Happy End

Theater Ten Ten, a company previously unknown to me, is offering up a terrific production of Brecht and Weill's Happy End through May 27. Director David Fuller utilizes the staples of Brecht's Epic Theatre adeptly, and the piece comes off feeling as fresh and fascinating as ever. A fine ensemble cast has been assembled, with the brilliant Lorinda Lisitza tearing through Hallelujah Lil with fiery resolve; a completely magnetic performer, she made even the simplest gesture feel urgently thrilling. She's completely at home with Brechtian language, and it didn't surprise me to see Jenny Diver and Mother Courage listed as past credits in her bio. I left much more entertained by this threadbare mounting than I was by that other current Kurt Weill offering. Shame on me for not discovering this wonderful little company sooner.

The Sea

There's only one way to describe the New York premiere of Edward Bond's 1973 play: A complete washout. To steal (and modify) a line from Pauline Kael, director Scott Alan Evans directs this production--which could have been a very promising endeavor--as if he had never seen a play before. Rather than mining an intriguing plot (the aftermath of a deadly shipwreck and its effect on the locals in 1907 coastal England) for any real kinetic spark, he has the actors aimlessly wander around the stage, occasionally breaking to rearrange a few chairs and dressers that act as the scenery. Bond's language is very particular--it is heightened to the point of farce, even during the play's more serious moments--and only a handful of the people in the large cast seem to understand how it should be executed. The general cluelessness of the rest caused an uncomfortable silence to permeate throughout the evening. Highest praise goes to Gregory Salata, terrifically playing the stock role of a wise and misunderstood outsider, and lighting designers Mary Louise Geiger and Lucrezia Briceno, who kept it bright enough so that those who remained after intermission didn't fall asleep.

Radio Golf

Radio Golf, the final installment of August Wilson's ten play cycle about African American life throughout the Twentieth Century, is not the author's best play. However, it is the most pleasing and engrossing work in the playwright's canon since Seven Guitars. Completed and first produced shortly before Wilson's death in 2005, it deals with urban renewal in Pittsburgh's Hill District in 1997, offering a compelling discussion of the ramifications that come with rebuilding a broken community. Not having Wilson around to do rewrites could have been detrimental to the success of the work, but the long gestation period it has had--at least half a dozen productions before reaching Broadway--definitely seems to have helped: even at tonight's very early preview, it was running as smooth as any play in New York. While Harry Lennix's line readings were often stiff, his easy physical rapport more than compensated; he was an utterly believable candidate. Tonya Pinkins is pitch-perfect as his supportive wife, and James A. Williams hits all the right notes in the stereotypical role of his bourgeois business partner, a black man just itching to be accepted by the white male hierarchy. In the end, though, the play belongs to the great Wilson interpreter Anthony Chisholm. Alternately hilarious and heartbreaking, he commands the stage from his first entrance, imbuing his character with touching, tough as nails pathos. His performance, and Kenny Leon's exemplary staging (his best work to date), are the ultimate tribute to Mr. Wilson's legacy.

Flavio

It's best not to even consider the plot of Handel's Flavio. Even by operatic standards it is flimsy and frustrating, and giving it any amount of thought can impede your enjoyment of the music. New York City Opera's pleasant but bland revival of Chas Rader-Shieber's 2003 staging does it's best to distract the audience from the story, relying heavily on garish sets (the stage, at times, looks like one giant petit fours) and over the top commedia dell'arte antics, not all of which are entirely successful. The proceedings weren't helped by the uneven singing of most of the principles, especially soprano Marguerite Krull (flat and forgettable as Emilia) and countertenor Gerald Thompson as her lover, Guido, who sacrificed the main line tones of his performance in order to give his arias a giant finish. (In his case, however, the ends did not justify the means.) David Walker was much more fulfilling in the title role, singing and acting with gusto to spare. The star of the evening, though, was conductor William Lacey, leading the tightest orchestra I've heard at City Opera in years and playing a mean harpsichord himself. However, in the end, I left this sugary confection longing for some real meat.

American Fiesta

As the child of two rabid Fiestaware collectors, I can appreciate the urgency Steven Tomlinson brings to his search for the perfect mixing bowl or water pitcher. American Fiesta, his one person show currently at the Vineyard, tries to explain how his obsession grew: after his parents voiced their disapproval over his decision to marry his partner in Canada, Tomlinson wanted to escape to the world of his childhood; specifically, he remembered being enamored with one of his mother's Fiesta bowls when he was six years old. The author and star affectingly blends talk of his renewed interest in the items with discussions about the 2004 Presidential election, the phenomenon and promise surrounding gay marriage, and the cerebral reaction to certain cultural ideas into a very satisfying 80 minute monologue. The questions asked here are potent ones, addressing whether it is better to retreat into your old world or forge forward into your new one. In the end, the stories told are as vivid and colorful as the crockery on display.

Coram Boy

The National Theatre's transplanted production of Coram Boy, Helen Edmundson's heavy-handed adaptation of Jamila Gavin's novel of the same name, feels like two separate plays connected by an intermission. A common thread is there--the story of the second act picks up on the intertwining plotpoints of the first--but the moods completely change after the brief interval. The starkness and bleakness of Act I, which was toleable if not ideal, turns into an unforgivable schmaltzfest the likes of which would make a writer of Lifetime original movies blush. And while the show's message that there really was no difference between the British upper class in the 18th Century and devious black market white slave traders comes off loud and clear, the shift in tone seems to betray the story that is being told. Kudos are in order to the remarkable Jan Maxwell and Bill Camp, brilliantly diabolical as the underlings who prey on the good name of Mr. Coram--who ran a tony orphanage for underprivileged and abandoned children--to trick desperate mothers into selling away their babies. They infuse the proceedings with a seedy undercurrent that is much more appropriate than the sweet-natured action that's often center stage. Still, it's not enough; even with the abundance of dead babies, I left the theatre with a sugar-induced toothache.

Giulio Cesare

Handel at the Met is often problematic, since the size of the cavernous house doesn't easily lend itself to the intimacy and immediacy of the music. However, the current revival of Giulio Cesare often soars, largely due to the rich vocal talents of the cast. David Daniels meets the challenging title role head on with his stunning countertenor voice; it makes up for his lack of stage presence. Watching him awkwardly move about the stage with little poise was not aesthetically pleasing, but the sound of his voice is like medicine for the ears. In her company debut, mezzo Patricia Bardon brought a beautiful dark tone to Cornelia, wife of the slain Pompey, and Alice Coote was electrifying as the vengeful Sesto. But the evening belonged to colortura wunderkind Ruth Ann Swenson, who sang Cleopatra like I've never heard before. The beauty of her voice is beguiling, and it's even more incredible when you add in the fact that she just finished a round of chemotherapy less than two months ago. (For the record, she got the loudest and most rapturous curtain call applause I've heard all season, including big names like Netrebko, Fleming and Gheorghiu). John Copley's production is stunning but silly, and reminded me of a soundstage for a 1940s studio epic. I didn't really care, though: the transfixing vocal harmony is what grabbed my attention and never let go.

Turandot

Turandot has never been my favorite opera, and Franco Zeffirelli's colossal production has never been my favorite either. It is visually stunning, but the dwarfing sets and enormous chorus pull focus away from the already thin story and less than pleasing music. This is an opera that always seems to come off as static unless there are captivating performers in the lead roles, and neither of this evening's singers delivered the goods. In the title role, Andrea Gruber was all over the place. She sang broadly and was able to fill the house with her sound, but she was really straining herself. What started out as a promising interpretation quickly became stagnant. Add Richard Margison's serviceable but bland Calaf (his "Nessun dorma" is the weakest I've ever heard), and you've got a recipe for disappointment. Only Hei-Kyung Hong's shimmering Liu enthralled; it was her finest performance this season, topping even her stunning Violetta. I cried buckets during her suicide scene, but I cried even more when I realized she would be off-stage for the remainder of the show. Can we please retire this production once and for all?

Lovemusik

What I saw this afternoon was most definitely a work in progress, and it showed enough promise that I've decided to withhold critiquing it until I see the finished product in three weeks. For now, I'll simply say that the story that Hal Prince and Alfred Uhry want to tell is all there; what they have to do now is get rid of the extraneous material that surrounds it.

110 in the Shade

Christine Ebersole finally has some competition in the form of Audra McDonald, currently performing the second female musical theatre miracle of the season as Lizzie Curry in Jones and Schmidt's 110 in the Shade. If you had asked me last month--hell, last week--if the lithe, Juilliard trained soprano could pull of the role of a quick-witted and plainspoken Southern schoolteacher longing for love, I would have emphatically said no. But McDonald does it, and flawlessly so. From her first entrance, she commands the stage in a manner that is both wistful and tough, with every number shimmering out of her mouth and hanging in midair. Other aspects of the production still need work, especially Steve Kazee's Starbuck: Despite singing beautifully, he does not seem to understand the character. He's not playing Starbuck as a man that you love even though he's a con man; here, he is the guy you love just because he's so darn nice. Still, I'm sure he will get better with time, and his performance as it stands now is not enough to keep me from recommending the show. After a disappointing season, musical theatre lovers can now treat themselves to a lovely palate cleanser.