Merrily at the Movies

What marketing genius planned the digital, one-night-only theatrical showing of Stephen Sondheim and George Furth's flawed but beloved musical Merrily We Roll Along to coincide with the first game of the World Series?  And yes, this sports-phobic gay man actually knew that yesterday was the first game of the World Series.  But only because - full disclosure - I had to try and find someone a hotel room in Boston last night.

So anyone not interested in the game - that would be most wives, girlfriends and nerdy gay dudes (moi) - had the perfect entertainment alternative.  That fact alone probably accounts for the sold out showings in every NYC theatre.  Flaming theatre queen (and nerd) that I am, I purchased my tickets weeks ago and invited my friend Dan, another Merrily junkie, to join me.  This was the first Fathom Events showing I've attended, so I was excited to see if the movie theatre format would stand up to a live performance.

Merrily has always been one of those shows that critics have shit on but that Sondheim disciples like myself will defend to the death because of that fantastic score.  Admittedly, it was great to see yet another version of the oft revised book, but ultimately this production left me cold and (I can't believe I'm admitting this - sorry, Mr. Sondheim) a bit sleepy.  Not that there weren't some truly thrilling moments ("Old Friends," "Opening Doors," "Our Time," "Not a Day Goes By"), but for the most part, the rest of the show played like a Mexican telanovela, granted a very sophisticated one.

For me, the acting sometimes felt forced and just a tad over-the-top (i.e. Jenna Russell's Mary in the opening scene, though I quite enjoyed her second act).  Perhaps a result of theatrical performances being magnified and projected in close-up, twenty-feet high on a movie screen?

Mark Umbers' Franklin Shepard was charming and likable and created an unusually sympathetic take on what is often considered the villain of the piece.  He has a pleasant enough singing voice, but his hunched physicality and high-pitched speaking voice in the second act (to signify a more insecure, youthful Franklin) seemed a bit too obvious and completely unnecessary.  He can shrug his shoulders all he wants, but Umbers is just way to attractive to make anyone believe that he was at any time an insecure nerd.

Damian Humbley's performance as nebbish Charlie was a bit one note, though I very much enjoyed his less manic take on "Franklin Shepard Inc."  Humbley's Charlie didn't really seem to take much of a journey, though perhaps that's more a fault of the writing (and/or direction) than the acting.

The ensemble was competent enough, though their main function in this production was to spin the on-stage piano around and strike furniture from the stage.  And the costumes, especially for the 60s era, were just plain hideous.  Did the designer purposely try to make everyone look washed out and clunky in a color palate of black on beige on brown?  And poor Jenna Russell.  I could have cried every time she stepped on stage in yet another brown muumuu.

And why did everyone seem to become more youthful (the play moves backward in time) over the course of the play except for Charlie?  Did he really only own one pair of glasses over 20 years?

This production was hailed by critics and was a huge hit in London, but quite frankly, I don't get the hype.  The less than enthusiastic audience in my theatre seemed to tolerate the evening rather than truly enjoy themselves.  And I doubt the movie theatre format had anything to do with the chilly response.  Plenty of people were hooting, hollering and clapping during the Les Mis movie.  Though I did see a showing in Jersey, so scratch that.

Or maybe it was just the annoying queen seated behind us who could not stop commenting and loudly sighing to ensure that everyone was painfully aware of how miserable he was and how much he hated Merrily.  Why would you pay for a ticket to a movie of a musical you hate?  

To be fair, I should probably place some of the blame on the movie director.  All those quick cuts and close-ups actually lessened the impact of several scenes.  One glaring example of bad editing was during Beth and Frank's wedding scene.  The movie director never panned back to show that Mary was singing about/to Frank.  I know it's sort of obvious in context, but I think the constant cuts back-and-forth between Mary and Beth actually diluted the impact of the scene and song.  We never got the visual of happy Beth and miserable Mary both singing to Frank at the same time.

And what was up with the 30-minute "making of" video shown directly before the performance?  I do not need random audience members in a theatre lobby telling me how awesome the production is.  You're preaching to the choir, gurl.  I mean, seriously, no one is buying a ticket to Merrily because Captain Phillips is sold out.  And why would you show extended excerpts from a performance we're just about to watch?  Talk about spoilers.

A Vegas virgin books a flight from hell

August 30, 2013 >>

It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Some crazy family turmoil has wreaked havoc on my normally relaxed August.  But in a last minute change of plans, my on-again-off-again Labor Day weekend in Vegas was suddenly back on again. It's taken 43 years, but I'm finally popping my Vegas cherry.

I twiddled my thumbs through a half day at work. But at 2pm on the dot, I clocked out and dashed home. With my boarding pass loaded on my iPhone and lucky fedora in hand, I jumped a gypsy cab to JFK for my Friday night flight to Sin City. The travel gods seemed to be on my side as I sailed through traffic on the Van Wyck, breezed through airport security and boarded my flight without incident.

And then it all fell to shit.

We pulled away from the terminal on time but then sat on the tarmac for what seemed to be hours (it was actually only about 45 minutes). The pilot announced they were having difficulty with a light on their control panel. I broke out in what I assumed was a nervous sweat, but soon realized the vents were blowing hot air. The cabin temperature was rising as panic began to spread amongst a cabin full of irate New Yorkers. 

Now, New Yorkers are generally good-natured pragmatists. But get in the way of a weekend in Vegas and all bets are off. Especially when most have already knocked back a few at the airport bar and are sweating their balls off.   

It seemed likely a few of the more lubricated passengers might storm the cockpit when the captain finally came on the PA. He explained that the AC had been shut off in order to reset the mysterious, malfunctioning light. His explanation seemed to temporarily appease the group.

We sat in silence (and in our own sweat) for another fifteen minutes before receiving another announcement from the cockpit.

We’re heading back to the terminal. The technicians can’t repair the problem.

People started audibly cursing and groaning. But at least the AC was working again.

Another fifteen minutes passed before the next announcement.  

All the gates are full and we’ll have to wait on the tarmac until a gate opens up. 

I could feel the passengers' collective anger rising. I’m sure this is what the streets of LA felt like just before the Rodney King riots.

We sat for another ten interminable minutes before another announcement.  

Flights are backed up and all the gates are still full. Instead of sitting on the tarmac, we're taxi-ing to a landing pad where we’ll deboard onto the runway and buses will drive everyone back to the terminal.

  

Now people are pissed. The obnoxious young couple next to me (wife continuously answering and reading texts and husband with shoes off adjusting and picking at his crotch like he's got a bad case of crabs or the largest penis on earth stuffed into a mini thong) got on their cell phone and booked seats on another flight. But despite the announcement, our plane sat motionless on the runway for another fifteen minutes. And then we heard the disembodied voice of the captain again.

A gate has opened up at another terminal. So instead of busing you back to your original gate, we'll drive around to terminal 2 where you'll be given further instructions.

At least we weren't going to be emptied out onto the blazing tarmac to play chicken with passing airliners.

As we arrived at terminal 2, my annoying seatmates made a dash for the door, pushing aside mothers holding babies and an elderly woman in an attempt to make their next flight. But they're foiled in first class by the evil stewardess, who won't unlock the cabin door. Karma's a bitch.

Another announcement.

The technicians should be able to fix the problem pretty easily now that we're parked at the terminal. So this flight will likely depart later tonight.  'm just waiting to see if they'd like us to deboard or have you wait on the aircraft while they make the necessary repairs.

I'm pretty sure I've been teleported into an episode of Lost and am now languishing in purgatory. I probably should have taken those ten commandments more seriously. Oh well, I decided I'd just sit back, relax and bask in the glow of the rising tempers around me.

The ground crew has just asked that we deboard this flight as we make the necessary repairs. We ask that you please stay close to the gate for further instructions.  

There was suddenly a flurry of activity as overhead compartment doors swung open and carry-on luggage whizzed by. I sat patiently as panicked party-goers rushed out of the plane looking for alternate flight options. I was in no hurry since I knew the last flight to Vegas was long since sold out. I'd either wait and get on this flight or go home and head out again in the morning.

Another 30 minutes crawled by. Several passengers stake out stools at the nearby bar, drowning their disappointment in beer and Jäger shots.  Finally, we got another announcement.

Attention passengers on Delta flight 1629. We are changing aircraft and moving you to gate 61 where we will begin boarding your new flight at approximately 9:45. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Finally, after several hours of sitting, swearing and being shuffled around terminals, some definitive news. Our flight's angry mob of passengers proceeds en masse to our new gate on the other side of the terminal. My phone is at nearly 10% power but there's not an empty socket to be found. I turn off my phone so there will be enough power left to contact Trish when I arrive.

Three and a half hours after boarding my first flight, I'm finally on my way to Vegas.

For the Love of Audra! Audra McDonald at Avery Fisher

This guy

Who’s got two thumbs and squealed like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert upon hearing the announcer utter the five most thrilling words in the English language:  “Please welcome Ms. Audra McDonald”? 

This guy.

Yup, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I have an unholy obsession with all things Audra.  When it was announced she was giving a concert at Avery Fisher, I went online immediately - well, after weeping uncontrollably with joy - to purchase tickets.  I haven’t missed a single one of her New York appearances (Broadway or concert) since she first won my heart as spunky Carrie Pipperidge in Lincoln Center's 1994 Carousel revival.

I know, I'm just a cult affiliation and scraggly beard short of "stalker" status.

Trish nearly gave me a coronary, though, when she called my office ten minutes to five (the concert started at 7 PM) explaining she was still in Jersey and was going to hop in her car right then and drive straight to Lincoln Center.  I wished her luck, hung up the phone, ripped open a bag of cheddar and sour cream Ruffles and started binge eating. 

Not that Trish’s situation had any bearing on my attendance.  Hell no.  But I was experiencing sympathy stress just imagining what it would be like stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel knowing Audra was emoting to my empty seat. 

These thoughts only fueled my paranoia.  There was no way I was going to be late.  I left my midtown office immediately so I'd have a reasonable two hours to make the 15 block trek uptown to Lincoln Center.  You can never be too cautious when it comes to Audra.

When I exited the subway at Lincoln Center I texted Trish for an update.  She was still stuck at the Lincoln Tunnel.  I did what any sensible super-fan would do and headed straight to the box office, left Trish's ticket and headed to my seat.  Nothing is more important than family, except Audra.  Trish would have to fend for herself. 

Because the concert was being taped live for PBS broadcast, the usher gestapo was out in full force exclaiming, “No late entry.  You cannot leave the theatre once the performance has started.  There is no intermission.”  These weren’t your typical grumpy, elderly ushers.  Oh no, for a live Audra taping you get burly, secret service types in tuxes with white, curly phone-cord earpieces.

Since the concert was also a benefit for Lincoln Center, the audience skewed into two very distinct demographics.  Seated up front with their stretched-faced wives were the wealthy elite, all tuxedos and bored expressions.  Sure, they had an idea who Audra was - "that black woman from the TV show" - but they weren't true fans.  Meanwhile, the more youthful, skinny-legged-pant-wearing, theatre nerd contingent was scattered about, delegated to the rear orchestra and balconies. 

At 7 PM on the dot, the house lights went down and the concert began.  Huh?  Lincoln Center?  Gala event?  Wealthy New Yorkers?  On time?

Trish’s unused seat mocked me with its empty stare, but once Audra uttered her first sung phrase, “I happen to like New York…” everything else became irrelevant.  By the end of Audra’s second number (her now signature version of Jason Robert Brown's “Stars and the Moon”) I resigned myself to the fact that Trish was going to miss the concert, leaving me with a super convenient place to lay out my coat and bag.

Then as if on cue, the back doors swung open during our applause and a horde of latecomers came streaming through.  According to Trish, there were so many rich, privileged old people screaming and complaining about not being permitted late entry, the house managers had no choice but to let them in.

Regarding Audra’s performance, well, what can I say?  She was, as usual, magnificent and looked gorgeous in a teal gown.  Here's the NY Times' rave.  My only disappointment was that she didn't perform much new material.  Tonight's program was largely a repeat of her 2011 Carnegie Hall concert which also happens to be the material included in her upcoming new release "Go Back Home."  Even so, Trish and I were in tears as soon as Audra started in on the 9/11-themed "I'll Be Here."  And I have a feeling in about six months casting directors all over the country will want to shoot themselves after Audra's rendition of Goldrich & Heisler's "Baltimore" makes the song an audition staple.

Unfortunately, the sound in the theatre was pitiful.  You'd think the nation's premier performing arts venue would have some idea about setting sound levels for a solo singer and orchestra, but apparently not.  There was loud microphone feedback during a couple of very dramatic musical moments.  And for most of the concert, it sounded like Audra was singing into the mouth of a very large cave - all muffled and echo-y.

Oh well, Audra is still Audra.  Hopefully, they'll be able to do some magic in the editing room before the "Live from Lincoln Center" telecast.  I'm setting my DVR right now.

Welcome to Minnesota!

Scenic Minnesota from our rental car window.

With the last performance of Into the Woods now just a painful memory and rehearsals for The Music Man crushing my already empty soul, the Pinedas took a weekend jaunt to that vacation wonderland known as Minnesota to celebrate the nuptials of cousin Marion to her Midwestern beau, John.  Nothing against our red state brethren, but stepping out into that flat, barren countryside wasn't exactly the picker-upper I was looking for given my already mentally (and physically) weakened state.  I'm sure it's a green and bountiful land of plenty in the summer months, but in late April the lifeless fields could double for the Plains of Mars.

With an almost 2-hour flight delay, I arrived at MSP cranky and nauseous from the "Moroccan" chicken dinner (a soggy chicken breast over a flavorless bed of couscous) served in first class.  That's right, bitches, since I anticipated a horrible work day and an even more horrible (horribler?) travel day, I shelled out the extra hundred bucks to sit with the big wigs up front. Sadly, my $100 dinner left me reaching for the barf bag and a roll of tums.  Real silverware cannot mask the taste of a nasty meal.

Juan, Val and Trish picked me up at the airport and we immediately headed to the nearest McDonald's in order to obliterate the memory of my in-flight meal.  Nothing like cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets at midnight when you're stuck at a budget hotel off the interstate.

The wedding was fine.  It was basically just a lot of crying and the usual dubious fashion choices.  Juan, Val, Trish and I sang those perennial hits, Ave Maria and Panis Angelicus (yawn).  But the highlight of the morning was the wedding venue, The Cathedral of Saint Paul.  It rivals anything you'll see in the European capitals of the world.  It was truly a pleasure to sing sans microphone under that gorgeous acoustic dome.

The bride looked radiant in part thanks to Trish, who only hours earlier was applying Marion's make-up while frantically attaching hairpieces to the bride's panicked head.

Incidentally, we had to email our performance resumés weeks in advance to the musical director for his approval to sing at the ceremony.  I know, pretty ballsy, huh?  I can understand wanting to maintain some quality control, but if I'm shelling out two grand to rent the place out for an hour, I should have the option of letting my tone deaf Aunt Bertha cross that line off her bucket list if I so desire.

The awe-inspiring dome inside the Cathedral of Saint Paul.

I'm sorry, but only a gay can carry off orange pants and a pink and purple-striped bow-tie.  I sport my spiffy duds with my aunt Clodelsa (Tita Girlie) at the reception held at the scenic Schaar's Bluff Gathering Center.

Close up of Trish and a new relative behind us.

The reception was an extended affair with the wedding party showing up nearly two hours late due to an incompetent photographer.  It's 2013, dude.  Any loser with a digital camera can quickly snap pictures and by sheer luck, end up with a portfolio of usable shots.  This lumbering dolt literally took 30 seconds between each shot and an eternity setting up between each pose.  The extent of his direction was, "Everyone turn in and squeeze close together."  He didn't even bother to get up from his chair, so all the group family shots are from an oh-so-unflattering upward angle.  And who shoots with their subjects facing into direct sunlight?  We're already slanty-eyed Asians.  We don't need the extra squinting from the glaring Minnesota sun.  OK, rant over.

Of course, the situation would probably have been hilarious had we all been drunk.  But there was no alcohol at the reception so we had to deal with the photographer's shenanigans stone cold sober.  Oh well, at least there was a beautiful view and lots of family to commiserate with.

Val's sad look when she discovered no alcohol would be served at the reception.

After waiting two hours, cousin Tiffany's daughter (and flower girl), Penny, could no longer contain her hunger and raided the buffet early.  She sneaks behind a table, hoping to hide her ill-gotten goods from the menacing caterers.

The blushing bride finally arrived flanked by Cali friends, Lea and Cathy.

Marion and John cutting the cake.

The thought of going the rest of the weekend without alcoholic lubrication left Val, Juan, Trish and I in a panic.  So the four of us volunteered to stop by the liquor store to stock up for the after party.  With a case of beer, a couple bottles of wine and five bottles of champagne in hand, we headed to the "haunted house" for more food and a champagne toast.

Before the party, Juan, Val Trish and I had to make our pilgrimage to one of the Midwest's most revered destinations, Culver's.  For those of you who have not experienced the joys of a butter burger and frozen custard, you are missing out on a truly spiritual culinary experience.

The "haunted house" above bears a striking resemblance to Norman Bates creepy abode in Psycho.  Marion and her family rented the house for the weekend instead of staying at a hotel.  Though the exterior was slightly off-putting (Tita Girlie refused to step foot in the house until we confirmed the lack of dessicated corpses), the inside was surprisingly warm and comfortable - a perfect location to drink and relax after a long day of smiling and feigning interest in idle chitchat.

Finally, after a few drinks, Val let's loose with Tiffany's other daughter, Lily.  There's apparently an old chair somewhere in the house that's now missing its upholstering.

The groom's sister, Jane, shows the rest of us how they throw down in Minnesota.

With the wedding day festivities drawing to a close, we hit the sack early to rest up for the post-wedding brunch the next morning.

For our last day in Minnesota, we got up early to enjoy our last complimentary pre-brunch "snack" at the hotel's breakfast buffet (processed chicken cutlets with sausage gravy - I kid you not).  Soon after, we packed up the car and headed back to the haunted house for a final congratulatory hug for the newlyweds.  Still queasy from my earlier "snack," I still managed to snarf down an extra large piece of the groom's cake.  I never turn down free baked goods.

When traveling to Minneapolis, it's heresy to leave without paying homage to America's number one past time - shopping!  So even though I only had a couple of hours to make my flight, I bid good-bye to our relatives and new family and hightailed it to Mall of America, the USA's largest indoor shopping mall.

520 stores, 50 restaurants, an indoor amusement park and water park and an aquarium.  Yes, an aquarium in the middle of land-locked Minnesota.  God bless America.

Juan, Val and Tita Maxine (right - who also joined us on our little shopping excursion) admire the indoor roller coaster in Nickelodeon Universe.  Sadly, the park only sells days passes so we just settled for watching the screaming teens whiz by us.  With only an hour of shopping time, I was still able to do a couple hundred bucks worth of damage to my debit card.  Au revoir, Minneapolis!

MORE PICTURES HERE

Sondheim’s Passion and Thongs Gone Wrong (though not at the same time)

Oh, the magic of Powerpoint.  Click to enlarge.

With temperatures peaking just above freezing here in the Big Apple, it’s inevitable we spot our first glimpse of douchebaggery in the form of fratboys donning over-sized basketball shorts to prove their dude-worthiness.  This ridiculous display of testosterone ranks just below fist bumping on the douchebag scale (see diagram at left).  On a side note, it's amazing what you can accomplish on your lunch hour at work and have access to Powerpoint.

Anyway, this beautiful spring day also marked the completion of my 2012 tax returns.  Thankfully, Uncles Sam will be direct depositing a nice fat Birthday check into my bank account shortly.

Speaking of douchebags, no self-respecting bro would be caught dead without a tasty ho at his side.  To that end, I present Exhibits A, B and C of the species hobagueus skankilia, as each emerges from her long winter hibernation to entrap the male of her species (Author's Note:  No hos were harmed during filming).

Exhibit A:  We stumbled upon this wily thong-stress prowling the happy hour crowds around the bar at Linen Hall in the East Village, where Trish and I had dinner following Passion (scroll down for review).  In order to mask our covert photo shoot, I leaned in for a candid shot with a mouthful of what is likely our subject's favorite after-drink snack, spicy nuts (pun intended).  Our subject - an NYU law student, if my ears didn't deceive - was last seen lasciviously beer-goggling two young males of the species, petting their sweaters and slurring softly, "Your nithe."  Things aren't looking very bright for the future of the American judicial system.

Exhibit A-1:  A closer look at our subject's "assets."  Can she honestly not feel the draft?

Exhibit B:  Though fully covered, this desperate lass from the ill-informed "House of Black-Is-Slimming," stopped at nothing to squeeze into the six inches of unoccupied space between our table and the bar.  In her sad attempt to cockblock our thong-stress (just visible at left), she freely flaunted her ample wares right in our faces - literally.  Luckily, I was able to move my plate away from the edge of the table before she imprinted on my steak sandwich.

Exhibit C:  This rare sighting of the elusive afro'd-ass-cracker was captured by my work colleague, Tina, on her way home on the exotic Q train.  Notice our subject's exaggerated hunched position, used to obtain maximum crack exposure and reflection on the seat back.  Friends, don't let friends ride the subway bare-assed.

I suspect that as the weather continues to improve, this type of gag-inducing, inappropriate behavior will only increase in frequency.  And speaking of socios-exual politics...

Passion
Classic Stage Company
Saturday, April 6, 3pm

I was giddy as an 11-year-old girl at a One Direction concert as I waited outside the CSC to see another one of my straight-crush (sorry Audra and Carolee), musical theatre idols, Judy Kuhn, perform the lead role in Passion.  I hadn't seen her live on-stage since my senior year in high school (gulp - 25 years ago!), in my first Broadway musical, Les Miserables.

Trish, cursed with bad subway karma, nearly missed the show.  But thanks to the traffic Gods and plain dumb luck, she ditched the subway, jumped into a cab and with two minutes to spare pulled up in front of the theatre.  We managed to take our seats just in time for the dimming house lights.

I'm happy to report that Ms. Kuhn did not disappoint this aging theatre queen.  She gives a subtle and almost - almost - sympathetic portrayal of the obsessive Fosca.  I mean, really, as written, even a brilliant performance by Mother Theresa would not likely produce a completely sympathetic Fosca.

Ms. Kuhn sounds gorgeous and teases the audience with the strategic use of her now signature Florence Vassy belt.  Otherwise, her singing is beautifully controlled and buttery smooth.  And you can never have too much butter according to Ms. Paula Deen.

The intimate configuration of CSC is optimal for this nearly sung-through chamber piece.  Having seen the original Broadway mounting of the show, it seems the actors necessarily needed to amplify their performances to fill the larger house.  The result was exaggerated performances that bordered on garish caricature.  In a small house, the actor's can be more "real" and thus the idea of the handsome and hunky Giorgio (Ryan Silverman) falling for the plain and sickly (rather than hideous and witch-y a la Donna Murphy) Fosca, doesn't seem so far-fetched.

I'm not sure if it's the staging or the actor (probably a combination of both), but in CSC's production, Passion is definitely Giorgio's journey of self-discovery.  On Broadway, Donny Murphy's unrelenting Fosca anchored the production.  It was all about her manipulation, consciously or not.  With the emphasis distributed more evenly between the three main characters, the story becomes less about Fosca's hot bag of crazy and more about the nature and meaning of love.

Though I'm still not quite convinced of the show's premise, this scaled down, intimate production presents a much more successful case for a show that had originally divided critics (as well as Sondheim fans).  What was downright laughable on a Broadway stage, now plays like the over-zealous behavior of a lonely woman.

Shout out to Orville Mendoza who is representin' the Pinoys as Sargeant Lombardi.  I had a the pleasure of sharing the stage with him in NAATCO's Off-Broadway production of Antigone several seasons back.  Between shows we had an impromptu reunion at Momofuku Milk Bar down the street from the theatre, where we noshed on cereal milk frozen yogurt and candy bar pie.  We also got to hear some show gossip, but I can't divulge that in writing.  You'll have to ask me about that in person. 

I also kept waiting to bump into Ms. Kuhn on the street so I could embarrass Trish by insisting on a private concert.  Well, actually, I would probably just hold Ms. Kuhn down until she agreed to belt out the lines "how high does the sycamore grow" and "I don't seeeeeeeee, a reason too be lonely."  If you aren't familiar with either of those phrases you should be immediately banned from Broadway and punished for your ignorance by having all the music on your iPod replaced with Sarah Brightman's version of "Think of Me" on an endless loop.

And Judy, if you're reading this, please reconsider that restraining order.

I need a vacation from my vacation (part trois)

Click here for part une
Click here for part deux

Week Three (July 30):
It’s Monday and I’m still churning out slutty choreography for Legally Blonde with a detour into High School Musical-land to tweak some student choreography.  With HSM opening in just three days, we simultaneously rehearse and start run-throughs so that the multiple casts can get at least one full dress rehearsal before the first Wednesday matinee. 

Though exhausted, we stay late tonight because Val has her first HSM orchestra rehearsal.  As the strains of faux, quasi-musical theatre pop echo through the empty theatre, I put finishing touches on the set and wonder why we didn’t choose a less strenuous career path, like marathon running or Olympic gymnastics.  Speaking of the Olympics, we ended up missing almost all of the coverage.  Oh well, there’s always 2016.

(July 31) Tuesday night is my first orchestra rehearsal for Legally Blonde.  I’ve barely had enough time to shower let alone study the conductor’s score, so I’m basically winging it.  Hopefully, I won’t come off as a complete moron in front of the mostly professional orchestra.  The rest of the Pineda clan stays late with me to continue their never-ending work on costumes, lights and sets all to the soothing tones of the "Bend and Snap." 

(Aug 1) Wednesday afternoon is the first performance of HSM.  With the theatre in use, I take the rest of the campers down the road to the Elk’s Club and continue rehearsing Legally Blonde.  Unfortunately, a huge chunk of the dancing ensemble is also in HSM.  With all the missing people, ensemble clean-up and detail work is pointless.  Instead, I spend most of the time choreographing the first act finale, which I’ve let go to the last minute in the hopes of being “divinely inspired.” No such luck.  Once again, I’ll just have to wing it since we open in three days.

A few hours later we’re back at the theatre where Val is politely kicking the stragglers from the HSM audience out of the lobby.  Thus begins our first dress rehearsal of Legally Blonde.  Everyone’s exhausted.  This is our fourth show to open in a week and the kids are wandering the stage like zombies.  With the addition of props and set pieces, the cast seems to have forgotten all their blocking. 

Undeterred, at 5:30 we push the student zombies out the door, order Chinese food and get the theatre ready for the evening performance of HSM.  I’m not really involved, so thankfully I can just veg out in the lobby during the show.  Mercifully, the junior version of HSM is much shorter than the full licensed version so we are able to get everyone out, lock up the theatre and get home just before midnight.  In the last two weeks, we have rarely spent less than 14 hours a day at the CDC.  Ah, the glamorous life!

(Aug 2) Seven hours later and we're back at the theatre.  Today is basically a repeat of yesterday's hellacious schedule except we stay late after the evening performance to change over to the Legally Blonde set.  What does “change over” consist of?  Oh, just repainting the HSM flats, side stages and benches, striking the un-needed HSM set pieces, hanging set pieces from the fly rail, re-setting the pit and cleaning and re-setting the dressing rooms with a new set of costumes.  Sound “fun” yet? 

For tonight's change over it’s all-hands-on-deck, including ma and pa Sieracki (Val’s parents) who are visiting from Florida.  Apparently, they’ve also been staying at Juan and Val’s house this week, though the only evidence of this has been the whiff of breakfast I smell on the way out the door in the morning as we head to camp.  We finally get a chance to catch up with them at the theatre over the roar of power tools and the smell of wet paint.  Sexy.  Tonight we skip the HSM closing night cast party because by the time we call it quits, the party has long since finished. 

(Aug 3) We drag our asses into the theatre early on Friday morning.  We are all running on just a couple hours of sleep and late night McDonald’s drive-thru.  We have one day to complete the change over we started the previous night as well as squeeze in two full dress run-throughs, one with full orchestra (the first and only time the cast will get to rehearse with the orchestra before we open tomorrow afternoon). 

With a cast full of mostly first-time summer conservatory students, the sense of anxiety and panic is palpable.  These kids are used to months of rehearsals at their high schools, not our three-week crash-and-burn schedule.  Juan and I lie through sincere smiles and assure the young cast that everything will be fine. Don’t get me wrong, by Sunday the show will be up and running like clockwork, but what happens at the first performance Saturday afternoon is anybody’s guess. 

Surprisingly, we are able to get through two full run-throughs without any major hiccups.  Some years, the first performance is the first time we actually run the show non-stop.  So we’re in great shape; though we still won’t know exactly how the show will sound since our bass player wasn’t able to make the final dress and our drummer wasn’t able to get to the rehearsal until halfway through the first act.  No matter, it’s still one of the smoothest final dress rehearsals we’ve had for a summer show. 

We don’t stay late tonight.  It's "fuck-it Friday" - if there’s a costume not quite right or a set piece unfinished at this point, that’s how it will stay for the run - fuck-it!

(Aug 4) We have a larger-than-usual audience for the first Saturday matinee, mainly because the show is so popular with the MTV crowd.  There are a few minor music cue problems and some ragged scene changes, but all-in-all, it’s a great first run and the audience is loving it.  Surprisingly, we get no audience backlash from the overt sexuality, language or gay references.  I guess between Jerseylicious and The Jersey Shore, some rump-shaking and cursing seems pretty de rigueur for north Jersey.

The positive buzz on facebook started at intermission so we anticipate a full house tonight.  I’m still not sold on the choreography for the first act finale - you know, the number I threw together literally two days ago.  But I’ll take a closer look at it tonight.  If you’ve worked with us before, you know not to get too comfortable with any blocking or choreography.  Juan and I are notorious for making full-scale changes even after a show’s opened (and sometimes even during intermission).  My infamous unfinished choreography of the last 32-bars of a dance number up until the half-hour call of the first performance has now become stuff of Pineda legend.

Because nearly every role is double cast, no two performances have the same exact set of leads.  I know that’s not the norm for high school productions, but it’s great experience for student actors and keeps them on their toes.  It also means the evening performance could still be a train wreck even if the afternoon runs smoothly.  With that in mind, we order take-out for dinner so we can stay at the theatre and prep for the evening show and new leads. 

Thank God for social networking and the internet because in just a few hours the good word has spread and tonight’s performance is sold out.  We actually end up turning people away at the door.  As excited cast members return from their dinner break, we give out acting notes and minor adjustments to blocking based on the afternoon performance. With a new slate of leads, we treat tonight's performance as a second "opening night" of sorts.

The new air conditioning is blasting, but the theatre still warms up thanks to a full house.  Again, except for some minor slip-ups, the show proceeds rather smoothly.  But I’m definitely still hating the first act finale.  I’ll have to go home and think about how I can correct that before tomorrow’s matinee.  We head home knowing the phones will be ringing off the hook with ticket requests.

(Aug 5)  The Sunday matinee is nearly sold out.  The kids are old pros by now and we know the show is in solid shape - except for my first act finale.  So at half hour I grab my dancer girls and completely re-choreograph the end of the act.  I'd been re-playing the moment in my head all morning and it finally dawned on me that as usual, I've over-choreographed it.  It's now time to simplify and streamline.  Behind the show curtain and with the sound of the audience filling the theatre, the girls nervously run-through the new steps which they'll perform full out, in context for the first time during the actual performance.  Yay, for live theatre! 

The closing night performance is standing room only.  Tonight is bittersweet for the kids.  They're stoked about their success but sad the summer's over.  I'm not.  By tomorrow I'll be back in the comfort of my cozy apartment, lounging in my underwear and catching up on a month's worth of DVR, blissfully content to be working only a paltry 9-hour day at the office.  But for now, I'm in the pit waving my arms like a fat, deranged, featherless turkey, trying to push the tempos in hopes of clipping at least a good  5 or 6 minutes from the performance.  Tonight after the final bows come all the speeches and flowers and I want to compensate for the inevitable lovefest to come.

Per usual, the closing night curtain call is followed by the cast singing our camp song.  As the opening refrain ends and the tempo changes, the kids from the other programs bum-rush the stage and join in.  And then as if on cue, the tears start rolling on stage.  The evening ends with heartfelt speeches, hugs and lots of flowers.  It's finally over.  Almost.

The kids are now hyped up on love and adrenaline.  They can't wait to get to the cast party.  With only thoughts of partying filling their teenaged minds, they leave a disgusting trail of used tissues, sweaty clothes and half eaten food in the dressing rooms for us to clean up - but not tonight.  Tonight we party. 

We arrive at the Sandoukis' household (our generous party hosts) just as a police cruiser pulls up - the true sign of a successful cast party.  A group of parents magically appear to greet law enforcement.  I'm too hungry to care and head straight to the hot buffet.

It's now well after midnight and I have to be at work bright and early the next day.  I can catch a nap at my computer.

Note to self: take the Monday after camp off next year.

Carousel Hell

I’m finally getting back to the blog after several weeks burning in Carousel hell.  Oh, for an evening luxuriating in my musty apartment watching reality TV and munching on take-out Chinese instead of riding sardine-like on an NJ Transit bus to the wilds of suburban New Jersey. 

Happily, the second weekend of shows is behind me and the glorious closing night is just days away.  Huzzah!  I can already smell the bitter scent of embarrassment and regret hanging in the air in anticipation of the inevitable closing night, post cast party, drunken hook-ups.  Actors and alcohol - not pretty.

For a show that’s never had a rehearsal where the full cast has been available, it’s surprisingly good.  The audiences have been loving it and leave cheering and weeping (for all the right reasons).  But that’s mainly due to an all-around, incredibly talented group of leads and a few supremely dedicated featured ensemble members.

To say the rehearsal period for Carousel has been challenging is like saying neurosurgery is just like a really intense game of Operation.  We didn’t have a full cast run-through until just a few days before opening night and I don’t think I ever had a single Dream Ballet rehearsal with all the dancers.  It seemed on this cast’s list of priorities, Carousel ranked just below getting a full body wax and just above getting a colonoscopy.  So though the inhabitants of this turn-of-the-century New England town are smooth as an Abercrombie & Fitch cover model, they’re also remarkably under-rehearsed…and in desperate need of an enema.

There were also multiple family deaths within the cast (three the week before tech), three car accidents, high school and college spring breaks, vacations, cast members committing to multiple shows and the inevitable string of illnesses and (insert eye roll here) blatant lies. 

Even now, the theatre’s basement TB ward - aka the dressing rooms - is a near constant symphony of hacking, snorting and blown noses.  Between mono, sinus infections, strep throat, concussions (don’t ask) and allergies, it’s like a stage full of the walking dead.  I imagine the emergency room of a third world country having a similar aura of un-cleanliness and death. 

Don’t get me wrong, the whole cast isn’t this uncommitted, unmotivated or uncooperative - just most.  And for the record, I’ve been to every freaking one of our 30 odd rehearsals over the last three months.  I guess that makes me eligible for a “Most-wasted-time-reverse-commuting-to-rehearsal-for-a-cast-that-doesn’t-show-up” Tony nomination. 

But seriously, as much as I bitch and moan, I am proud of the finished product.  I guess I’m more bitter about the missed opportunity.  I hear the audience praising the quality of the show and performances, yet I can only imagine what could have transpired had the full cast committed to attending rehearsals. 

Sigh.

After every community theatre experience, I swear it will be my last.  Yet somehow, I always find myself back on that NJ Transit bus hoping this time will be different.  Oh well, I guess I’m just a masochist at heart.

And yes, I know I still owe a Leap of Faith review.  I actually disagree with most of the reviews.  It's not nearly as awful as the still-running Ghost or Mamma Mia!  I guess I'm growing more forgiving in my middle age.

What's up at "Leap of Faith"? And my regular bitching and moaning...

I actually caught LOF about a week and a half ago, but since I've been practically living at the CDC theatre for the last week or so because of Carousel, I've not had much time to write.  Yes, I know, everyone's busy and I'm just a big, fat whiner.  But hypothetically, if you're an actor and you can't commit to - oh, let's say at least 60% of the rehearsals for a show - why do you even bother to audition?

Or once you find out the extent of the commitment, why do you except the job offer anyway?  Am I being unreasonable?  Crazy?  Both??  Someone please explain this to me because like an idiot, I've actually attended every rehearsal.

Ugh, I'm going to stop right now before I start an angry, bitchy rant that offends community theatre actors everywhere.  Not that propriety has ever stopped me from squarely planting my foot down my throat in the past.  God knows, I'm surely at the top of any NJ theatre blacklist.

But as I get older, I find it more and more difficult to politely keep my complaints and frustrations to myself.  If there's such a thing as incontinence of thought, someone get me a value pack of super absorbent adult diapers stat because I've recently developed a unique strain of diarrhea of the mouth I like to call "did-I-say-that-out-loud?" syndrome. You know the saying, "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all"?  If I abided by that particular bon mot I'd literally have nothing left to say.

I already see myself fifteen years down the road pushing a shopping cart down the street and yelling obscenities at people who unknowingly step into my path.  I finally understand where they're coming from.  And I accept the fact I will likely be a crazy, raving lunatic that people cross the street to avoid.

But back to the original topic at hand...

I'll post my review separately, but it seems the producers over at the St. James Theatre are having trouble filling the house for LOF.  It's regularly on TDF (where I got my tickets) and I received an email just last week from the production office offering free tickets to performances through the weekend.  It's a major, new Alan (Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty & the Beast, et al) Menken Broadway musical and they're giving tickets away through a mass email?  Sounds pretty desperate to me.

I actually enjoyed the show, but apparently I'm in the minority.

I should also give a shout out to the always wonderful Kendra Kassebaum (she plays the lead character's sister) who I worked with on a national tour of Grease! years ago - in another lifetime - back when we didn't all have cell phones or laptops.  We whiled away the hours on the tour bus reading actual books - yes, made out of paper - and listening to CDs - you know, those round, silver thingies we now use as coasters.

I shall always fondly remember Kendra and Gaelen Gilliland entertaining the cast on long bus rides with their over-the-back-of-the-seat puppet shows.  Oh, how I long for those simpler days of yore.

Unlike most of the civilized world, my weekends are not a time to rest and recuperate from the daily grind of the week.  Enjoy a Sunday afternoon stroll through the park?  A leisurely brunch at a cozy cafe?  A lazy Saturday on the couch catching up on missed TV?  Yeah, right.  How's this for leisurely - Friday, work eight hours in the office and then commute to NJ to play in the pit for Little Women; Saturday, spend the morning building sets and then play a matinee and evening performance of Little Women;  Sunday, rehash elementary school memories papier mache-ing dock posts and painting sets at the CDC Theatre and then lead a 3 hour Carousel rehearsal.

After a weekend like that, sitting in my comfy, ergonomic desk chair with nothing more strenuous to do than type on a keyboard and answer a phone seems like a day at the spa.

I can only fantasize about those lazy weeks in June when all I'll have to do is work one full-time job and not have to double commute mid-week for a rehearsal in Jersey where I'll be on time, yet everyone else will be late even though my commute is time twice as long and I'm relying on public transportation.

God, I'm bitchy these days, right?  Maybe I still haven't recovered from Oprah canceling The Rosie Show.  Though two lesbian day-time talk show hosts (Ellen/Rosie) does seem like overkill.  More likely, it's because the annoying Big Brother team hasn't yet been eliminated from The Amazing Race.  I just want to strangle that Rachel with one of her ridiculous sequined tank tops every time she starts whining about how tired or frustrated she is.  Oh, and can you believe how fierce Michelle Obama looked on The Biggest Loser?

Or maybe I just watch too much reality TV.

Rehearsal hell

My inner monologue (minus the heels)
after this weekend's rehearsals.

Good thing I was able to cram in some quality drinking time before the weekend, because Pirates hell began Friday night with rehearsals for our Young Artists’ production.  Thankfully, I was spared the longer rehearsal period because Juan and Val opted to take the lead on this production.  I needed some much-deserved R&R after idiotically volunteering to direct and choreograph both of last season’s operas, La Traviata and The Bat.  It seemed like a fun idea at the time - at least until around the fifth or sixth weekend of reverse commuting to NJ for rehearsals.  Will I ever learn?  I doubt it.

For this highly abridged version of Pirates of Penzance, I was relegated to accompanying and conducting the “orchestra” - that is, if you consider an out-of-tune piano and a violin an “orchestra.”  But we sounded lovely anyway, thank you very much.  Remember, it’s about quality, dear readers, not quantity.



You’d think the weekend before opening - not to mention after several weeks of rehearsals - the cast would at least have a perfunctory knowledge of the script and score.  I thought wrong.  I won’t name names in order to protect the ignorant, um, I mean innocent, but this has got to be the worst prepared cast we’ve had in the history of our ten-plus years of producing opera. 

Rehearsals started in October.  How is it possible not to know your lines and music after two months of rehearsal?  Even worse, then have the nerve to giggle about it onstage while giving us a half-assed apology.  Back in ancient times, when I was performing in regional summer stock, we would mount five full-length shows in six weeks.  Granted, some of the shows sucked, but we at least knew our lines and blocking.



Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, but then I think of our Major General.  She learned all her lines plus an extremely difficult patter song in two weeks (the original actor dropped out of the show unexpectedly).

Sometimes I get the feeling our kids - not all, but some - don’t really care about the show.  They just want to be front and center.  They want the accolades but don’t want to put in the effort to earn them.  To those few, I say “good luck” with that philosophy in the real world.  To the rest, I say “thank you” for putting up with the posers and for having to sit through our yelling and screaming and scolding.



And people wonder why we’re always so irritable right before a show opens.

Rant over - until next rehearsal.

Road Trip to Ruin - Part Deux!

Read part one

During last year's trip, Juan’s gout got the better of him.  He and Val were sidelined at the hotel most of the weekend while Trish and I enjoyed the DC sites Judy Garland-style aboard the Old Town Trolley.  Even with yesterday’s Flintstone-sized steak and protein-heavy meals, Juan managed to stay gout-free, so we decided to christen Sunday, “Trolley Day.”

We were still groggy and tired from last night’s fire alarm and evacuation, but we managed to make it to the trolley stop by a respectable 9:30 AM.  Though early - at least for a vacation Sunday - it was already hot as balls.  Just watching the joggers run past us caused instant sweat circles to form under my arms. 

As we waited, Juan noticed a petit Indian girl furiously texting at a nearby corner.  He made an offhand remark comparing her to Divya, the character on Royal Pains.  Of course, as she walked toward us we realized it was indeed Reshma Shetty, the actress who plays Divya.  I think she might be our first DC celebrity sighting.  She’s not exactly Obama, but I’ll take it.

For the most part, Trish and I had a great experience on the trolley last year.  But there was one guide who felt it was appropriate and entertaining to air his dysfunctional family’s secrets to us between his descriptions of DC’s famous sites - super awkward.  We prayed he had since been committed to a mental institution or was at least now delegated to an office were he no longer is required to interact with the general public.  I’m not sure if either option actually came to pass, but happily, we didn’t come across him all day.

After rolling by the National Cathedral, Embassy Row, Georgetown and Foggy Bottom, we jumped off the trolley downtown to check out the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian’s National History Museum.  Maybe it’s a girl thing, but what’s the big deal?  I mean, it’s bigger than your average diamond - about the size of a quarter (I was hoping for something closer to baseball-sized) - in a seriously hideous setting.  There were far more impressive pieces in the rest of the museum’s gem collection.  Oh well, it was still worth the trip to view the whole collection.  There was also a really interesting exhibit about race in America and an insect exhibit that Juan and I were totally into; the gals, not so much. 

We were, however, all in agreement over the delicious and totally cheesy red, white and blue cupcakes in the museum cafeteria.  In fact, for a museum cafeteria, the food was pretty darn good.  It was no gourmet Italian five-course meal like yesterday, but hell, I don’t think my liver could handle another day of non-stop food and drink anyway.  

The museum entrance was jam packed with sweaty tourists waiting to get frisked and metal-detected by the time we headed out.  I guess the rest of DC had finally recovered from its Saturday night revelry and accompanying collective hangover.  To avoid the likely crush at the other Smithsonian museums, we opted instead for a relaxed trolley ride around the "orange loop," which would take us on a leisurely tour of the downtown sites.  Unfortunately, the ride was neither relaxed nor leisurely.  Like the museum, the trolley was soon filled to capacity with hot, sweaty bodies jockeying for window seats on the non-air-conditioned trolley car.  Adding to the misery of sticky seats and overheated bodies pressed tight, we were soon sitting in traffic, baking in the sun with nary a wisp of breeze.  We did, however, have front row seats to a gnarly bike accident that seemed to be the cause of all the traffic.  Lucky us!

Oh, I also forgot to mention the annoying southern wenches who made life hell for us and our poor driver/tour guide.  To avoid having us sit and bake in traffic, our guide made a huge detour that took us well off the regular route, but at least kept us moving.

Wench 1: (gesturing to a random gray building with a trace of condescending attitude and southern drawl) What building is that?
Guide:  (politely) I'm not sure.  This isn't my regular route and I wouldn't want to give you false information.
Wench 2: (full of attitude, reciting from a sign in front of another random building) That's the Department of Blahdity Blah's Building.
Guide:  Yes, I see.  Thank you.

We continue.  Yes, there is a long stretch of silence.  But the traffic is crazy and the driver is obviously concentrating on not getting us all killed.

Wench 1: (loudly and obnoxiously to the whole trolley car, annoyed that the driver isn't entertaining her) The building over there is the National Blah Blah Building.  We ate lunch there yesterday and if anyone wants a reasonably-priced meal, you should check it out.

Guide: (still polite) Thank you for that.  I apologize, but as soon as I negotiate this traffic and get us back on the route, I'll commence with the regular tour.  Thanks for your patience.

We finally get back on track and the tour guide starts his regular spiel.

Wench 1: (interrupting our guide - her overly friendly southern twang amplifying her condescension - she throws out a historical tidbit that she is sure he won't know in order to prove that she is indeed a total bitch)  Isn't it true that this area was mainly used as grazing land for livestock?
Guide: (calmly and without missing a beat):  You are correct.  In fact...
He then goes on to give a detailed account of the agricultural history of the particular area the wench was referring to. 

That shut the bitch up. 

Lest you label me a judgmental, north-biased asshole, bear in mind that throughout the entire trip these wenches continually hemmed and hawed, sighed loudly and dramatically fanned themselves to make sure we were all well aware of their discomfort and dissatisfaction.  If you can't stand the heat, ladies, get the hell out of the trolley.

Anyway, we finally disembarked after leaving a nice tip for the driver for putting up with the wenches and jumped on another trolley back to the hotel.  It had been a long day and the unbearable heat coupled with the even more unbearable southern wenches drained us of any motivation to continue sight-seeing.  The sky threatened thunderstorms, so we chose to lounge and nap in our hotel rooms for the rest of the afternoon.

Is there anything better than turning up the AC, stripping down to your underwear and just vegging out wrapped up in a big 'ole soft comforter?  Methinks not.  Anyway, when we finally rose from napping, it was already well past dinner time.  Juan and Val's room was empty so we assumed they had already headed out for a romantic dinner somewhere.  Trish and I, however, opted for a luxurious room service feast and trashy TV.  Why bother getting dressed when the food can come to you, right? 

Turns out Juan and Val just ran downstairs for dinner in the hotel restaurant.  When they got back, we decided to stay in the rest of the night and rent an in-room movie, Skyline.  I gag a little just typing the title remembering how wretched the movie was.  Poor Donald Faison.  Either his agent sucks or he has some crazy-expensive drug habit he needs to keep funding.  

As has become our tradition, we ended our DC trip with the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet in the hotel lobby, the resulting heartburn a lingering memento of our travels.  With July 4 falling annoyingly on a Monday, I decided it best to jump on the Acela train and head straight back to NYC rather than sitting in traffic with the sibs back to NJ and then fighting the fireworks traffic on the bus back into the city. 

I was safe and sound and back in Queens by 5:30 PM.   I'm already planning our gastronomical itinerary for next year's trip, though it will be difficult to top this year's carnivore's delight.  Maybe Brazilian Charruscarria...

Below are from our post-breakfast buffet photo session on the grounds of the fabulous Omni.

Trish posing seductively

The fountain

Where are the chips?   Too late, I'm bored.