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.

"Good" Friday, Cirque's Totem and eternal damnation

Though technically the Catholic Church considers me an abomination, that doesn’t stop them from hiring my gay ass to sing for their Holy Week masses.  Hypocritical much?  Whatever, I’m crying all the way to the bank. 

It’s not that I’m angry or even hold a grudge.  I just find it odd that I’m considered fit to lead Catholic prayer, yet unfit to enter Catholic heaven.  Or perhaps years of Catholic indoctrination have left me with a subconscious fear of eternal damnation and hellfire due to my profane lifestyle.  Or not.  No matter, a paycheck is a paycheck so bring it, Jesus.  Mama needs to pay the rent. 

Good Friday’s gig was at Immaculate Conception Church in the boogie-down Bronx.  Trish and I cantor there periodically throughout the year and have known the music director for ages, so the gig was a no-brainer.  But today we had the extra pressure of mom and dad critiquing our performances from the congregation.  

Lest you get the wrong idea, mom and dad hadn’t traveled from their Virginia home to bask in their children’s luminous vocals.  Nope.  Mom wanted to come up a few days early to ensure she had enough time to visit the salon in our Astoria neighborhood for a cheap mani-pedi, haircut and eyebrow threading.  Our performance was just a coincidental detour on her road to budget beauty.

Oh well, at least we got a couple of free meals out of the deal. 

Since Good Friday is the most solemn night of Holy Week, after church we decided to spend a quiet evening under the Grand Chapiteau in Citi Field with 2,600 of our closest heathen friends at Cirque du Soleil’s show, Totem.  By the way, that’s pronounced to-TEM according to the pre-show announcement.  Pretentious much?

Ever since losing two-and-a-half hours of my life at that Zarkana mess a few years ago at Radio City, Trish and I have been waiting for the tent shows to return to New York.  At Radio City, we were seated so far from the stage and performers that it felt as we were watching a youtube clip on my laptop.  Though it might have been better to watch off my laptop.  We'd at least avoid the continuous stream of annoying latecomers traipsing across my sightlines.

Totem

Grand Chapiteau @ Citi Field

Fri, March 29, 8pm

Totem still doesn’t match the unabashed whimsy and seriously mind-blowing physical feats on display in our favorite Cirque show, Ovo.  But the intimacy of the three-quarter thrust somehow makes up for the less “showy” acrobatic acts.  At least in the tent, you feel a connection to the performers dangling above your heads.  Not to mention a much better view of all those glistening abs and biceps.

Like most Cirque shows, the dramatic through line is tenuous at best - allusions to evolutionary theory confusingly interspersed with cartoon versions of native Americans (Apparently they love to rollerskate as well as drum.  Who knew?) and a scrawny, creepy Italian dude (don't ask).  But really, who goes to a Cirque show for the story, right?

The best performance of the evening, though, came from Sal and his straight-out-of-the-Sopranos goomba family seated in front of us (perhaps some relation to the creepy dude in the show?).  Clearly Sal was off his meds as he literally grabbed guests away from the usher, leading them to the wrong seats; all the while inappropriately slinging his arm around the waist of any attractive lady in the group and speaking with his face much too closely to theirs for a first meeting.  We (the goombas and everyone sitting around them) all laughed and shook our heads in amusement as if we were watching a cute little puppy retrieve a chewed up tennis ball over and over again.

I can’t wait until I’m also old enough to act inappropriately without repercussion and be labeled “a cute old man” rather than “sex offender.”

More Easter weekend fun...

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.

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.