remember the 90s?  When producers didn't have to announce that it was inappropriate to text during a performance?

Maybe I'm just a sucker for the Holidays, but I started to get misty-eyed during the opening production number.  Then again, I weep every time I watch Colin Firth's character propose to Aurelia - sniff, sniff - in Love Actually, so perhaps I'm not the best barometer.

Anyway, the musical closely follows the movie plot (or so I've been told, since I've never actually watched the movie all the way through) but adds some sassy production numbers including a clever chorus line of lamp-shade legs.

The real joy in this production comes from the ensemble of triple threat child actors - except for maybe the one who had to keep glancing sideways because she couldn't remember her choreography.  I won't name any names, but it was the one that wasn't white.  And yes, I'm jealous of a 10-year-old girl and bitter, nastiness is my coping mechanism.

Where did they find these little freaks anyway?  And I mean that with all the love in my heart. Caroline O'Connor is incredible (to me she'll always be that nasty bitch from Moulin Rouge) but she might as well not be on the stage when little Luke Spring starts tapping next to her.

John Bolton and Erin Dilly are a perfect Midwestern couple.  But when did Erin Dilly become a "mom" type?  Man, I'm getting old.  Dan Lauria has the perfect warmth and charm as the narrator when he wasn't stumbling on his lines.  Though given it was a first preview, I'll cut him some slack.

Pasek & Paul have created score that has a traditional sound and structure with a hint of contemporary musical theatre a la their recent off-Broadway show, Dogfight.  It's a welcome relief from all the revivals and the now omnipresent faux-pop and jukebox scores pandering to tourists and bored housewives.  I'm not saying they're all bad, but it's nice to have variety.

The physical production is mostly beautiful but the flimsy fake proscenium screams bus-and-truck tour. 

Giant
Public Theatre
November 21, 1PM

Seating charts lie and sometimes row B is the front row.  I know, crazy, right?  Okay, now that I've got that off my chest...

At first, I was supremely uncomfortable and self conscious sitting front row center.  My knees were literally touching the edge of the stage as I contorted my neck to view the raised playing area.  Every so often I'd make eye contact with a cast member and then quickly avert my gaze in embarrassment as if I was some creepy old man watching a playground full of kids at recess.  But then I thought, "Fuck it, I paid for my ticket.  I'll ogle the cast all I want.  And then I'll send them my chiropractor's bill."

With that, I was finally able to relax.  And like a demented serial killer, I started to notice tiny details - the frayed netting on Kate Baldwin's wig, Brian D'Arcy James' bushy forearm hair, the trickling sweat on PJ Griffith's brow and neck, the shiny plastic face of the fake Mexican baby.  Unfortunately, years of theatre-going combined with dozens of directing and choreographing gigs have spoiled my eyes to the "illusion" of theatre.  Oh well, I was still able to appreciate this well-crafted, if flawed work.  But from the front row?  Never again.

Michael John LaChiusa has crafted his most accessible score to date.  In fact, it's downright melodic.  Unfortunately, it also suffers from repetition and could use some judicious cutting.  Several characters sing more than one song about the same issue or problem.

I admire LaChiusa's ambition as well as the show's scale and scope, but there were times I was sure the show was ending only to have the stage lights come up on another scene.  Conversely, the penultimate scene seemed rushed and the finale abrupt.  It was as if the creative team arbitrarily determined the show's length in order to avoid paying the orchestra overtime.

The cast is uniformly excellent with the appealing Kate Baldwin (let me suggest her now for the rumored Lincoln Center revival of The King and I) and Katie Thompson as stand outs.  As much as I admire the talented Bobby Steggert, he seems to be cast in the same quirky, misunderstood, man-child roles over and over again.

Though wonderfully acted, Michelle Pawk strains uncomfortably with the vocals, consistently singing under pitch at the performance I attended.  It worked for the character, but makes me wonder if there might be some vocal damage there.

The physical production evokes dozens of locations beautifully while making the small Newman stage feel expansive.

It's also a treat to hear a full orchestra live, especially given the beautiful Copland-esque orchestral arrangements.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Giving Thanks to Bobby Flay


I think the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving is way over-rated.  I mean, I’m all for family and obscene gluttony, but do you think that sweet, white-haired granny was thankful for getting up at four in the morning to shove a hormone-jacked turkey into the oven for that brood of grinning lazy-asses who just stopped by for a free meal?  Notice the only person in the photo without a huge, toothy grin is granny.   Her and gramps are definitely putting on a polite face, but what I see under those wire-rimmed glasses is a thought bubble that reads, “You ungrateful bastards only come and visit me once a year and then expect me to cook you a bacchanalian feast.  Damn you all!”

Thankfully, the Pineda clan decided against a Rockwellian feast but instead opted for a civilized sit down at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain.  Why slave in the kitchen all day when you can have illegal immigrants slave for you in a fancy New York restaurant?  For less than the price of a Broadway show, you get a gourmet meal served to you by an army of doting waiters and hostesses.  What's not to be thankful for?

We stuffed ourselves silly on some rather un-Thanksgiving-like choices - rack of lamb, pork chops and prime rib - no gobblers on our table.  For eighty bucks, I'm not going to order something I can get in a Hungry-Man meal out of our grocery store freezer.  Unfortunately, dad just recently underwent oral surgery so he had to settle for the less meaty, though tasty, salmon option.

This was actually the second time we've taken advantage of Bobby Flay's culinary skills over the holiday.  Two year's ago, Juan, Val and I gave thanks here when the rest of the clan was unable to make the trip up to Jersey for the holiday. 

Following the meal, we waddled down Sixth Avenue with stomachs distended and made an impromptu stop at Radio City for some picture taking.  Swept up by the holiday spirit and the crowd gathered outside, Juan and Val decided we needed some post-meal time with the Rockettes.  So with two minutes to show time, Juan got in line and bought tickets for the whole family.

I've seen my share of Radio City Christmas Spectaculars given the fact I basically followed my good friend Chris around the country during his heyday as a Radio City dancer and Santa understudy.  No matter how many times you see them, those damn Rockettes never fail to disappoint.  Even with the music hall's new, cheesy digital backdrop, you can't help but catch some Christmas spirit with all those high kicking legs.  My only gripe is the director's blatant attempt to capture the teen boy demographic with that awful (and painfully overlong) video game sequence.  If you can't get a boy to pay attention with 50 half-naked women on stage, a video game ain't gonna' help.  My dad actually fell asleep during that sequence.  'Nuff said?

Val, Trish, Me, mom and dad at Thanksgiving dinner.  Juan used the fancy new panorama setting on his iPhone.

The only drawback to a restaurant Thanksgiving is that there are no leftovers to gnaw on when you get the munchies at midnight after throwing-up your dinner.  We managed to solve this little dilemma by throwing a second, post-Thanksgiving "Thanksgiving" dinner the following Saturday.  You may well ask, “Dearest Fausto, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of going out and having a restaurant Thanksgiving?”  Not if you order your post-Thanksgiving "Thanksgiving" dinner from a supermarket, silly.

Yes, thanks to the lovely folks at Martin's (formerly Ukrop's) supermarket in Richmond, we had a full Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings pre-cooked and ready for reheating.  No peeling potatoes or turkey basting this year.  And you still get your bag-o-leftovers for the rest of the week.  I'd say that's a win-win all around.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Award for worst theatre etiquette goes to...

After experiencing texting tweeners, ringing cell phones, snackers (can you really not go 2 hours without stuffing your fat faces, people?) and bad hygiene, I was sure I had seen and smelled it all at the theatre.  But I guess I was wrong.

Today's award for worst theatre etiquette goes to the twenty something hipster at the urinal next to me at the Public Theatre (I was seeing Giant) who, for the length of his 30-second pee, could not pry his eyes away from his smartphone.  He literally whipped it out (his wee wee and his phone), let it hang and drain and then proceeded to check his email.  Or perhaps to live blog?  No matter, there are some things not meant for multi-tasking. 

I do hope he washed his hands and wiped down his phone after.
"I'd rather be nine people's favorite thing thana hundred people's ninth favorite thing."

Jeff Bowen, Lyrics "[Title of Show]"