the craptacular

Bryce Ryness and Stanley Bahorek horse around, and convince no one that they’re 13.

There were beautiful costumes in Memphis. And there was Lea Salonga’s showstopping “Love Look Away” in the revival of Flower Drum Song. And Stephanie J. Block’s entire performance in The Boy from Oz. The Ragtime revival gave us Bobby Steggert and Thou Shalt Not made Norbert Leo Butz a star.

Bad shows are sometimes capable of doing real good in the world.

Such is the case with See Rock City and Other Destinations, which is playing through August 14 at The Duke on 42nd Street.

It starts off with what looks more like a performance art piece than a musical: An enormous pile of folding chairs—toppled over each other like a mountain of tangled spiders—sits backlit in one corner of an empty room. The cast will spend the first 15 minutes of the show unknotting that pile, pulling down the chairs and setting them up around the room. Then they invite the audience to sit.

For a show whose songs and scenes work so hard to be Moving and to Reveal Universal Truth, the gag with the chairs comes closest to achieving those goals. As the cast goes about their work, they welcome the audience and interact with each other. For those moments, the push and pull between audience and actor, show and reality, becomes the focus.

But the show can’t sustain that momentum. The scenes that follow—a series of unrelated vignettes with travel as a central theme—are intended to show extraordinary moments in the everyday, but really, they just seem unrealistic and forced. In one scene, a pair of overzealous schoolboys cut class to go to Coney Island. Unless they were raised on the moon, live in bubbles or have no friends, it seems unlikely that any real teenager would think of Coney Island as a place for romance or danger. The whole show suffers from this subtly distorted reality: In another, a bride contemplates going over Niagara Falls in a barrel rather than walk down the aisle.

By the end, love is found and insight is gained. Or at least the soaring note at the end of the final power ballad seems to indicate as much. The characters in the show, at least, appear to have figured it all out. If only life were that uncomplicated for the people in the folding chairs.

Photo: NYTimes

It’s happened without fail: Every woman of a certain age we know who’s seen the musical American Idiot comes away with the same thought: They liked the show. They’ve all said as much, and so did we. But there is an unsettling thread running through it—and its source material—that’s tough to ignore: That straight, white American men kind of suck at life.

In a conversation about the show’s characters, an acquaintance summed it up: “One knocks up his girlfriend and is so depressed that he can’t get up off the couch. The other one becomes a drug addict. And the other one is so anger-filled that he goes to war and gets himself blown up.”

And scene? Really? This is a conundrum we’re not used to facing at the theater. Usually, the disturbing gender-related question at hand is why we’re being asked to embrace material that hates women (right at you, Mr. Sondheim, Mr. Mamet, Mr. LaBute…).

American Idiot poses a different quandary. In fact, it’s the women in American Idiot who come out stronger in the end. The Extraordinary Girl is Tunny’s grounded savior. Heather moves on. And even though Johnny dumps Whatshername, the event is played as the great mistake of his life—the thing he will always regret and wonder about. Johnny talks about his rage, but really, it’s Whatshername’s that seems justified and cathartic in the end. Hell, it even feels pretty good when Alysha Umphress’s character shoves Theo Stockman off the couch during “Too Much, Too Soon.”

It’s a disturbing portrait that we debated endlessly. Was this a bare-bones portrayal of reality, or just an over-explanation and justification of laziness, emotional weakness and really bad choices? Will’s acceptance of his young son in the show’s last scene is portrayed with fanfare—like we’re all supposed to applaud when this character does, you know, something that’s totally ordinary. And something that women are more-or-less expected and required to do.

In the end, though, we came down on the side of gritty realism. Because we see this dynamic reflected everywhere in our daily lives. We all know a Will, a Tunny or a Johnny—that guy who can’t get a job, or get through school, or get out of his own way. Some of us know one of each. They are the collateral damage of our crappy economy, or their own self-esteem issues, or some ephemeral other thing that keeps them stuck over there on the couch. Lots has been said about the slipping status of men in our society—but who knew that a musical—and one by Green Day—could crystalize things in such a complete way? This is part of American Idiot‘s uncomfortable greatness—the thing that’s making it a harder sell than almost anything on Broadway right now. Far from an escape, a respite from a bleak world, it asks its audience to look inward, and outward too. And if you’re a woman—one with a job, a family, a half-decent grip on reality—that look outward feels a little threatening. Especially when you realize that the guy in the seat next to you is kind of an idiot.

Photo: Parlour

• The Capeman gets cast: We were excited to see Natascia Diaz’s name on the list, and we’ve already purchased the air mattress we’ll be using to camp out at Central Park West.

• Anything Goes sets an opening date: Sutton Foster’s next starring gig is 100% firmed up. The Roundabout’s ability to muster a truly great revival… not so much.

• Bryce Ryness and Jarrod Emick join Leap of Faith: Throwing into question whether anyone will be able to handle all the handsome manliness in this cast.

• Nick Adams is cast in Priscilla (not Matt Cavanaugh?): But really, the only thing we can remember about this announcement is that the Times also mentioned that he was once in a semi-feud with Mario Lopez over who had bigger biceps. That’s… awesome.

• Adam Guettel joins The Miraculous Year: This puts to rest rumors that it might, in fact, be about him while simultaneously giving the show truly orgasm-inducing potential.

• Spider-Man starts rehearsals on August 16^th:  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Next question: will it make it out of rehearsals?

• There’s a new cast at Next to Normal:  Somehow, we all survived Ripples leaving, and the Booth Theater was not swallowed up by a sink-hole, either.  At least.  Not yet.

This week has been brutal.  There’s nothing happening.  It got the point that Lucky and I actually had an extensive conversation about writing a piece entitled “Ten Things That Are Not Happening in Theater Right Now.”

And then, Wednesday morning happens and there’s this little article.  And suddenly my day—my week—brightens considerably.

Sure, we all already knew about HBO’s “The Miraculous Year.”  You know, the TV Pilot that launched a thousand Hunter Foster related jokes.  The one filmed in New York City, set amidst the gritty, glittery world of Broadway.

Things sounded good when we heard Kathryn Bigelow was directing—who doesn’t love a girl who plays with the big boys?  And then casting was announced, and things sounded even better.  Frank Langella, Patti LuPone, Norbert-Leo Butz, Eddie Redmayne, Hope Davis and Stark Sands—those are names we theater lovers like to hear.  Plus, just as a bonus, this guy named Adam Guettel is composing the music.

All good things, right?  I mean, you can see why a theater-loving someone (like me, for example) might already be somewhat interested in this TV show.

But then, today, we get this:

[The Miraculous Year] opens in Terry’s townhouse, with the composer, who’s in his 40s, snorting lines of cocaine off a “Wicked” playbill. He’s trying to seduce a cute chorus boy with the coke and with verbal zingers aimed at shows he hates — “Les Misérables,” “Beauty and the Beast,” “Mamma Mia!” and “Jersey Boys.”

I’m sold.  SOLD, I tell you!  If you turned my wet dream into a TV show, this would be it.  If HBO had announced a premiere date, I’d already be marking a daily countdown into my calendar.  Alas, that’s news I’ll have to continue waiting for.

But, oh, HBO, I’m yours.  You had me at “snorting lines of cocaine off a ‘Wicked’ playbill.”

They may fly under the radar, but it’s not like hot composers are totally unheard of. John Kander was pretty dashing back in the day. Even Jerry Herman and Steve-O Sondheim, in their respective youths, worked a kind of turtle-necked, swaggering, 1970s-style cool. Here are the composers of right now, and sort-of-right-now, who we’d marry. Or we’d at least allow each of them to serenade us from across the table at Westway Diner.

.

Alex Timbers: The first time we saw Alex Timbers, he was sitting in the row in front of us at his own show, Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, and we mistook him for a Tisch TA kicking back between classes and not, say, the hottest up-and-coming musical theater writer/director in New York. When we saw him that first time, we had a single collective thought: He’s real cute. Besides having what must surely be the best hair this side of Jonathan Groff, there’s something both sweetly vulnerable and rebellious—like a less ass-y John Mayer—about Timbers’s look. We dig it. And we suspect his photo shoot for Vanity Fair is already scheduled.

.

Tom Kitt: The thing about Tom Kitt is that his hotness is under cover. Sweet-smiling and unassuming, you probably wouldn’t know at first glance that he hangs with rockstars and has won a Pulitzer Prize. His Broadway-working-man thing is totally charming—and totally accessible. Would we have a beer with Tom Kitt? Yeah. And other things.

.

.

.

Adam Guettel: The annoying thing about Adam Guettel is that his whole life story is basically perfect. He’s musical theater royalty. He’s handsome and unfailingly well dressed. He’s got a moderately-romantic addiction problem in his past, which gives him the air of having valiantly struggled, despite having been born with like nine silver spoons in his mouth and a major professional edge. But we can’t help lovin’ dat Adam Guettel of ours. He’s too good not to love—and let’s be real—too good looking to ignore.

.

.

Stephen Trask: Fine. He looks like a weasel. Not like a dishonest person, but like the animal. But. We have a massive weakness for punk-rock posturing on Broadway (see below), and Trask fits the rebellious bill. He played in the house band at a drag bar before the fateful day when he sat next to John Cameron Mitchell on an airplane and, voila, Hedwig was born. Plus, he beat Billie Joe Armstrong to the guyliner-n-showtunes punch by about a decade.

.

.

Billie Joe Armstrong: Not technically a musical theater composer by profession, Billie Joe Armstrong’s very existence obliterates boundaries, and therefore necessitates his inclusion in this list. He’s a family man, a guitar hero, a theoretical bisexual, and a captivating performer, despite being like 5’4”. Plus, he wears makeup, is massively tattooed, and looks 22. And he’s going to write another musical. Like, a real one this time.

.

.

Honorable Mention: Jeanine Tesori: She’s not a guy, but we had to include her. Strong-featured and regal, we love her because she plays with the boys—and because always looks amazing while she’s doing it.

.

.

.

Photos: NYTimes.com, Columbia.edu, Broadwayworld.com, Westernedge.org, Examiner.com, CYWorld.com

Benjamin Walker will hog the spotlight again, Fall 2010.

You can stop the nail biting, girls and gays. It’s official: Benjamin Walker is taking Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson to Broadway.

Wait, are you sure you fully understood that?

BENJAMIN WALKER IS GOING TO PLAY ANDREW JACKSON ON BROADWAY. IN LIKE EIGHT WEEKS.

LAPDANCES! FOR! EVERYONE!

As you may or may not have guessed, we’re a little excited, especially because there have been rumors to the contrary for months. But Benjamin Fucking Walker it is, which means that—aside from that whole oil spill and the Taliban and things—all is right in the universe.

The show opens in previews at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theater on September 21st, 2010. We’ll see you there — spare pairs of panties in tow, ready for tossing at the stage.

Read more (seriously, lots more) about Benjamin Walker and Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson.

Photo: ctnews.com

Eavesdropping.  You do it.  You know you do and you can’t lie to us about it because we’re on to you.  It’s okay.  We do it too.  We also happen to think it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.  And there’s almost no better place on earth to enjoy said pleasure than in the theater.  (I mean, who doesn’t love listening-in on folks who, inspired by their surroundings, are desperately trying to sound smart and cultured?)

Below is a sampling of some of our recent faves—the convos that kept us chuckling for a good while and bring a smile to our face whenever we remember them.

Speaking of remembering… the next time you’re in the theater, don’t forget, we’re listening…

And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you…

Middle aged suburban lady #1: Oh that Anderson Cooper, he’s just so handsome!

Middle-aged suburban lady #2:  You know, they say he’s gay…

Wishful thinker: That’s nonsense. He just hasn’t found the right girl yet.

.

You mean, they didn’t invent that in the 80s?

Woman who slept through Act I but needs something to talk about at intermission: Wow, the name Jessica is much older than I thought if Shakespeare was using it…

.

I’d like to think this was his silent protest…

Tourist on 42^nd Street: Excuse me sir, can you tell me where the Funt Lontanne Theater is?

Cop on 42^nd Street: ……….

Pssst:  Overhear anything awesome lately? Email it to us at the.tacular@gmail.com.  We might just make this into a regular column and post our favorites on the site.

Waiting in line for Shakespeare in the Park tickets is a unique kind of New York City marathon. People come equipped with tents and air mattresses, board games, food, folding chairs, sleeping bags. They take it seriously.

People take it especially seriously when the show in question—this year’s Merchant of Venice, for example—features a Hollywood star. Al Pacino has turned Central Park West into what looks like an organized, first-world refugee camp.

We waited for seven hours and could only get single tickets in different rows; others ahead of us waited twice as long. By the time it was through, people had made friends. The girls sitting in front of us had been taught how to knit by the girls in front of them. We knew all about the woman sitting behind us, and her baby, who we got to meet later in the day when her husband stopped by with lunch. We got recommendations for breakfast from people waiting just down the line from us. (A deli and a pizza joint both deliver to the line.) People sleep and read and listen to the birds, and frown up at the looming clouds, and discuss accordingly.

Granted, enemies can be made too, especially considering how closely the Public Theater’s good-humored staff polices the line, and how closely the line polices itself. Cutters and illegal joiners are shunned, and then asked to leave. A guy who wondered aloud why a group of people further back in the line didn’t simply get there earlier was greeted with a resounding chorus of fuck yous.

By the time the show starts at 8 pm, everyone in line has already seen a show—and played a part in one. Waiting in line for Shakespeare in the Park tickets requires, at the very minimum, twice as many hours as seeing the show itself. Time is the real price of the ticket, which can be infinitely more precious than what we all cough up at TKTS, or plunk down at the box office. Just ask the lady with the baby about that.

After seeing Pacino perform—a performance so dominating that we wondered whether it was actually Shylock playing Pacino up there and not the other way around—we agreed that the wait was worth it, and was worth doing again, in fact. To sacrifice a day or two of your life for the theater? In other places, maybe it wouldn’t happen. In New York City, it is a yearly ritual—and high drama unto itself.

 Loading ...

Photo: The Craptacular

In honor of this summer’s handsome Shakespeare in the Park production of The Winter’s Tale and Shakespeare’s most famous (craziest) stage direction…

 Loading ...