High School shows

The Pinedas' annual March pilgrimage to each local high schools’ spring musical is finally over.  Since it’s just plain heartless to rip apart a high school production in a public forum, I’ll just limit my comments to praise and constructive criticism.  I don’t want to be accused of dashing some young thespian’s dream.  These young people have plenty of opportunities for heart-crushing disappointment once they move to New York and hit the audition circuit.

Oklahoma! at Cranford HS.  Gorgeous physical production, great leads, some fine singing, generally wonderful choreography but an over-choreographed title song.  Seriously, it’s acceptable to display beautiful technical dancing on its own, but not okay to display beautiful technical singing on its own?  I mean, if Agnes DeMille didn’t think to add choreography to the number…well, I’m just sayin’. 

Hairspray at Scotch Plains HS.  Incredible Tracy (Val’s student, Samantha Tropper), Penny Pingleton, Edna, and Wilbur; an energetic and diverse ensemble that for the most part, overcame dirge-like tempos.  Hand that conductor a red bull.

Sweeney Todd at Westfield HS.  OK, I didn’t see this, but Trish and Val told me the ensemble singing/staging was quite impressive.  To be honest, I have no desire to watch teenagers perform one of my favorite Sondheim shows.  It’s just too complex and sophisticated for teens no matter how talented.  While we’re at it, I’d probably also refuse to see a high school production of Follies, Company, Sweet Charity, Dreamgirls, Showboat or Gypsy except to laugh at the inappropriateness of it all.

Thoroughly Modern Millie at Hillside Middle School.  All I can say is cute, cute, cute.  I was dubious this show would work with 10-14 year olds, but mini-flappers and boys in zoot suits won me over.  And yes, some of the Asian stuff was on the verge of being offensive, but you can’t expect 10 year old kids to finesse the material the way an adult would.

Audition hell

Our Summer Conservatory production of Crazy for You basically cast itself.  How?  Well, when you pick a tap show requiring incredible triple threat high school performers for all roles, the casting options are understandably limited.  The Pineda Four (me, Juan, Val and Trish) plus the always cheery Señor Chris and Mr. Dan held our last round of auditions and callbacks this past weekend in a marathon two-day session. 

I was actually surprised at the number of girls with serious dance training and not just eight years of jazz from Miss Nancy’s School of Dance* and Pageant Training (totally fictional, of course).  I say that now, after auditioning almost a decade’s worth of summer and community theatre shows where some girls list 5 years of jazz, 7 years of ballet and 6 years of tap training on their resume only to stare in horror when I ask them to chaine across the floor.  But that is a rant for another time. 

As always, there was no shortage of girls at the audition and we ended up with multiple choices for each role.  The boys? - not so much.  For those lucky enough to possess a penis, a role was virtually guaranteed due to the sheer number of male roles in the show. 

Unfortunately, Val’s plan to throw some gal’s into the ensemble in the Western scenes hit a slight snafu when she realized the script kept mentioning Polly as the only woman in the whole town.  Surely not a self-esteem builder for any young lady she might have chosen to add to these scenes.  And yes, Trish and I were aware of this fact when Val first brought the idea up, but knowing her mental state before the auditions (she’s currently also rehearsing two other shows), I thought it best she experience her own personal epiphany.  Besides, she was just so gung-ho about the idea, I couldn’t bear to be the one to burst her bubble. 

My favorite, and coincidentally most uncomfortable, audition moment occurred during the callbacks for Irene, the snobby socialite who eventually finds her inner Marilyn Monroe.  Señor Chris taught the girls a “sexy” chair dance to “Naughty Baby.”  Suffice it to say, I foresee some very lucrative careers ahead for some of these ladies at Flashdancers.

The offers have all gone out and we are now eagerly awaiting the inevitable angry, disappointed and/or tear-filled facebook statuses to follow.  It’s tough shattering the dreams of dozens of New Jersey teenagers. 

*Disclaimer:  Can you believe there is an actual Nancy’s School of Dance in D’Iberville, MS?!  I googled it out of curiosity shortly after completing this blog entry.  I’m sure the training there is impeccable.**

**Per my lawyer.  J 

Book of Mormon

Neil Simon Theatre

8pm performance, Thursday, April 17

Given the producers have pulled all existing discount codes, looks like BOM is going to be the hot ticket of the season.  Even at the preview performance Trish and I attended last week, the audience was sprinkled with celebrities - Penn & Teller, Joan Rivers (looking one face-lift away from Asian) and Mike Myers.  With lyrics like “F*ck you, God, in the c*nt,” these far left-of-center types seem to be the show’s target audience. 

But don’t let appearances fool you (one of the many themes the writers play with throughout the show).  Just when you think you’re in for an evening of Mormon-bashing, those wacky South Park guys turn the tables on us.  In the end, it seems the unifying power of religion - or at least a common belief and faith (I don’t want to give out any spoilers) - is what saves the day.

Don’t you worry, the Mormons don’t get off scot-free.  There are many playful digs at some of the religion’s more dubious beliefs - i.e. planetary afterlife, those mysterious gold plates - as well as some of its more random fundamental principals.  But there are also friendly digs at Spider-man and The Lion King and a hilarious homage to The King and I’s “Small House of Uncle Thomas” ballet.  In an interview, the composer (Robert Lopez of Avenue Q fame) says "We're basically riffing on The Music Man…where someone comes into a town with a lie to sell and changes the town and, actually, the lie turns out to be true in a way." 

Funny that the two South Park guys, who have never written a Broadway show, seem to have more respect and knowledge of Broadway’s history than some current “popular” composers.  It says a lot about the writers’ craft that the narrative structure of the show is clearly that of a traditional book musical, albeit sprinkled with profanity and R-rated humor.

Yes, it is difficult to sustain satire over a two-act musical, but for the most part the artistic team manages to keep things moving along.  The only two moments were the joke seemed to wear out its welcome were during “Scary Mormon Hell Dream” and “We Are Africa,” both of which go on at least a verse too long. 

In a completely random note, our former downstairs neighbor, Andrew Rannells, plays leading man Elder Price.  Seeing him in the hall I never realized how much he looks like a young Ryan Reynolds (with a bit of Jim Carey thrown in there as well) until I saw his smiling mug on a Broadway stage.  And oddly, even though I can sometimes hear full conversations through the floor of our current downstairs neighbor, I never heard a peep - singing or speaking - when Andrew lived downstairs. Weird. Sorry, I had a weird non-sequitur moment.

I could go on and tell you how funny and awesome the show is, but the ridiculously glowing reviews from every major news outlet this morning pretty much say it all.  The first paragraph of the New York Times review is a PR person's wet dream come true:

This is to all the doubters and deniers out there, the ones who say that heaven on Broadway does not exist, that it’s only some myth our ancestors dreamed up. I am here to report that a newborn, old-fashioned, pleasure-giving musical has arrived at the Eugene O’Neill Theater, the kind our grandparents told us left them walking on air if not on water. So hie thee hence, nonbelievers (and believers too), to “The Book of Mormon,” and feast upon its sweetness.

If you haven’t purchased a ticket, don’t bother, it’s going to be sold out for quite a long time.  I honestly haven't laughed or enjoyed myself so much since, well, Priscilla. With that in mind, the spring Broadway season is shaping up to be a good one.   

<--- Andrew Rannells - love child of Jim Carey and Ryan Reynolds???

I guess New York has turned me into a judgemental...

jaded, nasty queen - sigh.  Though I'm no stranger to the raised eyebrow and "oh, gurl" attitude of the urban gay set, I've always thought of myself as generally a nice person.  Well, I guess we all have our moments and mine happened last night at Kathy Griffin Wants A Tony. 

As I climbed over dozens of knees to get to my prime front mezzanine center seat, I notice the gentlemen next to me flashing a big, goofy smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see him continually glancing over at me, checking me out, and I immediately go into avoidance mode - picking through my bag, pretending to read texts on my phone, folding and re-folding my coat - but to no avail. "Hi there. How are you?" Ugh. Why do I always end up next to some creepy old queen trying to pick me up? "Fine, thank you" I politely answer and then pretend to be engrossed in my Playbill. "So where are you from?" Can he not read my very blatant signals? "Astoria," I meekly smile. But I've clearly just opened the door and he extends his hand, "Well, nice to meet you, I'm Paul." OK, enough already. I just came out tonight to hear some Kathy trash talk. I do not want to go on a first date with the lonely guy next to me.  I politely take his hand and answer, "I'm Fausto." Now leave me alone.  "God bless," he says. What!?!?

That's the weirdest pick-up line I've ever heard. I shyly ask, "Where are you from?" "Abilene, Texas. It's my first time in New York City and I'm with my wife and daughter." He gestures to the tween next to him and then to a solid, but pleasant looking woman with big, southern blond hair in the next seat.  She smiles and waves.

Oops. Have I become so self-absorbed and arrogant to think the only reason someone might start a conversation with me is because they are so dazzled by my good looks that they can't help but hit on me? I guess so. This excited tourist was just trying to make friendly southern small talk and I assumed he was some lonely looser at the Kathy Griffin show.

My Gaydar needs a definitely tune up. Anyway, after we got our little misunderstanding cleared up we spent the next ten minutes gossiping like long last girlfriends.  He warned that I shouldn't bother seeing Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo - even with Robin Williams - because it was just awful and full of profanity. I asked him if he knew that every other word Kathy says is "fuck"? We're definitely besty's for life now.

As for Kathy, she was a hot mess - in a good way. She was wound tight like a crack whore on an all-night bender, skipping from pop culture topic to pop culture topic, often interrupting her own story to follow some unrelated tangent and then asking the audience to remind her to get back to the original story. The audience obliged, of course, randomly yelling out names and topics to get the comedienne back on track. The free-for-all atmosphere continued for two intermissionless hours.

For Kathy fans, or Kath-eters as we have now been dubbed, it was a night of outrageous fun. For Kathy haters, well, I'll just quote the great one herself and tell you to go "suck it."

Kathy's hilarious bio.

Kathy Griffin wants a Tony
Monday, March 14, 8pm performance
Belasco Theatre

Poor Spidey

I’ve only been casually commenting on Spider-man’s continuing production traumas since every major news outlet seems to think it’s headline news.  Imagine TV production meetings all over the country - “Shall we lead off with Iraq, labor strife in Wisconsin or Spider-man?” 

Not that I’m complaining.  How often does Broadway get regular national coverage?  But it seems everyone is obsessed with Bono and Taymor’s vanity project.  Would a $65 million dollar revival of Hello, Dolly! starring Christine Ebersole warrant the same press attention?  “Christine, who?” you ask.  Methinks not.

What I do find somewhat heartening is that finally, after months of previews and painfully bad reviews, the production team is finally deciding to stop this run-away train before it careens into bankruptcy (again).  What have they been doing the last 100 preview performances (I viewed performance #4)?  Well,

apparently not much. 

I’m glad Bono recognizes that a complete overhaul is in order, but at least half of the show’s problems lie in the monotonous, un-theatrical score.  I’m a U2 fan, but Bono and the Edge need to go take a class at BMI.  Pop hooks and poetic cliché do not a musical score make.  At the very least, theatre songs need to illuminate character or move plot along.  Most of Spider-man’s score does neither.

Today’s press release, on the other hand, is a master class in spin.  So carefully worded as not to offend or accuse anybody.  Surprisingly, I’ve worked with the new director, Philip William McKinley, years ago in - brace yourselves - Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin at the Fireside Dinner Theatre.  He directed the original holiday revue “Christmas All Over the World.”  And yes, it was as cheesy as at sounds.  I actually don’t remember much about him except that he employed a lot of hydraulic lifts and spinning turntables.  He seems a good a choice as any. 

Though I wasn’t interested in seeing the show again, now I think I’ll have to buy a ticket if only to tell my grand-nieces or nephews that I saw the infamous Spider-man post- and pre- Taymor. 

"It's raining...

men, Hallelujah!" - so goes the opening number of Broadway's Priscilla Queen of the Desert (seriously, imagine the bloody mess if it actually did start raining men).  Trish raved about seeing the London production last year and the chat boards - when not obsessively ranting about Spider-man - are all hearts and flowers about the first few previews.  With the promise of fabulous costumes, disco music and enough washboard abs for a year's worth of laundry, I couldn't resist buying tickets (on discount, of course) to the fourth NY preview. 

Yes, it's a jukebox musical and doesn't purport to be anything more than campy fun, but the book, characters and music are miles above the tedious Mamma Mia! which I found to be as delightful as receiving a colonoscopy in a third world country by a first year medical student.  I'm no drag queen (though I'm sure I'd be fabulous) and I might be biased toward the gay-bashing storyline, but I found the conflicts and relationships in Priscilla much more realistic than the I-used-to-be-a-slut-and-have-no-idea-who-got-me-pregnant-and-I-don't-care-because-now-I-live-a-dream-life-on-a-Greek-Island plot of Mamma Mia! 

I was slightly disappointed with the lackluster choreography.  I realize that the incredible costumes and headpieces probably hinder mobility, but I expect more than Las Vegas prancing even from a drag show.  This is a BROADWAY drag show, bitches! 

The three female divas do vocal justice to the classic disco hits and some numbers are integrated more successfully than others, but it's really about the familiarity factor of the songs and the amazing costumes (and that bus!).  I think the only mis-step is the overly long "fast forward" version of the nightclub act the trio performs at the casino.  It's based on a single sight gag that overstays it's welcome after about its third repetition.  

Will Swenson (Tick), whom I usually adore and who in real life is attached to my straight crush, Audra, seems unsure whether to embrace the full feminine qualities of his character or play it straight.  This may, of course, be his actual character choice, but it reads like he's still in rehearsals and trying different approaches even though he's been playing the character for months (since the pre-Broadway engagement in Toronto).  He needs someone (i.e. the director) to tell him his choice is not working. 

Though Tony Sheldon (Bernadette) doesn't get the last bow, he should.  His character grounds the show and is the only actor who seems to get the right balance between campy humor and honest characterization.  The audience genuinely roots for him.  Swenson's father-son story line doesn't really get humming until his arrival at the casino and that doesn't happen until the last 15 minutes of the show.  Beef up Tick's story line or give Sheldon the final bow.

Nick Adams (Felicia) is stunning to look at and his gym membership is worth every penny he pays for it.  But here he's merely eye candy.  His full out camp performance is entertaining enough but is all surface bitchiness.  This was a missed opportunity to add some real emotional depth (see Guy Pearce in the movie) to the flamboyant surroundings. 

I'm sure I'll be back often if just to experience the natural high one can only attain from the sublime combination of Gloria Gaynor, feathers and g-strings.  Only I'll be sitting at least nine or ten rows back since our fourth row orchestra seats were just a bit too close for the very high stage.  Fine, of course, if your health insurance covers chiropractic visits.

Best overheard audience comment at intermission: "Is he [Nick Adams] really singing Sempre Libera?  If he is, he's really good."  Of course, watching the show it is painfully obvious he's lip-synching to a recording of the aria.  I think the full orchestral accompaniment and high "E" give it away. 

Thursday, March 3, Palace Theatre
8pm performance

<< the new trio
<< the movie originals

Philadelphia Fever

In my desperate attempt to fill the void I call my life during the barren theatre month of February, Trish and I decided to take a President's weekend road trip. What more apt a get away then historic Philadelphia, PA, home of the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and Cheesesteaks! Impressed by Philly's friendly folks and good food during our trip last fall, we booked a room at the Hyatt Penn's Landing.

I guess the winter doldrums sparked a case of wanderlust for mom and dad as well and they decided last minute to crash our party (that's me and mom taking an evening stroll on Penn's Landing).  Of course I don't mind hanging with the 'rents, but Trish and I are on a serious budget.  I'm saving my pennies to blow on Margarita's and Italian hookers on the family's Barcelona cruise this summer (to celebrate my father's 70th birthday!).  So instead of booking an additional room, we decided to double up in the beds and sneak the parents and all their bags into our room.  When did double beds get so small?  Or rather, when did my midsection get so wide?  Don't answer that.

Continuing in this line of weird, rhetorical questions, how many bags do you need for a two night stay in Philadelphia?  At least four or five if you ask my mom.  Yes, I know you should always be prepared (those years as a boy scout were good for something, I guess), but I can only imagine the size of the steamer trunk those sailors will be lugging onto the Carnival Magic come August if a "quick weekend away" entails a bellhop and rolling cart.  We're talking Titanic-Atlantic-crossing big.

Pineda trips usually revolve around food and this was no exception. Trish and I headed to Jim's Steakson South Street before checking into the hotel and meeting the 'rents. We knew there was no chance in hell that mom in all her double-knee-replacement glory would ever agree to wait in line for an hour for a sandwich. On our last trip, Trish and I did the Pat's versus Geno's experience with Geno's just barely edging out Pat's for cheesesteak supremacy. Of course, this was before we found out that Geno was a big ole racist. Oh well, he makes one tasty, bigoted sandwich. I'm happy to report, however, that Jim's delish cheeseteak will make future trips south of South Street unnecessary. Jim's juicy, flavorful steak and crusty, soft roll is now my Philly fave - at least until the next trip.

The rest of the weekend was spent either looking for food, ordering food, waiting for food or eating. Saturday night was a soul food prix fixe at the hotel restaurant in honor of black history month, Sunday lunch was pork sandwiches at DiNic's and cupcakes from Flying Monkey and dinner Sunday night was a seafood feast at Chart House. By the end of the weekend I needed some serious pepto. Oh well, no pain no gain. And by gain, I mean about five pounds right around my already bulging muffin top.

The food orgy was only interrupted by the slightly creepy Filipino mass we attended Sunday morning at St. Augustine's. Who knew Philadelphia was a Little Manila of sorts? Imagine my surprise when the white priest greeted the congregation with "magandang umaga." Talk about a serious head trip. The sea of brown skin was interrupted every few pews by a somber, white face, undoubtedly linked by marriage. No one warned these poor gullible saps that their hot, exotic trophy wife also came with a boatload of relatives, a pantry full of spam and a front row seat to every Catholic mass - holidays included - for the rest of their life! Suckers.

We bid adieu to mom and dad early Monday morning then promptly headed back to bed until the noon check-out time. What better way to celebrate our nation's great leaders then by napping? At 11:39am with the maid knocking at the door, we stuffed our bags and headed north on I-95 with the beefy scent of brotherly love trailing behind us. We made a quick pit stop at the Jersey Shore Outlet Mall where I stocked up on some new work attire. Nothing like a little retail therapy to soften the ending blow of a long weekend vacation and the realization that you'll be back to the daily grind in less than 24 hours.

<--- Fausto Jr. and Fausto III enjoying ice cream at the Reading Terminal Market.

I need a life

Congratulate me.  I'm 30 days sober today.  That's one month show-free.  Though I'm still suffering withdrawal symptoms, I've started to substitute with my DVR.  Though not the same heady high I get from the scent of a freshly cut Playbill insert nor as thrilling as hearing a full chest-belted high E, TV has its own unique pleasures. 

Last Saturday, for instance, Trish and I spent nearly 8 hours watching back-to-back episodes of Chuck.  Like any good addiction, at the start it's mildy amusing and you tell yourself you can take it or leave it at anytime.  By the fourth episode, though, watch out.  I could barely pry my eyes from that HD widescreen long enough for a bathroom break or for anything as superfluous as food. 

Otherwise, life without The Broadway has been pretty uneventful - long days strung together by the daily bitchy threads on All That Chat prophesying the end of civilization due to the continued presence of Spider-man on the Great White Way.  I'm no Spidey fan, but I can't wait for the glut of spring musical openings so we can stop hearing about the musical web-slinger.

We also recently sat through auditions for Pineda Lyric's young artist production of The Bat.  There's nothing quite like teenagers singing coloratura.  Not that there weren't impressive moments, but shifting hormones and high C's coupled with nervous teenage energy - that's just an accident waiting to happen. 

Val was actually able to cast a full company from the day's auditions.  Though if you were lucky enough to possess male anatomy, you were granted a lead role by default.  It's good to be a boy in high school theatre. 

Poor Christina

To say I have zero interest in football would be an understatement.  I watch the Superbowl for two reasons - the performances (pre- and half-time show) and pigs-in-a-blanket.  I mean, the only reason I rooted for Green Bay was because Ellen said so. 

I don’t know what it is about Lea Michele, but something about her makes me want to punch her in the face.  Maybe I’m just projecting her obnoxious Rachel Berry character from Glee and letting that taint my opinion, but I can’t help it.  I actually caught her in Spring Awakening before it moved to Broadway.  Her performance was sincere and unaffected - exactly the opposite of how she comes off now.  I also remember her voice being so clean and pure, but her faux pop rendition of “America the Beautiful” before the game was appalling.  I get it - she wants to be commercial.  But all that fake whining and breathless affectation merely amplifies her inadequacies as a pop singer.  Be proud of your Broadway belt, girl!

Poor Christina.  I actually had no opinion of her until a few years back when I caught a live concert performance of hers on TV.  I give her props ‘cause she sounded amazing and has stage presence to spare.  But to f*ck up the lyrics on National TV is pretty embarrassing.  Even when Rosanne Barr butchered the anthem at a baseball game a few years back, she sang the correct lyrics.  I know, Christina was nervous, blah, blah, blah…but the girl regularly tours arenas and admits she’s been singing the National Anthem for games since she was a kid.  In the Wall Street Journal, Christina said, "I got so caught up in the moment of the song that I lost my place."  Um, more like “I got so caught up in my riffing that I no longer had any idea what I was saying and the text stopped making sense to me.”  Seriously, can we have a moratorium on riffing the National Anthem?  The only riffed version of the anthem that’s worked for me is by the original diva, Whitney Houston (pre-crack, of course).  Oh, Whitney, we miss you (see her rendition below).

As for half-time, The Black-Eyed Peas have some catchy tunes and sound great on recordings, but live - not so much.  I can't throw all the blame on the performance, auto-tuned to death as Will.i.am was.  The sound guy was f*cking up cues left and right.  Poor Usher was left virtually un-amplified.  Oh well, there's always next year.  How about having Babs Striesand and La LuPone do a Broadway set?  That definitely would be the gayest half time show ever!  On a side note, the Doritos commercial with the guy sucking the salt off the other guys finger!?!?  That may actually be gayer than a Babs / LuPone pairing.