the craptacular

And you thought Bloodsong of Love needed a splash zone warning.

The wettest, wildest experience in theater these days is in the lottery-ticket-only first two rows of American Idiot. It’s positively… interactive. It’s also positively like riding the log flume at Great Adventure.

Over the course of the show, I was spit and sweated on. Props were thrown. I was TPd, I think. And I don’t even mean like, “Wow, look at all the spit coming out of his mouth. Some of it must surely be landing on someone in the audience.”

That’s what I said to myself during Spring Awakening, ahem Mr. Groff. (Literally, ahem.)

This is more like, “Wow there is moisture on my hand right now. And on my face. And it’s a bodily fluid from someone standing on that stage.”

Welcome to the perils of awesome seats. But such is the nature of this show, wherein no one stops moving or singing or being disenfranchised in a really projectile-type way for the entire thing. The fact that this show is continually cranked up to at least eleven is what makes it so great. Its passionate like nothing else on Broadway is passionate right now.

Part of it is about proximity, too. The seats are just insanely close to the stage. When Johnny casts away his drugs for the final time, he casts them all over your lap. The girl sitting right in front of me jumped up so quickly to applaud at the end of the show that she nearly head-butted Michael Esper, who was in the middle of his bow. He was taken aback. She was overjoyed.

My advice? Go. Put that little slip of paper in the bucket and try your chances. It’s hilarious, and not just because it might be your only shot at swapping spit with John Gallagher. It’s also the best way to enjoy this headrush of a show, if you can handle its energy, and the thousand-percent commitment of its cast.

We’ll be going again, ponchos in tow.

For reference: Theo and the face.

A couple weeks ago, Theo Stockman’s face ended up on People.com and the world got its first official glance.  But we here in the Broadway community have seen that crazy mug a few times before.  And I do mean crazy mug.  Because as far as I can tell, Theo’s acting technique  is about 80% crazyface by volume.

I cannot be the only person who has noticed this, can I?  There’s so much face on that kid, and he’s working it so hard, that it literally pulls attention from other actors.  Like, you know, the ones we’re supposed to be watching.

You can certainly argue that it’s appropriate to his character during “Holiday”—the Representative from Jingletown—but most other times it’s just distracting.  Stockman gives so much crazyface that as an audience member I envied Alysha Umphress for her opportunity to shove him off the couch during “Too Much Too Soon.”

The craziest thing about Theo and his crazyface, though, is this: the kid can sing.  His star is rising, and for his vocal chops alone, Stockman deserves that.  He has earned that.  I guess what I’m saying is, Theo, I really want to love you, so, can you lose the crazyface?  As a fellow NYU grad, I know the professors over there in Tisch taught you a few other things.

Credit: fuckyeahtheostockman.tumblr.com

1. Scottsboro Boys is going into the Lyceum. Aaand… cue the regret that we didn’t see it when it was off-Broadway and 40% cheaper.
2. Will Swenson is confirmed for Priscilla. We’re disconcerted by the mental image of him in drag, too, but it’s OK. We’ll all do this together. We’ll talk about it. There are good, safe meds out there if we need them.
3. A Little Night Music won’t extend, making this the 4,297th piece of evidence that people are just not buying tickets to Broaway shows right now if those shows aren’t Wicked, The Lion King or The Addams Family.
4. Tony Nominee Levi Kreis is ex-ex-gay. And he looks just like Harry Connick, Jr.. And we kind of hope he wins. At everything.
5. The Pee-Wee Herman musical is coming. And it sounds like fun and everything, but we’re really curious about whether comedian Seth Meyers’s mostly-adorable younger brother Josh will stay on as Fireman.
6. So, Next Fall kind of unexpectedly sucked, right?
7. Billie Joe Armstrong will simply not go away. And we love it. And we can’t wait for his next musical.
8. Alice Ripley misses one of Brian D’Arcy James’s first performances as Dan. File under, Ultimately Not Controversial but Seems Like It Could Be.
9. Jennifer Damiano as Mary Jane, says the rumor mill. Thumbs up for casting that feels totally appropriate and not-stunty, and for Julie Taymor’s first obvious attempt at cost-cutting.
10. Gavin Creel lost his journal. And 1,000 English fangirls spent all their babysitting money riding the tube for hours on end in desperate search.

Hey,

So. So!

I’m Lucky, and she’s The Mick, and we live in NYC and we like theater and we run this web site.

Last week around this time, after several alcoholic beverages a piece, we wondered aloud whether we should create our own version of BwayDaily’s Anon Post. If you don’t know what Anon Post is, it’s this: A forum where people can post rumors and gossip about theater, and where people can feel pretty safe saying whatever they want, as long as they’re not breaking the law or doing something that we otherwise deem inappropriate.

We didn’t know if it would work or not, but we took a stab at it. And frankly, we’d like to keep taking stabs at it.

But I’ll be straight up with you. We don’t really know how to do it.

Because clearly, this kind of thing is fraught. I mean, there’s a reason why BwayDaily’s version is on hiatus.

But we’re pretty sure that we want to make this work, because we loved Anon Post, and we looked forward to reading it every week. It was fascinating and fun, and most of the time, utterly harmless. We’d like to keep it all of those things. Here are our ideas so far:

• One new post a week.
• It’s moderated, and the moderators are The Mick and I, unless other people feel super strongly that they’d like to do it for us, in which case, we’ll probably let them because we’re busy as hell.
• You can be anon or not-anon—totally up to you. We don’t expect every conversation on this thing to be insanely salacious.
• IP logging stays on. Sorry. The only people who will ever have access to that information are The Mick and me, and we’ll only ever look at it if there are major shenanigans. Because frankly, there’s no other reason to look at it, and we don’t have time to look at it any more often than that. How do you know this for sure? You don’t. But you’ll have to trust us. Or you can go post all your forceful opinions on ATC, BroadwayWorld or BroadwaySecrets. Have fun with that.
• If things get too crazy, we’ll delete the posts. Because… that’s what moderators do. How do we define too crazy? Well, look around here and read some of what we put up . You’ll get a pretty good feel for our tolerance level.

Now, though, we’d really like to hear your ideas. Because you’re going to be the ones posting on this thing.

What do you think about all of this? Is this something you’d want to do? Do you think we should handle it differently, or do you have a brilliant idea about how this should work? Is this ridiculous and should we just STFU and stick to writing about Ben Walker’s pants? Tell us. Leave a comment. Or, hey, if you’d like to be more intimate about it, e-mail us. We’re interested in hearing what you have to say.

Oh, and if you want to just go ahead and start posting, you can do that, too.

Lucky’s Picks

John Selya
I mean, he’s a dancer. So a pleasant theatrical moment is more or less guaranteed when he accidentally (?) ends up shirtless in the second half of Come Fly Away. But in this case, the muscles do not make the man, nor are they the only things that make him beautiful. Sure, John is jacked, but he’s also joyous. Nowhere else on Broadway right now is there a more vibrant, ear-to-ear-grin of a performance. I mean, literally—he smiles from beginning to end. It makes sense for the character, but mostly, Selya gives the impression that the dancing itself is a breathless, giddy high. Shirt or no shirt, that’s pretty sexy.

A.J. Shively
He has the unfortunate distinction of playing the most thankless role on Broadway right now. Not just because he’s playing a bigot—and an almost implausibly guileless bad guy—but also because he’s wholly overshadowed, just like everyone else in this revival of La Cage aux Folles, by Douglas Hodge’s towering performance as Albin. Hodge is so good that he renders the rest of the show nearly irrelevant, but Shively manages to squeak by on his lovely voice, and his memorably sweet face. (And what a purdy mouth indeed, if you ignore the yuckiness that comes out of it.) Is it a little creepy that his singing technique is almost textbook Gavin Creel? (Seriously, close your eyes during his performance and listen.) Sure. But hey, if you need to copy anyone’s style on the road to Broadway heartthrobdom, that’s not a bad place to start.

Sahr Ngaujah
There are so many beautiful bodies in Fela! that it’s difficult to know where to begin, but put it this way. After we left the theater, my friend turned to me and said of Ngaujah, “So, was there a reason why he was shirtless for the whole second act? I don’t mind. I’m just wondering.” Ngaujah’s bulletproof abs are a sight, sure, but showing them off is also about Fela Kuti’s bulletproof cockiness. With Ngaujah in the role, it—and the fact that Kuti had twelve wives—is not exactly a hard sell.

The Mick’s Picks

Andrew Call
I’ll confess that with my balcony views I didn’t immediately notice Andrew Call in the male-heavy cast of American Idiot.  But after passing him on the street a few times and sitting in the second row last week, I have to say, I have a growing thing for Mr. Call.  He errs on the side of baby-faced, but after seeing those sex lines, I forgive him for that completely.  Plus he’s got beautiful eyes and perfectly shaped lips.  Oh, and he can sing real good, too.  I keeping hearing people swoon over Stark Sands (understandable) and Declan Bennet (less so) but honestly, Andrew Call is my new favorite.  He should be probably be yours, too.

Tom Wopat
Yeah, I said it.  I have no idea why.  All I know is that aside from finally seeing Barbara Cook on stage, a crush on Tom Wopat is just about all Sondheim on Sondheim was good for.  And no, I’m not 65.  I just think he’s handsome and strapping, and oh god, those big blue eyes.  I’d ride (shotgun) in his General Lee any day.  And yes, I really did just say that.

Ignore The Mick, please. Just to cleanse away the brain-warping mental images, I’ll offer one more—and he’s not even on Broadway. -L

Michael Crane
Yes, we all love Bloody bloody Benjamin Walker and his bloody tight trousers, but if you can tear your corneas away from him for nanosecond (we dare you), you’ll note that there’s another looker in Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson. Michael Crane, who’s playing the complicated role of Blackhawk (He’s funny! He’s terrifying! He’s tragic!), has laser-bright eyes and a smoldery onstage intensity. I’d say it’s a shame that his pretty peppers aren’t lighting up Broadway at the moment, but we suspect that’ll change in 5… 4… 3…

Remember when I said that the costumes in Ragtime were like, the same as the costumes in Ragtime? You know, when Ragtime happened the first time.

Well, I said it because I saw the show the first time. And the second time. Because lots of people did. And let me tell you, they’re exactly the same. In fact, I’d wager that they’re the same costumes. Like, they went into the warehouse and they pulled it all off the racks, gave everything a good steam clean, and voila. Instant Broadway show.

I have no problem remembering. Which is why it’s kind of odd that the Tony nominating committee had a massively hard time remembering that. Like, they remembered it so poorly that they nominated Santo Loquasto, the costume designer in question, for a Tony Award. Again. In fact, he was nominated the first time, so they can’t even be like, “He was a random designer working on a tiny, unmemorable show! How am I supposed to remember these complex things?”

Before today, I used to joke that the Tony nominating committee was getting senile. Now I wonder if it’s actually true.

Well, they withdrew the nomination today. As they should have. Because, duh.

But that’s not even the point. The point is that this group of people has run out of ideas in such a complete way, that theater is so full of re-dos and rehashes and revivals that no one can even sort out what’s new and what’s not anymore. And that’s just depressing. It is also, unfortunately, totally typical, and totally unsurprising when you look at the rest of this year’s nominees, many of whom are representing shows that failed to find audiences, and ultimately closed. The Tonys haven’t even happened yet, and they’re already old news.

The good thing about today’s decision is that it allows another designer a chance in the spotlight—you know, for designs that we might not have actually seen before. The disturbing thing? That the committee in charge of selecting and acknowledging the year’s best theater—the people we trust to have like, more judgment and insight than us—couldn’t discern one way or the other.

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Credit: upi.com; broadway.com

WTF, Anon Post? How dare you just die on us like that?

For those of you who live under boulders, or who are dead, or who spent half your night waiting in line at TKTS, you may not have heard: BwayDaily’s amazing Anon Post—a weekly forum for all sorts of Broadway bitchery—is dead and gone. For now.

Why? The owners decided that it was like… too negative… or something.

(?)

At any rate, here’s the problem with this: We had plenty to bitch about this week, and now we have no place to bitch about it. Everyone’s wondering whether Jonathan Groff is “too gay” or whether Lea Michele is really a horrendous person, or whether Hair is on its last leg. Or joint. Or follicle. Or whatever. And we just can’t keep all of this pent up inside, now can we.

So. We’d like to give you a place to discuss all that.

How was your week on Broadway? Or off-Broadway? Or halfway across the world? Tell us. We’ll listen.

He offers us “Out of Focus,” his lame defense of last month’s “Straight Jacket” article, which is almost more infuriating than the original article.

According to Mr. Setoodeh, the backlash all boils down to this: the Interwebz misinterpreted him.  : (

I call shenanigans.  Because now, not only have you insulted my intelligence as an audience member, Mr. Setoodeh, you’ve also insulted my reading comprehension skills.  No way, no how.

You were not misinterpreted, Mr. Setoodeh, and if you were misinterpreted, that is not the fault of the internet, or of your readers.  It is your fault.  Because this article that you supposedly intended to spark a healthy debate of a societal injustice didn’t present that point of view at all.  Sorry, tacking a sentence to the end of your article about how you think coming out would ruin even George Clooney’s career does not now make this a commentary on society, or an honest debate.  Because you spent the previous 856 words shamelessly bashing specific actors and specific performances they gave.

You didn’t set the article up as a question about why society might view gay actors as somehow less capable of effectively doing their jobs.  In fact, you hardly spent any time at all inspecting the societal influences which potentially impact audience interpretation of an actor’s performance, or railing against them.

After reading your article I was so angry because it was trafficking in the very stereotypes that gay actors must feel pressing against them every single day.  And that’s not because I can’t read—and read I did, every single word of that article, several times over—or because the internet somehow robbed your article of nuance.  That entire article was focused on presenting support for the very arguments society should be railing against, and it did so with the Newsweek name flying across the top of its homophobic banner.

Take responsibility for your words, Mr. Setoodeh.  Don’t blame the internet for oversimplifying your argument.  Don’t blame my reading comprehension skills, either.  It was your words which failed to make your point, and in doing so, became insulting to both the actors you profiled and the readers who consider themselves part of a more enlightened audience, who, to quote Lucky, are able to “value a performance as a performance, and a person as a person.”

I hate it when I hate new musicals. It feels unfair, like something about the combination of the words “new” and “musical” should inspire automatic awe simply because new, original musicals are so rare. It seems a miracle that they even get written, never mind staged. They’re like babies, in a way. Their fully-formed selves belie their microscopic beginnings, making their very existence seem almost impossible. They make you wonder how the hell we all got here in the first place.

Which brings me to The Kid, Jack Lechner and Andy Monroe’s new musical that premiered at The New Group last night.

I wanted it to be good. I really did. I wanted it to be that one, brilliant, barrier-destroying, heir-to-Sondheim, Savior of the Modern Musical kind of shows. Because I want all new musicals to be that. And this really wasn’t. Which is a shame, because so many of its elements are good. There’s a strong leading man (Christopher Sieber), some fun familiar faces (Ann Harada, Susan Blackwell), literate source material (Writer Dan Savage’s memoir about adopting a child with his partner). But somehow, all of this awesome genetic data adds up to a rather funny-looking final product.

The story of Savage’s adoption drama is compelling: In the mid-nineties, Savage, a sex columnist, and his partner decided to adopt a child in an era when same-sex adoption was less common than it is today. We see the couple’s journey toward parenthood, and their struggle to figure out why they want to do it in the first place. The The show falters, however, in the way that it chooses to get there.

Part of the problem is the pastiche-y score, which strives squarely for the forgettable chasm between James Taylor and William Finn, and the lyrics don’t help much in terms of storytelling. During one song, Savage and his friends go out on an all-night bender to momentarily cast away the stress of the adoption process. (Of course, he wakes up with a massive hangover and tremendous insight about how his partying days are behind him.) This is the show’s big, uptempo party number, but it hardly works up to more than a mild prance. You won’t come away singing the melody because you won’t remember it.

The other issue is that the show takes its interesting source material and bludgeons it into a story that feels sappy and ordinary. Sieber is cute, and charmingly hammy, but never was there a less sexy sex columnist, and the baby’s homeless biological parents—especially the baby’s father, a character rather craptacularly named Bacchus—seem more like they just rolled out of the MT program at Carnegie Mellon than from under a bridge. There’s no real suspense in the story either, which hinges entirely on the question of whether Savage is going to get the baby. You know the answer from the moment the story begins—otherwise, why the hell are we all hanging around here for two hours?–and its resolution at the end is drippy and sentimental, complete with a straight-to-the-audience ballad done in a spotlight.

Of course, the big, sixty-something guy sitting next to me wept like a schoolgirl, so I guess this show is reaching someone. It rocked his world. My guess, though, is that it won’t exactly rock musical theater history. Except maybe to sleep.