Sunday, December 31, 2017

Top 10 of 2017 (US and UK edition)

Since I did not end up going to Edinburgh this year I did not have enough shows in the UK to make a separate top 10 list.  So I'm combining US and UK shows this year because it's my list and I'm in charge.  It was a quieter year for me without Edinburgh so a reasonable 171 shows in 2017 from New York, London, Boulder, CO, Pittsfield, MA, Princeton, NJ, and Washington, DC.  

1. Hamlet: I missed my flight and really wondered whether it was worth fighting to get on a plane to see yet another Hamlet in London.  It turned out the hellacious planes-trains-automobiles journey I had to see Robert Icke's Hamlet was well-worth it and one of the most instructive Hamlets I have ever seen in my life. I had seen Andrew Scott on stage before and not been particularly blown away.  But here he was Hamlet without artifice or performance.  He walked on stage as Hamlet and found a way to make the text contemporary, casual, and organic.  Icke's use of meta-textual scenes to fill in some character gaps made for a more fluid and psychologically complete Hamlet. There was nothing more I could have asked for from this Hamlet except a chance to have seen it multiple times. 

2. SpongeBob SquarePants: Perhaps the reward to surviving 2017 is the ever-loving joy provided by SpongeBob SquarePants the musical. Dumb, silly, smart, and big-hearted this musical shows us the dark power of the mob and demonstrates that resistance, however small or personal, requires courage and conviction.  SpongeBob embraces fluid gender expression, alternative lifestyles (squirrels living under the sea), and following your dreams even in the face of skepticism. It’s this optimism in contrast to our dark days that is the musical’s greatest strength. Director Tina Landau finds dynamic and creative ways to tell her story. The visual language of the musical, the casual queerness of its approach, and the smart way she does more with less (even within a big budget, blow-out production) make this a musical that needs to be both felt and seen.

3. Richard III: Thomas Ostermeier’s Richard III is full of congealed blood running in rivulets through sand, a mouth stuffed with mashed potatoes then smeared across a face as a mask, and on some nights, perhaps, some live urination. But the collective gunk and grime of the production, is nothing compared to the white-hot comet playing Richard, who streaks across the stage, sometimes naked, Lars Eidinger. A full throttle performance, he paces the aisles in search of co-conspirators, supporters, or simply audience members too stunned to look away. He feeds not only on our glances but demands our participation. We shout along with him like the world’s most murderous emcee. In our shock, enthusiasm, and demented glee, he brings forth a Richard we want to fuck, marry, and kill. It’s a hard balance to strike—a charisma so powerful we lean in and a level of violence and horror we cannot look away. For once you might understand how Lady Anne, in the midst of grief over the murder of her husband, could be successfully wooed by the man who killed him. She spits at him and kisses him and in this production, you’re entirely in sync with her repulsion/attraction.

4. Torch Song: Up until this show, somehow I had missed the Michael Urie boat.  So I’m glad I finally caught up with everyone else. Urie's performance in Torch Song was big and small in equal measure and in gentle rhythm with the play itself. His character, Arnold, is after all, a drag queen with the heart and presence of a performer. He has a tendency to live big. But he’s also a man who just wants a love he can depend on. So there’s the quiet, self-reflective side of Arnold to tend to as well. Urie is both hilarious and dramatic, reticent and wounded. Even if the play represents a very specific moment in time in gay culture, it was nice to see it revived now. The setting may be a time capsule of sorts but the emotional core of the work—the perpetual search for love and respect on your terms—remains relevant.

5. The Glass Menagerie: Sam Gold can thrill and disappoint in equal measure. His dramaturgy can be generously described as loose. But his Glass Menagerie has evolved since I saw his original production in Dutch two years ago.  In the Broadway production he cast an actress with a disability in the role of Laura. There is a heightened interdependence between the family members. Rather than the overwrought, melodramatic, and clingy Amanda Wingfield, here we see a family who desperately needs Tom, financially and physically.  That said, the women are not the fragile creatures Tom thinks of them as. Tom may shatter but Laura does not. Gold finds an agency in Laura that is rare in most Menageries.  

6. Villa: Guillermo Calderon’s Chilean drama asks what should happen to the site of General Pinochet’s Villa Grimaldi—the center of rape, torture, and trauma for many. But he’s also asking us to think about how we recognize the past, how we move forward, and how we remember. As the country goes through a process of public expurgation of sexual assaults, rape, and harassment, I return over and over to this play where three women consider what this site of trauma means to them and what it would mean to preserve it, destroy it, or something in between. For every person impacted, there is a different opinion. Calderon wants us to think around each scenario. There is no one experience. There is no universal truth. So we must see the variation. We must talk about the variation. We cannot settle on a simplistic answer. The answer is the conversation. This play could be revived every year—its Chilean setting is incredibly specific but its meaning is evergreen.

7. Angels in America: Despite not loving all aspects of Marianne Elliott's production of Angels in America, it is on this list because of the performances which were so distinct from the original Broadway cast's.  It is always a gift to see a work you think you know in a new light.  I had never quite seen Joe's frustrating neediness, or Louis's fragility in the way I saw them here.  Any idea that Louis and Joe could be together,gets totally obliterated in this production. I also appreciated being able to see the public and private personas of Prior.  His quiet, less performative side made for some touching early aspects of the Prior-Louis relationship. I'm looking forward to revisiting it when it comes to Broadway in the spring.

8. Anatomy of a Suicide:  Not all plays by women are structured around the female gaze, but Alice Birch's play was remarkable in both it's approach and Katie Mitchell's production for doing just that. The way in which characters were stripped down to their underwear and rebuilt over and over showed us the way our public presenting personas are constructed.  The overlapping text, imagery, and undivided space represented the mixture of memory and shared family history but that structure also allowed for the emotional truth to emerge in a non-traditional way.  Rather than being told the story, the narrative felt like it emerged from a chrysalis.  By bucking the traditional thrusting male narrative of linearity, the circular, throbbing agony of these women's lives was felt more readily.  Maybe akin to birth, these lives spilled forth in all their messy, painful, confusing truth.   I sat in stunned silence when it ended.

9. School Girls: Or, the African Mean Girls Play: One thing I’ve come to relish, the more theater I see, is a narrative I’ve never seen before. Jocelyn Bioh’s play may follow a formula that is reminiscent of a teen movie, but it really pushes into a new space because it addresses a mixture of African-American and African experiences. Set in the 1980’s a private girls school, the gossipy controlling mean girl Paulina is not all evil. In fact, each character has a story that informs the nature of her behavior. And these are not stories we always see on stage.  Funny, smart, and a female-centric exploration of colorism, the patriarchy, and how we do damage to each other, Bioh's play made for an exciting first play and I'm eager to see what else she writes.

10. Oh, What a Sweet Land: In a small Brooklyn apartment, an actor chops onions. As the smell carries my eyes begin to water. My eyes are nearly swollen shut with the assault of these onions. They are not just part of the food the character is preparing--a connection to her Syrian background--but they are act of violence itself.  There is no escaping the Syrian refugee struggle in this room and the fact that the production reaches out and hits you in the tear ducts is only one layer of how the play works its powerful effects on the audience. 

Honorable Mentions

These were also some wonderful discoveries, experiences, and moments from 2017 theater:

The invitation to belong at My Lingerie Play; the feral performances and grotty set of Yen; the collective shouts of young people in Riot Antigone; the subversive play under the play in Penelope Skinner's Linda; the political nuance of Home/Sick; Allison Janney in Six Degrees of Separation; the sonic booms of 1984 the play; the very much now of Fulfillment Center; the totally unnecessary dildos on shelves in Measure for Measure and Cara Ricketts in that production; Gideon Glick breaking hearts in Samuel D. Hunter's Clarkston; the fact that it was better than you thought it might be Bandstand; Erin Markey’s outfit in Assassins; Annie Dorsen's slumber-party of internet voices in The Great Outdoors; That one Princeton student in Branden Jacobs-Jenkins's Gurls who is like the next Kate McKinnon; the set change in Time and The Conways; the hats in Glassheart; about 10 minutes at the end of Illyria when you can practically smell the rain and the possibilities; Robbie Fairchild dancing his limbs off in Brigadoon; that moment I started to hallucinate in Daniel Fish's Don't Look Back; those confrontations in Jitney; the murder basement of Blankland; the all-encompassing universe of Once on this Island’s production; Oscar Isaac’s thighs that were not situationally sexy in Hamlet and yet they were there; the undercurrent of sexism in The Antipodes; Sam Gold's graveyard scene in Hamlet; Susan Pourfar in Mary Jane; the KPOP battle of the bands (Team Oracle 4-eva); Denise Gough in People, Places & Things. 

Saturday, August 19, 2017

A Piece of Work: A Text of Hamlet Remixed

Preserving performance is a challenge. How do you document multi-faceted work that involves sound, light, text, bodies, and music? Video may take images of it but rarely captures it. For Annie Dorsen’s algorithmic performance work, there’s an additional layer--including her computer partners in action. Recently published by Ugly Duckling Presse, Dorsen’s performance text for her 2013 Hamlet inspired show A Piece of Work tries to preserve some semblance of this unusual show, algorithms and all.

Algorithmic theater is where a text is run through algorithms using various rules created by the artist. A unique, different show is generated each time by the computer applying the rules. The computer, in essence, becomes a co-creator. Watching one of these shows you begin to think about labor, collaboration, and creation differently when the computer generates different performances every time.

Dorsen explains in the introduction of A Piece of Work how she developed the show and the rules she applied in utilizing the text of Hamlet. The text was fed through what is called a Markov chain--a primary algorithmic principle. The computer does not "learn" from each run. Each production is entirely new in that moment.

In an effort to give it coherence, Dorsen and her team also programmed in some semantic and theatrical rules. The computer was instructed to pull from specific parts of the play and not the text as a whole. So for instance one act uses the soliloquies only as its source material. Another act uses 4% of each scene in the play as it is written and then is cut off. They can program to have the computer choose complete sentences or stage directions.

In addition, they found a way to program emotional weight into it. Using coding, they gave words emotional scores which fed into the lighting and music design. Lighting colors would receive different coding to connect to different emotions and so words would trigger those changes.

In this five act work, an actor was used only in Act 3 where the performer was fed their lines via an earpiece. Otherwise, Dorsen used computer-generated character voices to "perform" the text in the remaining four acts. The computer determined the lighting, sound, and music and generated projections of the text for the audience to see.

Reading the text you need some of this structural context to appreciate what the performance might have looked or felt like. Some of the explanations of the rules could have been a little more detailed but generally you get the idea of the “rules” imposed.

In one section, Dorsen provides two different examples of the same section of the show and how it was rendered differently by the computer on two different nights so you can appreciate the variation and nature of the changing performance.

This may sound incredibly technical but the reality is that the one Dorsen show I've seen, Yesterday/Tomorrow,was anything but dull. In that piece there was a trio of singers who sang the song Yesterday and the computer found a way to incrementally, musically and linguistically, turn it bit by bit into the song Tomorrow. From that, Dorsen convinced me of the value, joy, and creativity in algorithmic theater.

Though I could not truly recreate A Piece of Work in my living room I found reciting the text out loud (rather than just reading it) gave me a feel for the structure and reconstruction of Shakespeare's poetry. The rise and fall of the verse somehow survives the algorithmic blender. There is a new meaning even if there is a faint echo of the rhythms of the original. Particularly the soliloquies section in Act 3, the movement of the language is halting and repetitive and yet the desperation of Hamlet remains present. Confusion, grief, and anguish bubble up through phrases such as:

My uncle
Within a month
The salt of
Wicked speed
I must hold
Host of heaven
Poor ghost
My brain
To my word
A rogue and
Rogue and peasant
In a fiction
A fiction
In a dream
A basic knowledge of the play allows you to appreciate the words floating on a blank page and still sense the underlying story of Hamlet.

Because it's so canonical (and because I had seen four productions of Hamlet this summer) reading A Piece of Work gave me the unusual pleasure of experiencing Hamlet from a totally new angle. Recognizable and yet surprising.  It makes new poetry out of old.

For the final act, the computer re-sequenced things on a letter by letter basis and then it was programmed to give 50 stage directions to end the show. As with the progression of the play, in that final act where tragedy after tragedy befalls character after character, in A Piece of Work language itself breaks down completely. But the re-ordered stage directions still manage to communicate a duel and a series of deaths in a finale.

Certainly no printed text could replace such a complicated production, especially one, that is by its very nature, changing every night. But the text does offer a new window on Hamlet (as I imagine the production itself did) and for those who missed the performance (like me) this is the next best thing.

A complimentary copy of the text was provided to me to review. 

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Angels In America: Home Again

Andrew Garfield in Angels in America (Photo: Helen Maybanks)
Sometimes a show is a time capsule to another part of your life. I saw Tony Kushner’s Angels in America on Broadway just after I moved to New York. I was 17. 

For a sheltered suburban teenager, I knew about AIDS from the news and reading movie magazines which contained yearly tallies of the disease’s decimation of the arts community. I visited my mother in the hospital in 1988 and remember the rooms where nurses would cover themselves completely before entering.  Despite no personal connection to the epidemic, I asked everyone in my graduating class to wear a red ribbon for our graduation day—a strangely small, public act of defiance in a relatively conservative high school.

When I saw Angels where gay men have sex, are affectionate with one another, or demand their recognition on stage, it was a big deal (for context, Chicago was considered too risqué for my high school to put on).  To my eyes it was radical and rebellious in ways I had not been aware of before. With its form breaking, openly political agenda, and sweeping scope, it also became a landmark piece of theater at an impressionable age.  I never stage-door shows, but I stage-doored to get Tony Kushner’s autograph which remains the one playbill autograph I have. 

Revisiting Angels in London 24 years later is a mindfuck. What has gone on in the points between the first time I heard the words “More life,” and this week—it is a lifetime of changes for me and for the world.  But there is so much that that wide-eyed 17-year old did not know was coming.  In the play and in life. 

I am grateful for the chance to see the play again, done in a manner it deserves (side-eye to that awful Off-Broadway production I will not speak of again).  Having a second chance in life to fall in love with these characters as they struggle, hurt, and break my heart, feels like a tremendous gift. 

Weaving together a narrative of Reaganite politics, Mormon religion, gay rights, race, love, disease, history, and survival, the play speaks to America in all it’s disappointing failures and yet the American addiction to hope in the face of those failures.  Yet my seven plus hours at the National Theatre also created a certain sense of dislocation as this ultra-American story unfolded in a London theatre.  Laughter at its American-ness with distance was a luxury this American could not afford.  As we live under the regime of a “Roy boy” in the White House, my understanding of the American experiment and our historical failures has never been so raw and close to the surface before. 

The play may focus on a particular time in American culture, conversation, and politics and some might find the story being told as reflecting a past that is no longer familiar.  It may be easy to forget this recent history.  But when I saw the play in 1993 the word “gay” was still a common pejorative on school playgrounds.  There was still a fear around AIDS.  The play’s radicalness may have dulled in the passage of time.  But it’s messages remain relevant. 

In some ways, this journey to London was a homecoming.  A reunion with my past self, a reckoning with the present, and a communion with a still broken America.

Even with distance, line readings from the Broadway cast still ring in my head. But as the familiar met the unfamiliar in London I found my mind at peace with the performance changes. In these new hands, the work is less funny and strangely more real. For a show with many surreal moments the timbre of these performances is grounded. While the performances bring new richness, the production is a frustrating battleground of dissonant choices and visual frippery. 

Ivo van Hove's edited production of Angels showed that the play can be stripped down and still deliver emotional satisfaction. Marianne Elliott opts to punctuate the production with bold brushes of lighting, punches of music and sound, a patchwork of neon, linoleum, turntables, and frames in the scenic design by Ian MacNeil. 

However, the visuals of the production fail to color our experience of the play—bringing no additional storytelling or emotional guidance.  Of course, with the cracking of the characters (and the world) the theatre space breaks apart.  The claustrophobia of the characters may evolve and grow into the broader, freer space.  But the materials used which may be riffing on the 1980's, are too literal. The layering of these dull surfaces and neon frames provide little meaning. 
Design by Ian MacNeil (Photo: Helen Maybanks)

As the characters lose their center, and the play moves beyond its earthly confines, the visual landscape of this production fails to move with it.  Though Prior’s bed untethered from the world, floats loose in the snow of Harper’s hallucination, this is only one ethereal moment.  We needed more visual poetry to honor the textual poetry of the play.


One place where Elliott added such a visual flourish was in the character of the Angel. Though the character is performed by Amanda Lawrence, she is also manipulated and moved by puppeteers.  With her larger than life wings controlled by a team of movement specialists, she is like a frightened bird trapped inside a house.  She darts with dangerous movement, unpredictable flutters, and ominous overtones.  

But these puppet performers gain additional tasks as the play wends on.  Looking like the daemons from His Dark Materials, they double as stagehands who move the furniture on and off stage. As they gallop in and out in a very interpretive dance meets street dancing way, they often feel like less of a choice and more a practical solution once Elliott had dumped the revolves and needs to move scenery in and out quickly. But wrapping someone in dark spandex does not make them invisible. And their presence/non-presence is mostly distracting.
James McArdle, Andrew Garfield, and a terrible wall (Photo: Helen Maybanks)


Elliott relies on a score by Adrian Sutton which reverberates like heralds with loud, brassy horns but it’s ugly, heavy-handed, and brash.  Imagine trumpets burping out something like Sprach Zarathustra.  The play may shout at times, but the music unfortunately screams on top of that—portentous rather than prophetic.

But the cast mostly overcomes these frustrating aspects of the production.  The energetic and excitable Joe Mantello as Louis Ironson on Broadway becomes a more hesitant and measured Louis with James McArdle in London. His worry is less neurotic and more agonizing. His battle for his own sense of self-understanding is halting and contradictory and not as convinced of his own assuredness as Mantello. 

Andrew Garfield’s wispy frame and tremulous gestures match the modulated voice he adopts for Prior. Frequently high-pitched and performative (particularly in the intentionally high camp moments), his Prior cannot butch up his persona as Louis does at times. As a former drag performer, Prior revels in a more feminine aesthetic anyway. Garfield therefore cranes his neck and preens. He often moves as if the cabaret spotlight is still on him. He likes being looked at but then remembers he is ill and that conflict of defiance and self-confidence crashes into his newfound debilitation. Garfield shows Prior physically wrestling with being alive while at the same time dying. He manifests that physical struggle through elongated limbs and a fierce ever-present resoluteness. There is no shrinking of his being even if his body is betraying him. 
Denise Gough, Andrew Garfield (Photo: Helen Maybanks)

When in the privacy of his home with Louis, Garfield plays Prior as softer, quieter, and less performative. The public and private Prior has never been so clear as it is here (and something we did not see from Stephen Spinella who originated the role on Broadway). Even in an intimate moment with Harper, Garfield’s Prior belies no pretense. They are quietly simpatico.

Harper is a complicated role and Denise Gough plays her with a cool minimalism. She's not high-strung or loud.  For a pill-popping, agoraphobic she's oddly chilled and muted. Harper is not funny or frantic.  This Harper is in essence already dead playing a ghost in her own life. This changes the energy and place of Harper in the play’s narrative.

In the original Broadway production, Marsha Gay Harden as Harper and Stephen Spinella as Prior, felt like bookends.  Frenetic and high-energy in similar ways.  For these two strangers, we saw the parallels of their lives—and when they cross into each other’s dreams/hallucinations this is strengthened. But here, Elliott plays them in contrast to each other particularly in Millennium.  For as much as Harper is dead, Prior is very much alive.  This change still works with the text but as a consequence, Harper becomes less a presence in the play.  The clarity her character can bring as she cuts through the bullshit of the men around her, has less of an edge with Gough’s softer delivery.

Russel Tovey and James McArdle (Photo: Helen Maybanks)
Russell Tovey plays Joe Pitt with more disgust and contempt for Harper. Yet as Tovey’s pleading, desperate neediness as Joe becomes more and more untethered, it increases in complexity—the unsuitability of his coupling with Louis is apparent from the start but they proceed in this romp in an “ideological leather bar” until Joe is undone and Louis finds his way back home. 

Nathan Lane’s Roy Cohn is not colorful or comical. Lane plays him very much as a man and not a symbol. He's contained but still vicious.  Where Broadway’s Ron Liebman may have leaned on a certain oily, snake charm, Lane hardly bothers with the pretense.  He might faux apologize but in almost every moment you sense his personal agenda above all else.   

Seeing the play now as an adult, I was struck most by Kushner choosing Prior--this proudly effeminate character--to bear the brunt of the physical torture and mythical adventure. It forces us to look at our ideas of strength, masculinity, and epic heroes, particularly as Prior is framed against McArdle’s Louis who is broad-chested, rugged, and a conventionally handsome man. Louis is also weak, cowardly, and ambivalent. And yet I understand his self-preservation, fears, limits, and cowardice more now than I ever did at 17. 

I see the whiteness of the play now.  Any work that intends to wrestle with America, American democracy, and our system of law and justice must inevitably deal with whiteness.  Our “freedom” was built on the oppression of others. We have spent hardly any time at all reckoning with that. 
The play’s focus on migration and freedom is the province of white people.  Belize keeps reminding us that his movement was not his choice and he has to keep calling out the characters for their willful blindness to whiteness.
Andrew Garfield and Nathan Stewart-Jarrett (Photo: Helen Maybanks)

But is Belize’s voice enough?  Not if this was a work written today. It does however consider the oppression inherent in race, religious, gender, sexual orientation.  The intersections of these are only glanced at.  But having seen revivals of other work from the 90’s recently I was struck by Angels doing more at a time when most plays were doing nothing at all on these fronts.

But we have to keep asking the question of all revivals.  Why now?  What part of the past are we able to converse with here.  Kushner’s play remains an important text and perhaps can be a helpful reminder of how much that was radical has become mainstream.  But we need to not stop demanding such radicalism.  

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Memory and Memorial: Come from Away and Villa

Photo: Play Co.
Guillermo Calderón's play Villa is about three women asked to resolve the impossible--how should they treat the remains of General Pinochet's demolished Villa Grimaldi, a notorious site of torture and rape in Chile. Should it be reconstructed?  Should a museum be built?  Should they do nothing and allow the gardens and reclaimed space by survivors remain?

Midway through the play I started to think of about the urban planning event I went to after 9/11 to talk about what New Yorkers wanted to do about the World Trade Center site.  I cannot remember who ran it or why it even happened.
It was a pie-in-the-sky kind of discussion (with a big budget--I recall digital buzzer thingys that we would indicate our votes with) because it made room for the possibility that the towers would not be rebuilt. Or maybe that is just my memory of it.

I was certainly of the mind that "absence" could be effective memorial.  Not rebuilding would keep the landscape in a way that would reflect how we had all been permanently changed.  I had no interest in sitting in a proposed park space or eating my lunch on a memorial bench.  At that time the idea that life should go on in that space seemed abhorrent to me. These were dark days and I was in somber thought over how I wished to remember.

Even the idea of remembrance was something I struggled with.  I recall a character in the Headlong production of Decade, a piece looking back at 9/11 ten years later, talking about not needing to "remember," because frankly no one would let her forget what had happened. Did a character say that?  Or was that just my memory of it?  Did that represent my feeling at the time, 10 years on.  

In the years since I have traveled to all sorts of memorials.  Auschwitz-Birkenau (oddly enough on 9/11/2008), the Holocaust memorial in Berlin, the Holocaust Museum in Berlin, the site of Hitler's bunker, the House of Terror in Budapest, the Holocaust memorials in Budapest, and the Peace Museum and Peace Park in Hiroshima.

How we memorialize has been something that has struck me as I've gone to these places.  It speaks to culture, the events at issue, and I imagine there was no "one" way that people thought any of these sites should be treated.

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial, an exhibition hall that survived the blast and was left as a shell, was debated.  Should it be torn down since it was a horrific reminder of the suffering?  Should it be preserved since it remained standing and represents strength and resolve?  They chose to keep it.

The Peace Museum and Peace Park in Hiroshima take so many different approaches.  There is no ignorance of the fact that Japan was at war but it does focus on civilian casualties and particularly the children killed or made ill by radioactivity.  There are abstract sculptures and personal testimony exhibits.  There are pieces of bodies and no shirking from the horror. There are dedicated monuments to different groups, including Koreans forced-laborers who fought for years to get their memorial and the memorial placed within the Peace Park.

The curated museum in Auschwitz felt all wrong to me and the abandoned, crumbling buildings of Birkenau II made memorial sense to me.  I wept in the open field where a marker said people had been killed.  I understood better in the open spaces than I could in the codified exhibits. 

Calderon's smart, funny, and dark play helpfully points out that trauma lives in all of us differently. We process our grief and pain through laughter, art, images, or abstraction.  There are contradictions that cannot be reconciled because there are people who will want to remember and people who will want to forget their personal pain and loss.  No one thing can serve all. 

And so my trepidation with the 9/11 adjacent musical Come from Away became a manifestation of that.  It is based on real people and true stories but it is not my story.  It is not how I wish to remember or memorialize the day.  And the warmth generated by some Canadians taking care of strangers felt oddly like it was negating the care and generosity of New Yorkers to their own at the same time.  (For even more disconnect I was flying to Canada on that day and let's just say no one was particularly nice to me in Canada). 

Yes the pain of 9/11 was felt beyond New York City, Washington D.C. and Pennsylvania.  Everyone has a 9/11 story.  As I've traveled the world, many people voluntarily tell me theirs when they hear I am from New York.  I've struggled for a long time with who's story it is to tell and the weird possessiveness I sense when anyone tries to tell theirs.

In telling some stories, I tend to sense the absence of others.

My father was a firefighter and he and I had a very difficult relationship.  But we were never closer than right after 9/11.  For once we talked about his work and I needed to know what had happened to all those firefighters.

We attended the funerals of firefighters together in the immediate aftermath.  When one firefighter dies in the line of duty, it is a loss to the community of all firefighters.  So it is not uncommon that fire departments from many different places will come together to publicly mourn a firefighter who has been killed.  I was scheduled to meet my father in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral with his squad.

In a sea of faces and uniforms looking identical (a lot of white men with a particular mustache that my father favored his whole life) I worried that I would never find him. With the panic of a child lost at the mall, every man around me looked like my father.

My 9/11 memories are colored by the days after as much as the day of. 

In listening to the women in Villa debate different memorials I found myself wanting to vote with them.  I liked the do nothing or the empty field.  I like giving people space to have their own experience of memorial.  Without curation, guidance, or manipulation, I want my feelings to exist and be valid in the form they take.  

I cannot know the pain of the person sitting next to me.  Or how these spaces make them feel.  But I like to think we can each find our place when we have the choice. 

The Ferryman: Everything and Nothing

(Photo: Johan Persson)
Can a play be both rich and slight?  Jez Butterworth's The Ferryman makes me believe so. 

Set in Armagh, Northern Ireland in 1981, it is inevitable that The Ferryman will revolve around the Troubles.  But in many ways, Northern Ireland is simply the device Butterworth uses to tell a different story he's interested in.

The Troubles are the framework he lays over a domestic situation to create dramatic tension. Butterworth otherwise does not seem particularly invested in the politics. He just likes the drama. Sadly, so do we.  It’s both an effective trick and devious one.  He’s poached the Irish cultural references for his purposes but it’s a shallow reading of them.  Yet, we might not notice amidst the theatrical poetry, tragedy, and sweeping romance of the play.  

Paddy Considine plays the patriarch of the Carney clan, Quinn Carney.  A farmer with a past, he’s got 7 kids and a houseful of relatives under his care.  Everyone is gathering, including some cousins from the city, to help with the harvest.  But Quinn’s brother Seamus’s body has been found after being missing for 10 years and this sets off a series of events that will change the family.  Bodies should stay buried and there are those who are unhappy this one has been found.

Seamus’s widow Caitlin Carney (Laura Donnelly) tries to keep her son Oisin (Rob Malone) in the dark about the discovery of his father’s body until they get through the long day of the harvest.  But secrets are hard to keep.

Butterworth lets the story unfold slowly and cagily at first. He holds our attention with quotidian activities, abundant personalities, and old family stories—crochety elderly relatives sharing tales of the past, their involvement in the Easter Rising, and their long dedication to the principles of the IRA. But there is a reason the Carneys are off in the countryside, far from the tensions of Derry.

As the machinations of the Butterworth’s plot kick in, like any tragedy, so much feels inevitable.  But Butterworth plays with pacing and storytelling devices, all of which keep us on our toes.

To make the play come together in the finale, Butterworth has had to strain to get this massive cast and slew of characters to take the steps he needs them to take to get the ending he wants.  At the same time, he tips his hand quite a bit.  It’s like he cannot help himself.  The play is suffuse with literary references which are oddly on the nose but he’s too in love with the language and poetry to worry about the obviousness.  In addition, he owes a hefty debt of gratitude to Of Mice and Men and Brian Friel.

We are intoxicated by the luxurious cast, colorful chatter, delightful yarns, and robust setting. Butterworth starts out slow and careful and only as we near the end does he escalate the speed to a whiplash-inducing finale. But once the drunken high of the play wears off, it does not have the sustaining strength and structure of Jerusalem.  In the cold light of day, the political ideologies certain characters are meant to stand for, seem flimsy and half-sketched upon reflection. The Ferryman also does not boast such a once in a lifetime portrayal as Mark Rylance in Jerusalem either.

Certainly, playwrights can write outside their personal experience but there is a hollowness to this play.  There's something muddy and non-specific that hangs on the work--flitting from conflict to conflict we are easily distracted away from the problem.  It's skillful sleight-of-hand where only in the aftermath you suddenly realize you did not get much information and just accepted the cultural tensions without demanding the connective tissue that makes up these disputes. So is that evidence of a highly talented playwright or a deficient one?

It’s still hard to really complain about The Ferryman. Large cast, epic plays are rare in this day and age.  The sheer scale of the production stuns.  At some point you think there cannot be more people on the stage, and more arrive.  Director Sam Mendes confronts the old adage, never work children (a real live baby!) or animals, by putting both on this crowded stage too.

Laura Donnelly’s complex performance is transfixing.  Caitlin lives a lifetime of highs and lows in the three plus hours we spend with her on stage.  She plumbs the depths of personal despair and the recognition of true happiness, with every emotion in between.  Donnelly brings a beautiful clarity to her character and achieves a great deal through unspoken moments.  It's worth seeing the play for her alone.  Considine feels less up to the task. This is his stage debut and despite a long career in film, he does not communicate emotionally across the stage space with enough force. He’s the critical linchpin to much of the play’s plot and he does not bear that responsibility well.

Even with the long running time, we do not mind how much time we’re spending with these characters and I might have even welcomed a six-hour version where some of these cultural issues could have been fleshed out. Jez Butterworth, I ain't mad at ya.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

My Personal Fake Obie Awards

We ended up not doing this piece for Exeunt...but I had these fake Obie awards that I wanted to give out for work in 2016 so I thought I would share.

Best Play About Economic Anxiety

Dominque Morisseau's play Skeleton Crew, which came to the New York stage first, somehow lost out in the working-class, economic crisis attention to Lynn Nottage's Sweat. But for my money Skeleton Crew was the better play. Set around the changing Detroit auto industry and its union workers, Morisseau introduces us to characters in the plant's break room and challenges us to look beyond labels. She weaves the political backdrop into the play but it never overpowers the human drama. Addressing questions of crime, love, family, homelessness, class, race, and labor she made us care about these people. These lives lived in front of a wall of union lockers and the changing conditions of labor in America were made poignant in Ruben Santiago-Hudson's stellar production. Thankfully Morisseau has several new plays coming to town in 2017 and 2018 so there will be more opportunities to celebrate her work in the coming year.

Actress Who Every Playwright Should Write a Role For Award

Shannon DeVido ended up with a Samuel D. Hunter part written specifically for her in the Theater Breaking Through Barriers production of The Healing. The actress and comedian also stole the show in the workshop production of Mike Lew's Teenage Dick. If the world was more just, many playwrights would be vying to write parts for her. Her sharp sarcasm and comedic timing are certainly the first aspect of her performances that you notice. But she showed with The Healing that confronted with a complicated character who's narrative is not clear cut or morally pure, she's got the acting chops to communicate those nuances as well. DeVido uses a wheelchair and though two actresses who use wheelchairs have appeared on Broadway in the past couple of years, I can only hope talents like DeVido can find more opportunities on or off-Broadway--whether the characters are written specifically for them or directors cast actors with disabilities in roles not written for performers with a disability.

Director Who Is Doing All the Work Award

Rachel Chavkin had two successful shows Off-Broadway this year (and she's finally making her Broadway debut with Natasha, Pierre as well) and I'm wondering why we have not declared 2016 the year of Rachel Chavkin. With the commercial off-Broadway run of Small Mouth Sounds (now touring around the US) and Hadestown at New York Theatre Workshop, she chooses and directs unusual and challenging pieces. Chavkin used an immersive and non-traditional framing to make both pieces work. In one she made you feel like you were upstate at a silent retreat or in the other slowly descending into the depths of hell...but like an Appalachian-styled hell. Chavkin also continues to work with The TEAM and her collaborations in the UK in 2016 included Anything That Gives Off Light with the National Theatre of Scotland--an epic musical and physical piece that addressed cultural identity, dislocation, and an understanding of a sense of self, with the band The Bengsons and a pile of dirt. I loved it.

Watch Out For Martyna Majok Award

When I saw Martyna Majok's play Ironbound at Rattlestick I was shushed by an audience member for laughing. Stunned by this moment of audience policing I was not sure what to do. But moments after it happened a woman passed me a note from down the end of my row, it turned out it was Majok herself. Her note read "Laugh as loudly as you want. You are awesome!" In many ways, her play is a reflection of her note. She writes complicated, awesome women, who are very funny. Though they may be faced with many challenges, losses, and sadness, it is her dark humor in these characters that keeps her play buoyant and meaningful. This is only the beginning of Majok's career but from Ironbound and her play-in- development, Queens, I'm confident she'll be making us laugh for a good long while. She's writing fascinating working-class, immigrant female characters who are demanding their space on stage.

Lighting A Show Without a Lighting Grid Award

Jane Cox deserves a special award for lighting Sam Gold's production of Othello when Andrew Lieberman's set design eliminated the space for a lighting grid. Cox came up with a series of creative solutions to create environmental light--from light up ice cubes to a cell phone screen to portable military lighting units. She solved the complicated problems the director and designer created, and made her choices feel organic to the production.

Best Livestock

I have been whining for months about how there's a lot more fowl and livestock on stage in the UK than in New York. But since I can make up an award like the Obies I'm giving one to the opera De Materie which had an entire sequence which involved nothing but remote control zeppelins and a flock of sheep. I bought the ticket literally for the sheep alone but the zeppelins were an added bonus. If there were more sheep in opera, I'd probably see more opera.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Joan of Arc: Get Into the Fire, It's Probably Better than this Musical

Joan of Arc: Into the Fire (Photo: Tammy Shell)
When your show involves two virgin checks on your leading lady, you may want to rethink everything you did to get yourself there. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

I'm speaking to you Alex Timbers and David Byrne with respect to your new show Joan of Arc: Into the Fire.  You are both talented artists and your previous collaboration, Here Lies Love, was a favorite of mine but this musical is a massive misfire and we need to talk about it.

I could complain about the scuba fabric costumes, the nonsensical flashlights on stage, or the songs sounding like Here Lies Love rejects with lyrics that don't go anywhere.  But the real tragedy for me is this could have been a kickass, feminist musical with a strong leading female character but you ended up going about it the worst possible way. You made a musical with no perspective that oddly feels like a Catholic Church sponsored event. This production fails to be either empowering or revelatory. Worse, one might argue you utterly failed to give Joan of Arc a voice in her own musical.

Into the Fire follows the same old routine of women being punished by authority without any counterbalance. Violence against women by the church. Violence against women by the state. But what about the woman herself? Despite Joan singing a large number of songs the musical does not actually crack into Joan's personality in any way.

By fixating on Joan's religiosity, she fails to be independent or individuated.  Any personal passion she might have is supplanted with that of her religion's passion.  She has no agency of her own. She acts on the will of God. The terms of her voice/power/existence are defined by religious faith. Though there may be tension between her view of that religion and the church's, rehashing the Reformation in 2017 seems like a strange way to spend your musical theater energy.

Focusing on Joan's canonization fails to bring a spark either. In the Catholic church, you can saint the ladies but they can only intercede with the dudes (Father, Son) and the ghost (the Holy) on your behalf.  Saints have zero power of their own. The Catholic Church: not the best place to look for 21st century feminism, team.

If you're not interested in feminism in 2017 why are you making a Joan of Arc musical?  Even trying to see your point of view Tim-Byrne (Byrne-bers?), are we meant to be outraged by these virgin checks and hence their inclusion? They are cheap and lazy ways to use violence against women to create faux-rage without having to do the work of unpacking the real harm at issue or god forbid frame anything with a female gaze.

As women watching this violation (note: it’s off-stage but it’s explained to us it’s happening--spoiler, her hymen passes the test twice) we are not furious for the act but annoyed that you’d think this is shocking to us. There is still a culture of purity and control when it comes to female sexuality today. But we already know that. We live it every day.  Tell us something we don’t know.  Rather than point out the "problem" you just discovered exists, you perpetuate it.

In case you think this is just how things were in 1431 and you had to hymen check to tell the story faithfully and accurately, that is bullshit.  I'm here to tell you there's a great queer musical retelling of Joan of Arc called JOAN by Lucy J. Skilbeck that stars LoUis CYfer (Lucy Jane Parkinson) who is an award-winning drag king.  It NEVER once required a speculum on stage.
JOAN (Photo: Field & McGlynn)

Honestly, Tim-Byrne (and anyone else reading) if you find yourself making a musical with a speculum in your hand, just stop.

What makes Skilbeck's JOAN so powerful is that her Joan reframes the story to our time and makes us think about history and the present together.  Joan's call to action is borne from the death of her mother by the English invaders, a love of country, and a sense of duty with only a small helping of religious fervor. She acts with her own agency and not as that of a religious puppet.

Each song in JOAN is sung by men who wish Joan to be different from what she is--Joan's father, the King of France, and the English prosecutor (all roles are also played by Parkinson in drag). We experience the tension between these voices of family, state, and law in conflict with Joan's own wishes which she speaks directly to us about.  There is no question who this Joan is or why she is relevant to us today.  She wears a Tank Girl t-shirt with a partially shaved head and dreadlocks. She relishes wearing men's clothes as she leads the army. A brief attempt to wear women's clothes sits on her so awkwardly, as does a conventional heterosexual coupling. There is an altogether too familiar mismatch between how she presents herself to the world and how the world expects her to be.  In the end, this Joan chooses to be true to herself which means society wants to destroy her.

This is not a historic problem from 1431. This is happening today all across America where transgender people are harassed, beaten, and killed for being trans or LGBTQIA couples shunned, harmed, or denied equal rights and protections. We are fighting for gender equity and against a gender binary and often these fights are with our own government, our families, and friends. There's a lot in the story of Joan of Arc that could be relevant to our conversations today but your Into the Fire chooses not to participate in that dialogue at all.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Top 10 of 2016: UK edition

Due to job woes I was not able to get over to the UK much this year.  So list is a Top 10 of Edinburgh.

1. Joan

2. Lucy McCormick's Triple Threat

3. Us/Them

4. Letters to Windsor House

5. Zoe Coombs Marr:Trigger Warning

6. Anything that Gives Off Light

7. Christeene: Trigger

8. Weird Seance

9. Richard III

10. Hold My Hand and We're Halfway There

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Self-Care: A 24-Decade Reflection

For months I’ve struggled to write about my time at Taylor Mac’s A 24-Decade History of Popular Music.  I could not head into 2017 with this piece hanging over my head any longer.  Here goes...

It seems every journalistic outlet sent a critic to see the show and they all universally praised it. With each article I read celebrating it, the harder it was for me to write this difficult admission: I “experienced” the show but I did not love that experience.  And I’m not sure I was meant to love it. 

The show made me confront an issue I was unprepared to.  My own need for self-care. In two shows I experienced this year I was faced with my own personal anxieties through audience participation.  In one show, the artist worked hard to care for me in that precarious space.  In the other, judy did not. 

Typically, there is no expectation that artists tend to their audience's personal needs.  The artists are often there to provoke and challenge.  Safety or security can grind against the goal of pushing an audience to confront or engage.  But in crafting work that specifically calls for the audience to be a part of the work, I do think artists bear in mind the nature and shape of that participation. 

For instance, I watched Daniel Oliver in his piece Weird Séance get naked in a room full of tentative audience participants as they wandered through a world he created with them. He gently nudged them along to get what he needed. Taking them by the hand, he guided them through the scenes. There was violence, blood, humor, and yet I sensed his awareness of the participants.  With his care, he made the uniting of artist and unknowing strangers harmonious.  It was one of my favorite shows at the Forest Fringe in 2016.

Brian Lobel made me dance like no one was watching in a room where some people were watching in his piece Hold My Hand and We’re Halfway There.  I was always put in the back of every dance number in high school theater even though I was really short because I could not even grapevine.  Public dancing is not my strong-suit.  In fact, it’s one of my greatest fears, especially if there are steps and a “right way to do things.”  My feet choose the wrong way every time.  But Brian was not asking for the “right way.”  He was asking for a temporary partner to join him for short bursts to recreate dance numbers from movie musicals in a replica bedroom of his childhood.  We just happened to be standing in the middle of an arts center café while we did it.  Exposed and open, this was the perfect setting for me to panic.  And yet, I put headphones on and fumbled my way through a number from Muriel’s Wedding and Fiddler on the Roof.  He disarmed me and made me feel I could do no wrong. I came away understanding Brian’s piece and wanting to be a part of it. 

So with these positive audience participation situations under my belt, disliking my experience at A 24-Decade came as a shock to me. I had no qualms about attending A 24-Decade (my only hesitation was the steep price tag).  I paid and was honestly curious what this extravaganza would entail.  Somewhere between hour 9 and hour 13 a disconnection to the show began to gnaw at me.  That led to a raging fury in my head that reached levels I could not ignore.  By hour 13, I’d had enough. 

It came to an apex for me with the physical scrum we had to engage in to represent the Oklahoma land grab.  The audience had to rush to nab a limited number of balloons and plant them on a piece of land if you wanted a place to sit on the floor.  I was battered by the crowd who pushed, shoved and elbowed me.  There was something in that brutality transferred to the audience that broke me.  I did not want to be around any of these people anymore and in fact I wanted to crawl in a hole maybe not to resurface. 

I’m pretty susceptible to pain—on stage or off—at the best of times.  In this show, I started to question how much pain I was meant to endure for art.

Mac’s original inspiration was seeing the gay community come together for a gay pride march while the AIDS epidemic was ravaging the same group of people.  So Mac applied this to the many generations of outsiders who have pushed forward to build even while they are being torn apart.  

If the show’s intent was to tear down the audience in an effort to demonstrate how community forms from such destruction, I got somehow left in pieces with no one to put me back together.  Others gained a closeness and community from the show. I was disappointingly isolated.  

In the end, I was left with more ambivalence towards A 24-Decade, than most critics had.  I started to wonder if I had failed the piece or if the piece had failed me.  I could not shake the uncomfortable sense of my own personal failure.  Maybe I was not as flexible, cool, and hip enough to get into the groove of it. 

Why did it come so easily for this massive room full of people (oh my god there were too many people all squished into a space that was not big enough for all of us) and why was I the only one struggling?  Were my needs (emotional or physical) somehow a failure?  Was I asking for too much from the show?  Why could I not feel the euphoria others did?  What was I doing wrong? Where was my euphoria?  Did they hand it out while I was in the bathroom?

For those not familiar with what the show was, for every hour of the show, there was an hour of American history laid before us.  From Revolutionary soldiers to Civil Rights protesters to a radical lesbian cookout to a man alone on stage, raspy-voiced, singing songs judy wrote.  The selection of music included traditional tunes, rock and pop favorites, and B-side tracks I’d never heard. 

For each decade, Mac donned a new costume (crafted with meticulous symbolism and a trashy sculptural flair by Machine Dazzle).  Mac performed the entire show with only a few bathroom breaks and microphone passes to back-up singers.  Judy began with a full orchestra and every hour the stage would lose a performer until we reached the end where it was Mac alone.  Judy hardly wavered when my butt was giving out. Judy dazzled and commanded the space non-stop.  And judy did it in heels.  

In the sweeping quilt of ideas, images, and song, judy focused on nation building, colonialism, war, protest, oppression, race, gender, and sexual orientation. Judy talked politics, mothers, anonymous sex, and AIDS.

Although this show took place over 24 hours, I don't think it was spiritually a durational piece.  Judy made a series of deeply crafted 3-hour concerts which were performed before this marathon in that format.  Most of the segments boasted a strong conceptual core and an overarching purpose.  They were rich with imagery, involved physical adventures for the audience to undertake, and of course laden with song after song representing judy’s subjective views on American history.  

Unlike durational work where your focus can wander, this density of creativity required your full attention.  On top of that, the show and Mac demanded a substantial contribution and sacrifice by the audience.  We stacked and unstacked chairs.  Judy segregated the audience to demonstrate white flight.  Judy had us do battle with imaginary weapons pointed at one another.  We spent an hour blindfolded and at some point shoved a grape in the face of our neighbor. We were forcibly moved around the room.  The audience was both a part of the show and mechanism to be manipulated.  They were judy’s rules and we played by them. 

Mac’s disruptive personality when taken in 3-hour doses delivers an effective punch.  Expanded to the 24-hour format, the accumulation of tension and conflict pushed at my limits.  

There was an edge of viciousness as well.  For instance, there were moments we were asked to throw ping pong balls at other audience members as well as Mac (we were homophobes and judy was the last queer we pelted as judy moved around the room).
During The Marskado (a take on The Mikado set on Mars to avoid cultural appropriation issues) Mac made a man sing “Tit willow” over and over again.  Saying, “sing ‘Tit Willow’ until you cry.”  When he did not start crying, Mac kept calling for him to keep singing.  Finally threatening, “I'm ok with the whole show just being this.”  A big laugh from the audience followed.  

The cruelty on display was a surrogate for America in various forms--calling for societal conformity, your body for war, or a palpable recognition of the power you possessed or repossessed from someone else.  Mac would tease that some of these vocal or physical activities were “going to go on longer than you want it to.”   And they did. 

So without question Mac made a show that was meant to be a trial (for judy and for us).  Mac explicitly said it was our responsibility to take care of ourselves.  Judy was not going to do it for us. 

Maybe my fatal flaw was that I did not expect myself to have needs.  I packed emergency peanut butter sandwiches and a thermos of tea.  I had snacks and comfortable clothes on.  I was as ready as I could be for something I could not foresee.  But I was jolted by how hard it was for me to stay in the room.  How pummeled I was by the experience.  How personally I took the show. I was a raw wound being poked and prodded for hours.  Was this not failure but success? I felt too much.  Was that the point?

I took breaks every couple of hours and left the room.  Introvert recharge moments were covered by cell phone recharge moments.  I stretched and moved and stood and sat.  And saw friends and moved on my own.  And even with all that, a growing rage began to form.  Not at American imperialism, colonialism, or prejudice.  I found myself in a tremendous power struggle with the art and my mind and my body. 

I have to believe this was intentional.  Mac’s work was focused on the wrongs America has done to the powerless, the derided, the outsiders, and the non-conformists.  But rather than find anyone reaching out in this, I was knocked to the ground as I tried to grab a balloon so I could just sit down.  I buckled under the weight of the work and I felt like I had lost. 

I know how I would have done in the American West.  I would have starved and died early in the journey.  But I knew that before going to this show.  That was not particularly a lesson I needed to learn. 

So when I cracked, I left the show.  I went home for a few hours, napped and returned.  It may have been a small victory to take some power back for myself.  But it helped.  I sailed through the last 8 hours not enraptured like others around me.  But less hostile.  I had reset my mind.  

I could enjoy the giant inflatable penis bouncing around the room and slow dance at the queer prom with a woman less into this entire endeavor than I was (I'm not sure who she was but maaaaannnnn she was really annoyed at having to dance with a woman). 

Of all the high style and drama that the show offered, the part that has stayed with me was one of the smaller moments.  judy told a story about a near-gaybashing incident that judy experienced with a friend.  A stranger had approached them in a Polish food restaurant and threatened them.  The bully demanded Mac’s friend eat a pierogi.  And the friend said, he would if the bully would feed it to his ass.  And this went back and forth for a while until the bully capitulated to Mac’s friend’s demand; and fed the pierogi into his ass.  It was a lesson in shame, consent, and power.  Mac’s friend had successfully denied the bully his goal, which was to shame them.  Instead, Mac’s friend had managed to push the shame back onto the bully.

The show was in the October and as I watched political fights on the internet unfold for a week following the show, and the national dialogue shift to misogyny and sexual assault, this push and pull over shame seemed so present.  

As the months have passed since seeing the show, I’ve brought up this story of the pierogi a lot.  The power of shame is an important topic we don’t talk about and judy got at the heart of it. 

In the end, I'm surprised by the joy people got out of the show.  Maybe they were able to celebrate their survival, their persistence, their success in the face of so much hostility.  

For me, all I can say is that I tried.  I went in with an open heart which got broke a whole lot during the night.   It was not what I expected.  But as Mac says "Everything you are feeling is appropriate."  

Friday, December 23, 2016

Top 10 of 2016: US edition

In 2016 I promised myself I would cut back on theater.  I saw 90 less shows in 2016 (180) than I did in 2015 (270).  <pats self on the back>

Here are the 10 shows which made me sit up and take notice in 2016.  They range from experimental performance to Shakespeare to experimental Shakespeare to American plays to Broadway musicals.  I seem to have been heavily influenced by strong directorial choices, nuanced character portraits, and some extreme derring-do as well.  

1. Waitress I found myself swimming against critical tides on this show this year but I reveled in the rare pleasure of seeing the female gaze on stage.  I needed this show with its nuanced depiction of female friendships, emotional abuse, cycles of domestic violence, and the reticence of impending motherhood.  Bucking the trend of women who get “punished” for breaking with expectation, these women have sexual agency and make choices that are complicated but in the end, they survive.  The musical is better than the production and there are a few missteps (a catchy, jovial ditty about stalking).  But it felt like it was whispering in my ear, “You are seen.  You matter.”  And having felt for years a massive amount of female erasure in theater this was a welcome addition to the Broadway canon.  

2. Natasha, Pierre, and The Great Comet of 1812 Director Rachel Chavkin strikes again.  This may be a musical with music and lyrics by Dave Malloy but it’s Chavkin and designer Mimi Lien who made this work sing for me.  The lobby of the theater is 21st century Russia—remnants of Soviet brutalist architecture, Pussy Riot posters, and overwhelming sense of gray.  But once you enter the theater it is Imperialist sumptuousness.  You’ve literally made a journey of a century within a few steps.  But the red draped walls are the only traditional thing in the theater.  Instead, an anachronistic, swirling, immersive extravaganza awaits. Though I’m more a fan of the production than the musical, the production pushes hard at our understanding of what a Broadway musical can be in smart and aggressive ways.  The multi-ethnic cast is not a topic of the piece at all.  Similarly, in a ballroom scene when men are dancing with men and women are dancing with women, it’s done with the casualness that should accord such behavior in 2016.  Yet that kind of nonchalance is rare on Broadway.  Characters aren’t usually queer without a declaration or explanation in musicals and it’s welcome relief that they just are.  Bonus points for some Beyonce style explosive entrances that tell us everything we need to know about certain characters.  Chavkin wastes nothing on stage and the moments of quiet magic against boisterous celebration give us a full range of her skills. 

3. Othello:  With The Glass Menagerie in Amsterdam and this production of Othello, Sam Gold has assuredly proved himself as a director who can work wonders with revivals—and revivals of plays I maybe didn’t think I wanted to see.  Using a bold design aesthetic that created the stifling and incestuous environment of an army barrack, soldiers, lovers, rivals, and frenemies are piled into one room with lights up on the audience and together we all see this tragedy through to its inevitable conclusion. Daniel Craig was lighter on his feet than in past NY stage forays and he seemed older, wirier, and yet amped for his turn as Iago. David Oyelowo, on the other hand, read so much younger than Craig (he’s 40 to Craig’s 48) and more of a peer to an adult Desdemona (Rachel Brosnahan avoiding the helpless, fragile characterizations that so often plague Des).  This age dynamic made Iago’s jealousy read more true as someone passed over for a younger rival.  And Othello and Desdemona’s love affair less that of a creepy old man stealing away someone’s child as a young woman knowing her mind and seeking it with a charismatic partner.   The female characters felt stronger and clearer here.  And there are aspects of the production that don't work (why does Bianca live under a table) but more often than not it clicks.

4. Kings of War:  Ivo van Hove can be hit (A View from the Bridge) or miss (Lazarus).  He’s been accused of every theatrical violation under the sun and he’s guilty of many (ignoring the text and misogyny, recently).  But when he has rich source material to dig into (here Henry V, Henry VI, and Richard III), he can peel away excess and somehow find more meaning in the minimalism.  He boils down all this Shakespearean machination to the repetitive process of murder-murder-murder, gain crown, murder-murder-murder, lose crown, rinse, repeat. But in each of these transactions the scars of the past haunt every gain and loss until when finally seen in the aggregate we feel none of these families has gained more than they have lost.  Using a repertory company of actors, familiar faces echo familial lines. Although the piece is 4 hours it breezes by and like the best of durational work it’s the collection of the experience as a whole that changes your understanding of individual parts. Van Hove continues to find unexpected and bold strokes to define the theatrical space— endless hallways, live film projections, sheep, blood, and a bit of rock and roll keep us guessing and intrigued. 

5. Skeleton Crew:  I ended up seeing this play twice and it was worth the extra visit to appreciate the fine work of the performers.  Skeleton Crew by Dominique Morisseau takes places in the midst of Detroit auto industry union workers.  As the characters hang around the break-room of their plant, we watch careful portraits colored with fine brushes.  The guy carrying a gun, the pregnant mother, and and the salty old timer are far from stereotypes and challenge us to look beyond labels. The political backdrop was there but it never overpowered the human drama.  Morisseau wove into her story elements of crime, love, family, homelessness, class, race, and labor.  But months later what stays with me is the human cost of all those issues.  Ruben Santiago-Hudson’s beautiful production made me care about the people in front of me where one woman’s life was lived for decades in front of her union locker.

6. Underground Railroad Game: In one of the most unsettling pieces of theater in 2016, Underground Railroad Game trades in race, sex games, and the Civil War.  An unusual devised piece by Jennifer Kidwell and Scott Sheppard that has the audience motorboating taboos whether they want to be there or not. Once you’ve paid your fare you’re now under the control of artists who will take you on whatever ride they like.  In this case, you will confront power and sex through questions of dominance, submission, and how those issues have cropped up in the racial history of America. And you might even laugh too.  But it's that kind of laugh that will dissipate when you've caught up with the tricks these artists have up their sleeves.  

7. Richard II:  I can't believe I have three Shakespeare productions on my list this year and this was the most traditional of the three. It was an RSC production by Gregory Doran which illuminated the play in a new way and highlighted the talents of David Tennant. When I had seen this play performed before (with the utterly useless Eddie Redmayne in a production by Michael Grandage) I did not really understand how this story of the divine right of kings really resonate in modern society. It felt like a relic of a time and place that no longer offered contemporary parallels. But Doran's production nourished my lawyer's mind, giving Richard's arguments and explanations and monologues a Socratic air. He pressed at language, reason, and discourse to make contradictions read like debate. The tensions of the play were not just between Bolingbroke and Richard but within Richard himself. And it did not have modern meaning, but I understood its place in its world.

8. Yesterday Tomorrow: Annie Dorsen’s algorithmic performance piece had a computer program convert Yesterday by The Beatles into Tomorrow from Annie.  Professional singers followed the computers instructions as the words and notes morphed from one song into the other.  From sense to nonsense back to sense this deconstruction and reconstruction gave us a unique purview on the act of creation. Watching the program find it's way made you root for the computer.  It was strangely beautiful, playful, and joyful. 

9. IronboundMartyna Majok is just starting to get productions in New York and that’s a very good thing.  Her play, Ironbound, with its dark humor, stubborn protagonist, and specific setting made for a powerful introduction to her voice.  She's not afraid of darkness, sentiment, and humor and happily she gives all the best bits to female characters.  Marin Ireland as Darja offered a trenchant portrait of a women who has built walls around herself after years of disappointment, loss, and betrayal.  As we laugh with her at the comedy of life, we feel her dented and damaged soul try to right itself in a complicated and ever challenging world. 

10. Oh, Hello:  I did not expect this show to be such a love letter to cranky New Yorkers of a certain generation and the American theater.  Comedians John Mulaney and Nick Kroll, with high-school drama club powdered hair age themselves up to the spectacular ordinariness of Gil Faison and George St. Geegland. An "actor" and a "writer" who've lived on the Upper West Side in a rent controlled apartment together for 40 years. They fancy themselves artists who've been waiting for their breaks and they are still waiting.   I sort of imagine if things did not work out for Dustin Hoffman’s Michael Dorsey in Tootsie, this is who he would have become—self-serious about his art, bitter about the passage of time, and on a day-to-day basis molesting olives at Fairway.  Mulaney and Kroll, with specificity and precision create an indelible picture of these men and their world.  They exaggerate it just enough to make it comedy but real enough to make it true. New York and its theater subcultures get the right balance of lampoon and love. There is a sweet intimacy to their whackadoodle 40-year friendship.  Gil gingerly holds George's finger like a child clutching at the parent for serenity.  Even if fame has come to them so late, at least they’ve had each other all along. 

Honorable Mentions: Performances, Shows, and Moments that made 2016 Memorable

· It was nice to see 2015 favorites return in 2016, including the still exciting YOUARENOWHERE and the new cast of Small Mouth Sounds (another Chavkin production).

· I could not ignore the brilliant mess and WTF’ness of Rupert Goold’s American Psycho. On the whole it did not work but the entire crew deserves some points for trying and for the weird, fascinating result.

· Brandon Jacobs-Jenkins An Octoroon made my Top 10 in 2014, but Joanna Settle’s production in Philadelphia was like a wholly different beast from Sarah Benson’s New York production and it deserves a mention of its own. With a rap crew on stage and some live chickens, it had an entirely unique feel and demonstrated the great flexibility the underlying play could offer.

· I’m glad Mfoniso Udofia’s Sojourners which will be back in 2017 at NYTW. This play (part of a large series) about the Nigerian diaspora introduced Udofia’s singular voice to me and reminded me how little we see African immigrant stories on stage.

· Sister Sylvester remains one of my favorite companies and this work-in-progress, They Are Gone But Here I Must Remain, about protest, misogyny, and Greece reminded me why. Their approach to narrative is never the easy way in. Multi-layered, non-linear, with a lot of different stylistic tricks, and including a live chicken, this is not what you’d expect and that’s why their work continues to thrill and provoke.

· New downtown actor fave, Alex Grubbs grabbed my attention in Utility and now he’s on my must see list. He also popped up in Leah Nakano Winkler’s funny and dark Kentucky.  

· Lord love Mark Rylance and his spacey, ruminations in Nice Fish.  I'd watch him do just about anything.

· I was totally appreciative of The Secret Garden concert for bringing back Daisy Eagan and reminding me what a beautiful score that show has.

· I’m a sucker for livestock on stage (obviously with all these live chicken references) so I paid a pretty penny to see the opera, De Materie, which had sheep and remote control zeppelins—I have no regrets.  TOTALLY WORTH IT TO SEE LIVE SHEEP ON STAGE.  The zeppelins were an unexpected bonus

· The international collaboration Article 13 about borders, refugees, and immigration set a lot of the Philadelphia waterfront on fire which was cool but the haunting sound of a train to nowhere on top of that stunning setting was something else and I was glad to see how installation performance could be integrated into an outdoor setting.

· It turns out feminist manifesto Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again. by Alice Birch can be done very very well (Soho Rep/Lileana Blain-Cruz) and it can be done really poorly (RSC/Erica Whyman) and I got to see both in 2016.  Not all productions are equal and I was glad to see a radical production that got my blood going and one that was entirely bloodless.

· Scott Pask's interpretive and abstract set in The Cherry Orchard.  

· The strange and ethereal space and time of Daniel Alexander Jones's Duat.

· The Wolves deserves mention for providing space for a large female ensemble and capturing the world and reality of young women today.

· I finally saw A Taste of Honey and it turns out Shelagh Delaney is still a badass in 2016.

· I was late to Adam Rapp's work.  So for me, William Apps, desperate and sweaty-palms, in Purple Lights of Joppa, Illinois was a 2016 discovery.

· Jessica Lange making really interesting, unexpected choices as Mary Tyrone in Long Day's Journey Into Night.  Too bad no one else in the production was on the same probing page.

· Dear Evan Hansen has got some Act 2 issues but I was swept away by the music and lyrics and the quiet sorrow sung in this new musical which got tighter as it moved to Broadway.

· Benedict Andrew's production of A Streetcar Named Desire flickered between swaths of greatness and tedium. However there is a moment when Stanley is drunk and just back from taking Stella to the hospital where Ben Foster clings to the fire escape as the rotating entire set makes its way around the circle.  Whether he is being dragged into Blanche's maelstrom or it's his effort to touch her world, the moment is disturbing and sickening. From there he will rape her.  But in that exact moment, he's suspended and it almost feels like if the set reversed maybe the inevitable would not be so. Ultimately, it is Ben Foster's performance as Stanley here that got me to pay attention.  Rather than play on sex appeal, Foster's Stanley is a beefy, inarticulate, dumb, pontificating mook.  He tries his hardest to cover these things with anger, outrage, power, or punches. Foster's Stanley is a mediocre white man of today (obviously an incredibly handsome movie star version of that but he makes every effort to play that down). For the first time I saw Stanley as not just a man. In this contemporary setting he's the patriarchy which has driven Blanche to her last nerve.  She cannot flirt, reason, or talk her way out of this system that prevents her from being anything without a man but punishes her for succumbing to needs or desire, in a system they built.