Frida's house...

Sticking to our budget, we left the bazaar empty-handed.  We found our driver fast asleep in the car, literally parked halfway onto the street, blocking traffic.  I guess the parking stripes in Mexico are optional.

With a few sound taps on the window, we roused Pedro from his siesta and headed to Frida Kahlo's house and museum, appropriately named La Casa Azul.

We asked Pedro to get a shot of Trish and I in front of Kahlo's house but somehow he managed to completely frame us out of the shot.  Not even a cut off head or anything.  Weird.

Kahlo's childhood home (and were she also returned to live before her death) has been converted into a museum dedicated to her life and work.  Some of the rooms have been converted into galleries, but many rooms have been left intact including her studio.

Girlfriend definitely had a dark side.  Above is a sculpture Kahlo created of herself, complete with unibrow, back brace and bloody distorted legs (she suffered from childhood polio, so her right leg never fully developed).  This life-sized daily reminder of Kahlo's every physical flaw hangs in her bedroom.  What a delightful sight to wake up to every morning.  No wonder she suffered from depression.

Who's that handsome devil?  Oh, it's just me hanging out in the house's central courtyard.  The world would be a much happier place if more houses were painted bright blue.

It turned out that during our visit Vogue was sponsoring a special exhibition - Las Apariencias Engañan: los Vestidos de Frida Kahlo (Smoke and Mirrors: The Dresses of Frida Kahlo).

No, these aren't medieval torture devices.  These are a sampling of the various braces and corsets Kahlo needed to help support her back after a trolley accident left her with a broken spinal column.

Childhood polio left Kahlo with an underdeveloped right leg so she had her shoes built up so that her legs would match.  Miss Thing had a serious streak of bad luck when it came to her health.  I guess suffering really does create great art.

Some of Kahlo's signature frocks on display.

Straight out of an S&M catalog, this outfit was designed by Jean Paul Gaultier and inspired by Kahlo.

These fancy frocks, also inspired by Kahlo, are Givenchy originals.

All that art and shopping sure works up the appetite.  I usually keep a wide berth of Western fast food chains while in a foreign country, but the signage outside Burger King for the King Dog both disgusted and fascinated me so I had no choice but to stop in for a sample.

All hail the flatulence-inducing power of the King Dog!  Ketchup, mustard, fried onions and cheese on a sesame seed bun.  

After a brief siesta in our hotel room bathroom it was time to head to bed.  Tomorrow is our last full day in Mexico and we've booked a private guide to take us to the ancient pyramids first thing in the morning.

Psychedelic Superman - Encores

Encores:  It's a Bird...It's a Plane...It's Superman
City Center
Sat, March 23, 8pm

How do you cripple the most powerful superhero of all time?  Hit him where it counts – his ego.  This clever supposition drives the plot of Charles Strouse and Lee Adams’ funky, 60s musical.  From the groovy rhythms and meandering book, it seems clear there was some psychotropic motivation involved here.  I mean, it was the 60s. 

Regardless, the show retains a goofy charm and endearing honesty that makes up for its shortcomings.  Sadly, the words “charm” and “honesty” are adjectives rarely used to describe shows post-2000.  Not that …Superman… is by any stretch a great musical in the vein of the Golden Age classics.  It’s a light-hearted trifle whose purpose is to entertain and amuse – which I don’t mean as derogatory. 

Hunky Ed Watts fills out the red and blue tights nicely.  He’s a sensitive Man of Steel with a full, legit baritone.  Jenny Powers, as love interest Lois Lane, sounds gorgeous and deftly handles the not-quite-belt-yet-not-quite-soprano vocal demands of her material. 

The supporting cast of Broadway vets are at their campy best with villains David Pittu and Will Swenson as standouts, selling their numbers with vaudevillian panache.

And that full orchestra…sigh.  So sad that modern Broadway audiences are robbed of the excitement that a live orchestra (not 8 players and 2 synths) can provide. 

The Roy Lichtenstein-inspired comic book-style set design is a perfect fit for the material and I loved the swinging choreography in “It’s Super Nice.”

Cinderella on Broadway (finally) and my other musical obsession (sorry Audra)

Cinderella
Broadway Theatre
Thursday, March 7, 7pm

I have just two words for you – Victoria Clark.  She could add class to a mud wrestling tournament at the Alabama State Fair.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

With all the talk about a glossy new book and a modernized, empowered Cinderella, Trish and I took our seats in the nosebleed section (thanks, TDF) expecting a hot mess.  Instead, we were happily surprised to find the charming core of R+H’s show still intact. 

For the show’s first Broadway mounting (it was originally written and produced as a TV special), the R+H estate decided to gussy up the original by tossing out the existing book and raiding their own catalogue to fill out the score. 

Okay, some of the added left-leaning rhetoric is a bit heavy-handed.  A new character, political rabble-rouser Jean-Michel, seems to have wandered onstage from a touring production of Les Mis.  Regardless, I was still charmed by the production. 

You’d think hiring the campy Douglas Carter Beane (Little Dog Laughed, Xanadu and the screenplay of To Wong Foo…) to write the new book would all but guarantee that at least one of the stepsisters be played by a drag queen snapping, “You best clean out that fire place, gurl.”  Thankfully, he’s turned downt the camp factor several notches in favor of a healthy smattering of hilarious, if anachronistic, one-liners.

Granted, Beane’s sometimes self-referential, snarky writing style isn’t exactly a perfect fit for the earnest simplicity of Hammerstein’s lyrics.  But I’m sure the only thing the producers had in mind was how to keep a new generation of audience member reared on South Park and The Simpsons, to sit still for two hours.  A prime example of this degradation of audience etiquette came during the first act finale when the woman sitting directly behind us answered her cell phone. 

“I’m at a show.  No, I’m actually in the theatre watching a Broadway show right now.   Sorry, I can’t talk because it’s distracting to the people around me.”

I shit you not.  Moving on…

The familiar plot remains essentially the same though the King and Queen have been axed in favor of an evil counselor for the prince, one stepsister is now sympathetic to Cinderella's plight and there is now a romantic sub-plot between the "good" stepsister and Jean-Michel.

As for the physical production, it's all about the costumes.  The onstage transformations are off the hook.  Torn rags somehow instantaneously morph into voluminous gowns.  The moment Prince Topher sets eyes on Ella in her first white gown (yes, Beane’s gone for a hipper shortening of both the lead characters’ names), I was practically verklempt - though not really a surprise considering I cry at the opening of a Walmart.

When the Fairy God Mother presents Ella with a pair of glittering Italian glass slippers, some crazy queen in the balcony actually gasped out loud, causing a wave of tittering across the theatre.  And no, that queen was not me.

Just hand William Ivey Long the Tony now for his costume designs.

Laura Osnes’ Cinderella is sincere, charming and refreshingly irony-free and she sings the score beautifully.  Santino Fontana (Prince Topher) may not have traditional leading man looks (though from our rear balcony seats he looked just fine), but he has a boyish, goofy charm and sense of humor that won me over.  And that voice.  Dreamy.

I already mentioned Victoria Clark, but I need to gush again because her voice is just perfection.

My ultimate fantasy?  Victoria Clark, Audra McDonald and Carolee Carmello singing “I Will Never Leave You” from Side Show as a trio.  I dare you to come up with a combination that tops that on the gay-meter.

Mexican Travel Day From Hell

Enough with all this Broadway crap, let’s talk about me and my glamorous jet-setting lifestyle (I wish).

Since I use almost all of my hard-earned vacation weeks sweating it out in the summer with a bunch of show tune-loving teenagers, I take every opportunity to make the most of the few three-day weekends that pop up throughout the year.  This past President’s Day holiday, I convinced Trish to accompany me on a whirlwind jaunt down to Mexico City for a weekend of third world fun.

As soon as I’ve sifted through all the photos, I’ll post and write about our adventures.  But today, I want to dedicate a full entry to our 15-hour travel day from hell.

Monday, February 18, President’s Day – Our final day in Mexico City

9:45am – The limo service picks us up promptly in our hotel lobby for the drive to Benito Jaurez Airport.  It must be no sweat to earn a Mexican driver’s license since it appears speed limits, turn signals and painted lane markers are optional in Mexico.  Regardless, we arrive unscathed and in plenty of time to check our single bag filled with Mexican treats and (more importantly) alcohol.

10:30am – Time to break out the Tums.  Having avoided Montezuma’s revenge all weekend, we tempted fate by imbibing in a full taco and enchilada breakfast from one of the many airport fast food kiosks.  ¡Muy delicioso!

Traveler’s note:  Any pile of dubious carne can be easily salvaged by adding a healthy dose of lime, pico de gallo and guacamole.

11:30am – Our first trip through security.  Disappointingly, no cavity search.

12:00pm – In a last ditch effort to use up all our extra pesos, I purchase enough over-priced (from the airport souvenir shop) dulce de leche and tequila milk candies to feed an entire sweat shop full of child laborers.

1:20pm – Boarding time.  Even though Trish purchased our tickets together, she somehow managed to get seated up in Economy Plus (without paying the extra charge) while I was relegated to the squalor of “regular” Economy.  I tried checking-in early, but the best seat that popped up was directly in front of the rear toilet.  Thinking of the other passengers who, like me, probably imbibed in a last minute Mexican food binge prior to boarding, I cough up the extra $40 to sit in Economy Plus rather than float in a cloud of Mexi-flatulence the entire flight.

1:50pm – Take off.  Comfortably ensconced in our wide Economy Plus seats, Trish swipes her credit card in the video seatback in front of us so we might while away our four-and-a-half hour flight watching trashy movies.  First up, Taken 2.  Is it me, or is Liam Neeson quite possibly the hottest 62-year-old man on earth?

3:00pm – Liam’s movie wife is bleeding out onto a dirt floor while his dingbat movie daughter (high school-aged, my ass - unless she's flunked at least three grades) scampers across the Istanbul skyline attempting to act scared and anxious, but looks constipated.  Before Liam can begin another round of Albanian ass kicking, the screen goes black and the pilot gets on the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed we’ve changed course.  A warning light went off on one of our engines.  We’ve turned that engine off and we’re flying back to Mexico City as a precaution.  There’s no reason for alarm, we’ve been trained for this type of situation and the plane is designed to fly with one engine.  The landing shouldn’t be a problem either.”

Our plane will likely fall out of the sky at any moment and all I'm thinking is, "What about my movie?  Will we land land before I get to see Liam kill every Albanian sex trafficker in Istanbul with just his bare hands and a piercing gaze from his Irish blues?"

4:00pm – After a rough landing (“shouldn’t-be-a-problem” my ass) and lukewarm applause from several panicky passengers, we’re back on the tarmac in Mexico City.  We sit in the plane waiting for the crew to “investigate” the problem.  My worst nightmare has come true – they’ve turned off our video feed before the end of our movie.

After about 20 minutes breathing in the warm, stale air that only a plane full of anxious, angry humans can produce, we’re informed that our plane is not immediately repairable.  We’ll have to de-board, wait for our baggage in the claims area, go through customs, line up at the United ticket counter and get re-booked on another flight.

4:30pm – It’s like BestBuy on Black Friday as passengers stampede towards baggage claim and then to the ticket counters.  It’s late and there are few alternate flight options left.  We wait almost half an hour in line until we finally speak to an agent.  Luckily, United has re-assigned a new aircraft to our route and we’re re-booked in the exact same seats.  According to the agent, the plane will start boarding at 5:00pm.  It’s 4:58pm.  There are at least 50 more passengers behind us waiting to get re-ticketed.  Sucks to be them.

5:00pm – We race to security and are greeted by a hostile group of fellow passengers.  Apparently, because the gate agents aren’t aware of our new flight, they can’t let us through.

30 minutes pass and we’re still standing at the x-ray machines waiting for clearance.  Several irate passengers get all “Norma Rae” on the security personnel and it looks like there might be a mini-uprising.

Trish notices several armed guards now surrounding the group.  Great, we made it the whole weekend without being kidnapped, robbed or developing explosive diarrhea and now we’ll die in a bloody barrage of gunfire at the airport.  I hope they get BD Wong to play me in the Lifetime movie.

5:30pm – Security finally gives us clearance and with a weary cheer from the group, we make our second trip through the metal detectors.

6:30pm – Time to board…again.  Seems the ticket agent was a wee bit off regarding the new departure time.  The good news:  United has bumped a flight to Houston and given us their plane.  The bad news:  their plane is super ghetto – no Economy Plus and no seatback movies.  Oh well, I guess that’s fifty bucks I’ll never see again.

7:30pm – It takes an additional half hour of shuffling and re-seating before we’re able to take off because the seating configuration is slightly different on the new aircraft.  We’re now due to land in Newark around midnight.  Yay!

8:00pm – The flight crew tries to console us by lowering the overhead screens and treating us to a free viewing of Alex Cross.  Thanks, United.   How about a free snack or a big ol’ cocktail considering we haven’t eaten in the last nine hours because we’ve been too busy alternately running around the airport and waiting in lines.  And Alex Cross?  Really?  That’s the best you can do?  Madea just doesn’t cut it as an action hero.

12:00am, Tuesday, February 19 – Our plane of weary travelers finally touches down in Newark.  We get in yet another line for our second trip through customs in less than 24 hours.  The agent thankfully rushes us through the line and after some minor confusion with a lost customs slip, we grab our luggage and exit customs where we are bid a gruff farewell from an annoyed Asian security guard with a Bronx accent.  God bless America.

1:00am – We’re tired and cranky and still dressed for the balmy South American clime.  Waiting on the chilly NJ Transit platform is not an option.  We suck it up and splurge for a cab.  After two trips through customs, a near death experience in the air and the sad realization that I'll probably never find out what happens at the end of Taken 2, I deserve a little pampering.

1:30am - $115 poorer, we drag our asses and luggage up three flights to our comfy Queens apartment.  I realize I have to be in the office in a couple of hours so I literally walk straight to my room and plop into bed.  Tomorrow will not be pretty.

The End

Addendum (4/17): Start from the beginning of our Mexican adventure here.

Hands On A Hardbody - White Trash Get Their Day on the Great White Way

Hands On A Hardbody
Brooks Atkinson Theatre 
Sat, March 2, 2pm

With jukebox musicals and lame movie adaptations littering the Broadway, I really wanted to like Hands On A Hardbody, an American musical with an original score and intriguing concept.  Sadly, I found it rife with white trash stereotypes and a lukewarm pay-off. 

The musical is based on the similarly titled, award-winning documentary chronicling an endurance competition in which contestants stand with one hand on the prize, a shiny red truck.  The last man standing – literally – wins.  Doesn’t exactly shout “Make me a Musical!” does it?

I don’t necessarily have an issue with the source material.  I mean, Sondheim routinely manages to coerce masterworks out of seemingly impenetrable topics.  But I don’t think the creators of Hardbody found the hook necessary to make this material sing.  And let’s face it, two-and-a-half hours of watching people standing around a truck is a lot to ask of any audience.

The internet chat boards have compared Hardbody to A Chorus Line, another high concept show low on plot.  The difference, though, is there is inherent action at a dance audition. In Hardbody, the writers, director and choreographer have to create forward momentum from a static activity. 

I admit the truck-ography is impressive, but after about 20 minutes the novelty had definitely worn off.  We might as well have been at the Javits for the Auto Show.

Not that there aren’t moments of inspiration amongst the white trash clichés.  Keala Settle raises the roof with a Stomp-inspired Gospel number.  But even this is a triumph of staging rather than story-telling, since we’ve already learned everything we need to know about her character from previous book scenes. Not to mention that technically, every contestant should have been disqualified since their hands all leave the truck during the drumming. 

I realize the other characters are based on real life contestants, but their stories are mind-numbingly familiar: the meet-cute young couple who yearn to begin thrilling new lives in LA, the trashy bimbo trying to go straight, the ex-military guy who wants to win and make his son proud, the injured, out-of-work older guy with the pestering wife...and on and on and on.  Sure, you want to stay true to the story, but this isn’t a documentary, it’s a Broadway musical. 

The score is a mixed bag of country-inspired tunes.  But like the show, the lyrics are riddled with clichés and rhymes you can spot a mile away. 

There might be a show lurking somewhere amidst all these good ol' boys and girls, but I think it’s a case of re-writing and re-conceptualizing the entire show which, I’m sure, ain’t gonna’ happen.

Just off the top of my head, a few of my issues with the show's current musical structure:

• The opening sets us up to believe this is going to be Benny’s (Hunter Foster) story, then flips it to J D (Keith Carradine) after getting rid of Benny halfway through the second act.
• Writing that trades on stereotypes to fill in characterization (the soldier, the white trash old lady, et al).
• Wasting time giving side character’s full songs when a verse or part of a shared song (to give a feeling of community) would do.
• Repetitive choreography.  Though I realize there are only so many different ways to dance around a truck without taking your hand off of it.
• And a personal staging pet peeve, the slow motion march to connote a flashback to war.  Just a bit too obvious given the trite sentiments of the song it’s set to.  As soon as the chorus got into silhouetted position, I was rolling my eyes.

Annie

Annie
Palace Theatre
Friday, Feb 8, 8pm performance

After years obsessing over this show's thrilling overture on the original Broadway cast recording - sadly cut to shreds in the current revival - I finally got a chance to see my first, live stage performance of Annie. 
 
Thanks to Storm Nemo, Trish, me and visiting friend, Dylan, scored ninth row center orchestra seats via the half-price TKTS booth.  Given the storm, it was no surprise the curtain went up nearly 15 minutes late.  The real surprise came at 8:00 PM when we turned to survey the nearly half-empty theatre.  I had a flashback to the 2004 Broadway production of Dracula, The Musical.  At that yawn-inducing performance, I shared the entire balcony with just one other pathetic show queen, my legs draped over the seatback in front of me, half dozing and waiting for Kelli O’Hara’s nude scene.

Sadly, nothing as exciting as Kelli’s bare breasts is on display at the Palace. 

In the title role, spunky Lilla Crawford possesses a freakishly high and unusually pleasant belt.  And yes, I got nostalgically misty-eyed when she reached the penultimate refrain of “Tomorrow,” but it was tough to get past some of her rather - how shall I put it? - "extreme" acting choices.  I know it’s a dick move to pick on an 11-year-old, but hell, she’s got two more Broadway credits than I do, so she’ll need to suck it up.  

In fairness, James Lapine should probably carry the burden of guilt for many of these questionable choices (i.e. Annie literally having a full-on screaming fit when Warbucks tries to take her pendant).  From the very opening scene, moodily lit and draped in fake stage smoke, to the entrance of the super-scary, seemingly Gestapo-trained Hannigan (Katie Finneran), it’s obvious the artistic team was going for a darker, more “real” Annie.  But I’m not sure the orphanage scenes should read like DVD extras off of "Schindler's List."

To her credit, Finneran balances this darkness with the same quirky sense of humor that made her a stand-out (and Tony winner!) in the 2010 Broadway revival of Promises, Promises.  But at the performance I attended, her usually perfect comic timing seemed a bit off - perhaps a combination of the late start and storm - though she seemed to find her groove again about midway through the first act.

The choreography by In The Heights alum Andy Blankenbuehler had not a whiff of period authenticity, but was always interesting if at times bizarrely modern.  His only true miss was the unfortunate closing tap number.  There’s something definitely amiss when your dancing ensemble of Broadway vets looks like it was plucked from a community theatre production of Dames At Sea.

The physical production was also a series of hits and misses.  The opening tableau, the orphanage and Warbucks’ mansion felt appropriately full and sumptuous, but the entire NYC montage took place on a mainly bare stage with only a few cheesy digital effects projected onto the sprawling, back scrim. 

The small adult ensemble sounded gorgeous, but their numbers could barely fill the huge Palace stage in the large ensemble scenes. No amount of costume changes could cover the fact that the same six exhausted cast members kept running back on stage.

The orphans are all appropriately cute and obviously talented, but even with the Benetton-ad diversity, they are for the most part, indistinguishable (again, I blame the direction).

Rooster and Lily are appropriately bumbling, finding the right combination of comic silliness to balance this productions penchant for gritty realism.  J. Elaine Marcos successfully straddles the line of political correctness, imbuing Lily with the clueless naivete of Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles while sounding like a surly Chinese take-out waitress.

Anthony Warlow is the perfect Warbucks, handsome and possessing a gorgeous ringing, legit baritone voice.  The theatre queen in me is practically squealing at the thought of his Ben Stone or Guido Contini.

Brynn O’Malley is adequately prim and proper as Grace, but is also oddly cold and aloof.  One wonders why Warbucks is even attracted to her.  And why does she have a British accent?

The current revival is slick, well-produced, with several very good - and a couple of great - moments, but ultimately didn’t satisfy as a theatrical whole.

On a side note, while waiting for the subway at 49th Street and discussing the show, some random guy jumped into our conversation, having obviously been eavesdropping from nearby.  Not creepy at all.  Of course, if he had looked like Ryan Gosling rather than Newman from Seinfeld, I'd probably not have minded so much.  And yes, I totally admit how superficial that seems, but I guess that's why Ted Bundy was so successful.

Blizzard, shmizzard…bring on the orphans! And tales of Times Square and mom jeans.

With Storm Nemo threatening to close down the city, Trish and I decided to throw caution to the wind and ignore Mayor Bloomberg’s warning to “stay off the city streets.”  Instead, we treated visiting Summer Conservatory staff member, Dylan Shelofsky, to a day in the gray-brown slush of a NYC snowstorm.  As a native Coloradan, we figured a couple feet of snow would barely impress, let alone hamper, Dylan’s mobility during her weekend trip to the Big Apple.

My Times Square office, on the other hand, was in full panic mode and dismissed us early.  Trish and I took advantage of my free afternoon and the uncharacteristic empty sidewalks to explore midtown with our visiting protégé.  Since Dylan is way too cool to have visited any of the usual Times Square tourist traps on previous trips, we decided to take advantage of the storm-thinned crowds to go full frontal tourist!

First stop?  The Hershey Store, of course.  Where else can you buy the same candy bar your local drug store carries and sells at half the price?!  At least they give out free samples.  Next, we headed across the street to M&M’s World where they somehow manage to fill three retail floors with M&M’s merchandise.  Did you know there’s an M&M military jeep dispenser?  Who knew?  Who buys?

Dylan and Trish enjoying the Ferris wheel.

With the snow piling up to nearly a whopping eighth of an inch, we bravely made our way to the TKTS booth.  All real New Yorkers know that the best time to get great seats for a Broadway show is during a snowstorm (or a Jewish holiday).  Since none of us had ever seen a professional mounting of Annie, we decided to fork over our cash to see that plucky red head just stick out her chin and grin and say…everyone sing!

We still had a couple of hours to kill before show time.  So our next stop was Toys R’ Us Times Square.  Now, I’m usually a cynic when it comes to the Times Square big box retail stores, but Toys R’ Us is definitely worth a stop if only for it’s full-sized ferris wheel and Barbie castle.

Usually, tickets to ride the ferris wheel are sold out by mid-day, but thanks to Storm Nemo’s threatening conditions, the store was practically empty and we were able to jump right on.  Sadly, Barbie’s castle was undergoing some renovation.  But even under construction, we were able to laugh and make disparaging comments about the Pink Label Edward and Bella Barbies on display.  I’m sure Kristen Stewart is lying at home wiping away tears of hurt with hundred dollar bills even as we speak.

An example of my indelible fashion sense.

Finally, we headed to my favorite Times Square retailer, Forever 21.  Yes, you read that correctly, Forever 21.  I know many of you look to me as a barometer of teen fashion, so I hesitantly give away my fashion secret weapon.  Given the day’s busy tourist schedule, however, I was in no mood to sift through racks of skinny-legged jeans.  And yes, I do see the irony of me considering purchasing “skinny” jeans given my healthy 38” waist, but style trumps function, says I.  (For those of you new to my blog or unaware of my “unique” sense of humor, that entire last paragraph was meant to be sarcastic.  It was only a few years ago that Trish had to pry my favorite pair of high-waisted mom jeans from my death grip.)

After a needed injection of Chai tea and a slice of chocolate banana bread from Starbucks - incidentally, one of the few stores still open in the wake of the “blizzard” - we headed to the Palace theatre hoping a gaggle of depression-era orphans might cheer us up on this cold, snowy evening.

Viewing the half empty theatre from our ninth row orchestra seats, it was obvious most citizens heeded Bloomberg’s advice.  But other than a late start, the show proceeded with a full cast (no understudies!).  As the old adage goes - the show must go on - even without an audience.  You can read my review here.

Nice Work If You Can Get It or Crazy-For-You Lite

Nice Work If You Can Get It
Imperial Theatre
Thursday, Feb 7, 7pm

Seriously, can we please set-up a statute of limitation for the use of “Someone To Watch Over Me” in a Broadway show?  At least another 50 years, please?  Sure, it’s a classic, but the Gershwins did write other love songs, ya’ know.

Sorry, rant over.  Anyway – why “Crazy-For-You” Lite?  Well, unlike Crazy For You, this little Gershwin bauble isn’t based on an existing Gershwin show, but created from scratch by looting the Gershwin catalogue and throwing together what is supposed to be a capricious tale of a millionaire playboy and a tomboy bootlegger.  It’s apparently “based on material” by Guy Bolton and P.G.Wodehouse, whatever that means, since it was nominated for Best NEW Musical at the 2012 Tony Awards.

It’s also not quite as funny, the book writing isn’t nearly as tight, the songs aren’t integrated quite as well and the production numbers aren’t nearly as clever or exciting as its predecessor.

So I hated it, right?  Well, not exactly.  How can you hate a Gershwin score or the delightful (if miscast) Kelli O’Hara? 

Director/choreographer Kathleen Marshall doesn’t quite provide the needed pace and manic energy a musical farce requires.   And a 1920s musical without a single tap number?  Sacrilege!

Some of the blame can also be thrown at book writer Joe DiPietro, who does provide some solid laughs, but whose many one-liners are hit-and-miss.

I loves me some Kelli O’Hara, but she’s not quite tomboyish enough for my taste, though her singing is sublime (as usual).  She also shows a knack for whacky physical comedy in her hilarious take on “Treat Me Rough.”  Who knew?

Ferris Bueller…er, I mean, Matthew Broderick, is appealing, if a bit too stoic as playboy, Jimmy.  His intentionally underplayed characterization is an interesting choice, but one wonders why so many gals have fallen under the spell of this schlumpy, personality-free mama’s boy.

Standouts for me were the secondary couple, Robyn Hurder and Chris Sullivan (Jeannie and Duke).  Her ditzy blonde and his loveable goofball have the only real onstage chemistry.

Judy Kaye and Blythe Danner are fun, but wasted in small supporting roles.   And the costumer should be sentenced to community service at Easy Pickins for putting Ms. Danner in that unflattering black flapper dress.

If Ms. Marshall had choreographed the entire show with the same sense of frothy fun she found staging “Delishious” (spoiler alert: the ensemble spilling clown-car-like from the tiny bathtub), the show might have risen above the limitations of the book.

Oh well, just bring on a revival of Crazy For You!

Beyonce’s Warm-up Act OR Super Bowl XLVII: A Gay Man’s Perspective

Our fancy Scoops ice cream cake.

I am not a football fan.  Though I am a fan of chicken wings and tight pants, so deciding to attend Juan and Val’s Super Bowl party was a no brainer.  After scraping the snow and ice from Trish’s car, we drove to Juan and Val's Jersey abode for some game day gluttony. 

In true Pineda style, upon arrival we headed straight to the kitchen.  Sure, the TV was on in the living room, but the real action was happening in the kitchen.  Val was at the stove frying up pierogies, Juan was at the fry daddy tending to the wings and Juan’s white son, Chris Grimm, was implementing some “quality control” at the hors d’oeuvre tray.  I’d spent the morning preparing a 2-pound tray of bacon mac and cheese, so I immediately usurped the oven to re-heat my lactosean nightmare - that’s right, 4 cups of heavy cream and 2 kinds of cheese, bitches! 

Eventually we settled into the living room for the start of the show - er, um - game.  First off, what's up with the Ravens’ costumes?  Um, I mean uniforms.  Who picked that shade of purple?  Just terrible.  They could have at least gone with a nice aubergine or grape for better contrast with the Astroturf.  Perhaps, in a good will gesture the 49ers can forward the Ravens the name of their stylist.  I mean, the 49ers are from San Francisco, right?  Of course their outfits are fierce.

Speaking of outfits - who talked you into wearing that S&M turtleneck, Ms. Hudson?  Yes, you have a bangin’ new bod thanks to Weight Watchers, but that top is a little too “50 Shades of Grey” for my taste.  I hope you used a lot of baby powder because that’s gonna’ chafe.  Not that I would know.  Oh well, you still sounded amazing.  And nice touch with the back-up chorus of step-touching elementary school children.  Although the white and khaki outfits need to go.  It was like watching a convention of midget car salesmen.

Ms. Keys fared much better than Ms. Hudson in the wardrobe department, but her muzak version of the National Anthem was a real snoozer.  Here’s a helpful tip - if you need to take a breath every two words, either you’re tempo is too slow or you’re in desperate need of better vocal technique (or both?).  And it is absolutely never appropriate to riff for thirty seconds AFTER you’ve sung the last word of the National Anthem.  Self-indulgent much?

I’m not exactly sure what occurred between the coin toss and Beyoncé half-time extravaganza, but there seemed to be a lot of running, pushing and shoving.  Oh, and a lot of slow motion.  For athletes, there sure was a lot of awkward jiggling in those tight outfits.  Note to self, slow motion and spandex - not a good look.  My main concern during the first act - er, um…inning - no, wait - um…oh, I give up - was that my seven-layer dip was missing it's crucial sixth layer.  Since avocados are out of season I had to - gasp - skip the guacamole.  Oddly, no one seemed to notice.   

And then there was (insert angelic “Ah” here) Beyoncé.  To paraphrase Brian Hart’s facebook status (a former Pineda Conservatory student), “That’s what heaven’s like.”  Preach. And can we talk about her “sex face”?   Don't even get me started on her luscious weave.

Post half-time was sort of a blur to me, I think someone forgot to pay the electric bill or something.  To be honest, I couldn’t concentrate on the TV because Val was piling more food and dessert on the table. I mean, ice cream cake crunchies or Super Bowl?  There's really no contest. 

Since I usually root for the team with the cutest quarterback, this year left me with a particularly difficult quandary - Italian-American hunk or young tattoo-ed hottie?  In the end, it didn't really matter.  I got my caloric intake for the year and one team won a really big, tacky ring.  

I won't even comment on the all the lame commercials this year except to say I threw up in my mouth a little watching that hot model make out with the frizzy-haired nerd. Isn't it totally possible to be both hot and smart?  Of course it is.  I'm looking in the mirror right now at a prime example.  Call me, GoDaddy. 

Trish and I are already planning on making millions by renting out our bedrooms next year when New York hosts the next Super Bowl.

Congratulations, Ravens!