Friday was about visiting my mother in Jersey, then shopping at Bergdorf’s. My wife and I had a couple of hot dogs from a vendor, then split up and met for dinner at Bobby Van’s (which is fabulous, on 45th), then on to Hugh Jackman’s new show, which was extraordinary.

This guy is so talented you might want to hurt him, except he’s also so charming. Great voice, fine dancer, raconteur—AND he’s The Wolverine! He’s exhausting. We were in the front row of the Mezzanine, which was perfect, and he opens the second act by popping up in the boxes up there reverting to Peter Allen (“The Boy from Oz”). At the conclusion, he raffled off some things for a Broadway charity, got three different people to commit at $10,000, then offering photo sessions for $2,000. I calculated that with 8 shows a week over a 10-week run he’ll raise $5 million.

Joan Rivers and David Copperfield were in the audience and willing to be recognized, and the place was packed. The orchestra was super, as were all the backup singer/dancers, as were a group of Aboriginal people he includes in the show.

If you get a chance, and you want to see someone who makes Sammy Davis, Jr. seem like a slacker, get a ticket any way you can. This guy is one of the top performers of our time. I have to go now and find the lovely Maria, who is still wandering back stage.

© Alan Weiss 2011. All rights reserved.

My wife and I decided to watch a movie in the hotel last night, something we haven’t done in ages. But room service and a film looked good after a hectic day in New York. Most of the movies we hadn’t even heard of, and the “stars” were unknown to us.

But we found “Bridesmaids” which had received some decent ratings. It stars and is co-written by Kristen Wiig, who has been a Saturday Night Live main player during its most recent, and worst, seasons.

When did mindless profanity and scatological portrayals start to pass for humor? I enjoy raunchy movies, and thought “Porky’s” was hysterical, as an example. But it had a story line, plausible relationship with reality, and excellent acting.

To call Bridesmaids a piece of crap would simply be describing any one of numerous scenes in it. The movie is symbolized by its highlighted scene, where the bride-to-be defecates in a wedding gown in the middle of a major street as traffic passes by. There are people defecating in sinks, vomiting on each other, and passing gas in public. There is a state trooper whose uniform looks like that of a chicken farmer and who apparently can use his cruiser whenever he likes, in uniform or not. Oh, and he can drink at a bar in uniform, too.

Annie Mumolo, whoever she is, wrote this with Wiig, although “writing” is too kind a term, sort of like calling a mudslide “art.” Rose Byrne, by far the weakest actor in the otherwise excellent “Damages” (when she’s on screen with Glenn Close it’s actually painful to watch the difference) is consistently bad in this mess.

A lot of the movie seems improvised, and poorly, but there is a director’s credit to Paul Feig, who ought to start wearing disguises until he leaves the country.

It’s an insult to consider endless obscenity art, let alone comedy, and it’s a poor reflection on our culture that this stuff can actually be funded and promoted. My rating: minus 10. That means you should boycott theaters that show it and watch a porn channel before you tune in to this profoundly pathetic schoolyard tripe. Maybe I’m unfair, since we used to have rules about relieving yourself in the schoolyard.

© Alan Weiss 2011. All rights reserved.

Brigham Young faced a huge challenge when he ran into a plague of locusts outside of Salt Lake City. His band was saved by the unlikely appearance of sea gulls in Utah.

The Mormons could have used the birds last night, as we watched The Book of Mormon, the hottest ticket on Broadway, in a packed house. This is the work of Trey Parker, Robert Lopez, and Matt Stone, of “South Park” fame on cable television. “South Park” is filled with deliberately primitive animation, bushel baskets of profanity and vulgarity, and complete irreverence. It is also usually very funny, and globally accepted. (I watched one particularly raunchy episode while channel surfing one night in Queenstown, New Zealand.)

The same “in your face” messages come across in the play, the origins of which must be explained by the authors’ traumatic experience with Mormons at birth. The treatment is beyond even trenchant satire. It is unrelenting mockery, specifically directed at Mormons but applicable to almost any religion. (Interestingly, critic Terry Teachout in the Wall Street Journal noted that if the play were about Muslims and the Quran the production never would have seen the light of day, such are these politically correct times.. The Mormons are safe because they’re not much of a threat.)

Let me acknowledge that the talent on stage is simply huge. Everyone sings, dances, and acts superbly well, as one once expected all the time on Broadway. There is a brilliant skewering of The Lion King. The music is well done, but not memorable, though it’s clearly not supposed to be. This is a production aimed at simply the immediate moment’s pleasure, not unlike the half-hour TV cartoon.

The first act is poor, despite the musicality. There are too many bits that don’t work, overdone parody, and general set-up for the far better second act. We were seated among a lot of people who paid a lot of money for house seats, and they appeared determined, often with gritted teeth and knotted brow, to enjoy themselves. Josh Gad, Andrew Rannells, and Nikki M, James, the three leads, are incredibly gifted performers, and a pleasure to watch.

But how many times are we supposed to laugh at someone shouting the same profanity, just like witless standup comics who equate obscenity with humor, or at graphic representations of diarrhea? After a while, you wished a Mormon terrorist would arrive to even-up the score a bit. The second act redeemed the show, but probably not the investment. This is a good show with a weak first act, but is the most over-hyped production around. The publicity drives attendance, and those in attendance don’t want to believe they’ve made a mistake.

Oh, yeah, the plot: The Mormon missionaries are send to Uganda to save the natives. Where are the seagulls when you really need them?

© Alan Weiss 2011. All rights reserved.

Marcus Buckingham, of “find your strengths” fame, has a knack for using outstanding examples. In one such case, he cites Cole Porter as a man of great talent with music who couldn’t write a successful musical.

Anything Goes, now in revival on Broadway, is a sterling case in point. The book is less than froth on the ocean, where the action takes place. But, oh, the songs, which include “I Get A Kick Out of You,” “You’re the Top,” “Easy to Love,” “It’s De-lovely,” “Anything Goes,” and “All Through the Night,” among others. It’s the American songbook cast vast in a little over two hours that fly by. You’re lucky if one monumental song is sung in an entire show in most cases. Here, you careen from one to another without letup.

People were singing coming out of the Sondheim Theater. It’s hard to do that nowadays with so much eminently forgettable music on Broadway.

The cast is amazing. Sutton Foster should win a Tony as the hip Reno Sweeney; John McMartin and Jessica Walter seem to have been in every play I’ve ever seen, such is their longevity; and even Joel Grey is back on the boards. The dance numbers are pretty wonderful, often lasting for ten minutes with the audience applauding along the way.

It’s all about song and dance with Porter. As opposed to the brilliant, recent revival of South Pacific, the Rogers and Hammerstein and Joshua Logan masterpiece, which has a very poignant story line, Anything Goes is the typical boy/girl chase, with nearly everyone getting married in the end. (The difference between these two musicals, by the way, is the difference between their origins in 1934 and 1949, with the Second World War intervening. There was less superficial frolic and a lot more introspection about social mores post-war and in the Cold War.)

I remember seeing Lion King on Broadway, and thinking that the entire production was an excuse to showcase the puppetry and costuming. Here, the production is merely an excuse to execute song and dance. Fortunately, they are done exceedingly well by one of those maddening Broadway casts who can sing, dance, and act with equal excellence.

Catch Sutton Foster if you can. The house was filled on a Wednesday night. Don’t worry about the story. Just enjoy the music because Anything Goes goes a very long way.

© Alan Weiss 2011. All rights reserved.

Our granddaughters had their second birthday party yesterday in a clever place with a huge water activity center, giant slide, and cave. It’s hard to believe that two years ago we were racing home from Capri to face grandchildren born three months prematurely. We are eternally thankful that we have been granted these miracles, who are healthy and ever-active.

Once we got the girls home, Maria and I took off for Saturday Vigil Mass, and I chose the Church of the Transfiguration in Chinatown, on Mott Street. It’s a gorgeous place, with a predominantly Chinese congregation and an Indian priest the evening we visited.

We hang out in Tribeca quite a bit when we visit the kids, and one of our favorite places is the corner suite in the Greenwich Hotel. The place is great—you can have breakfast in a courtyard—and the entire area is thick with trendy, busy restaurants of every persuasion.

I had told the concierge that I wanted to try something that was great even for this area, and we were sent to the Greenwich Grill, a few blocks away. We were greeted cordially, escorted to one of the prime, corner tables, and then the restaurant bought us cocktails because the hotel had sent us!

We opted for the 8-course Chef’s Seasonal Tasting Menu (I cheated, and also ordered some uni—the place has a sushi restaurant downstairs) and the entire meal was outrageously good. The fare is billed as “Italian/Asian fusion” and somehow it works wonderfully (more than half the packed house was Asian). On some nights they have both Japanese uni and California uni!

If you love high-end food and trendy places, don’t miss this excellent restaurant. The ambiance, service, and food are standouts, even in New York and even in Tribeca.

New York,  New York, it’s a wonderful town….

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

George Clooney is a fine actor who supposedly has an eagle eye for good material. Apparently, he’s suffering from astigmatism at the moment.

“Up In The Air” was a light, foolish piece that was barely funny, inaccurate, and predictable. But “The American” makes it look like “Citizen Kane.” This new film is sooooooo slooooooooow that you begin to think it’s being run in claymation. The story line is stereotypical (hired assassin reporting to shady figure), the tension is completely absent, and Clooney is doing the equivalent of Ravel with Bolero: variations on a single theme. It is a monotone performance, not 3-D, but 1-D.

Even the normal beauty of the Italian countryside seems black and white and barren. The director has bored the environs.

Even the breathtaking Violante Placido, who spends a great deal of time shedding her clothing, can’t save this debacle. (She is a prostitute who is gorgeous, well spoken, and very classy.) Clooney is afraid she is going to kill him. Get in line.

The point of this mess is that you’re supposed to figure out who, exactly, is trying to kill Clooney, which is so obvious that you want to run up there and kill him yourself just to speed things along. This film is drawing four stars out of five on a lot of web reviews. What would be a single star, “Plan Nine from Outer Space”? At least that moved along at a decent pace.

My rating: Go see it only if it will enable you to avoid a root canal. But that’s a close call.

No stars, just a foggy night.

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

I was naturally attracted to this musical, given its title! It’s the true story of the only time that Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis were ever together in the same recording studio (Sun Records in Nashville). The story line is just strong enough to hold together the plot for some of the most incredible music I’ve heard in a long time. All four performers (plus Elvis’s girlfriend) play instruments and sing, and it’s amazing, soul-wrenching, glorious.

There is no intermission, just 90 minutes of volcanic energy. We sought tickets a week before on line and nailed second row, center. The theater was 95% filled on a Friday night. I’m not sure how much longer this will run, but you ought to run to see it. It’s at the Niederlander on West 41st, a rare Broadway theater south of Times Square.

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

I wasted four-and-a-half hours last night on the interminable swan song of the TV cult program “Lost,” and I’m trying to convince myself that I haven’t wasted an hour a week over the six years of its sporadic seasons.

The first two hours were billed as a retrospective, where we could all brush up on our understanding of the convoluted and confounding plot twists and time travel that had transpired. Instead, we were treated to the acting cast commenting on their experiences which, unfortunately, took on a pseudo-gravitas, as if they had just finished Gone With the Wind and knew it. Lost isn’t M.A.S.H., or even Law and Order. Flash Forward, which has been cancelled, has more of an intelligible plot, and Damages and Mad Men much more compelling characters (and a certain helpful feature called “good writing”). The superb Sopranos, whose ending caused great debate in its ambiguity, was downright fulfilling, specific, and unarguable after Lost got lost.

On top of that, the two producers/writers held sway during the prefatory, saccharine first two hours, giddy with happiness, sharing their self-indulgent, self-congratulatory party with us, apparently without any remorse or regrets that the series concluded on a predictable, boring, and incomplete note.

The first season of Lost was inventive and well acted, with decent writing and a plausible plot. But as the seasons wore on, the plots became conflicting and unbelievable—the best science fiction and fantasy are based on plausibility. The finale last night demonstrated that there was NO story arc, despite the claim the final episode was being considered two years ago. Short of the “it was only a dream” sequence on the grand soap opera Dallas, this was the most pathetically patched together attempt at “explanation” imaginable.
Everyone was dead. Really? I never would have thought of that.

How many deus ex machinas can one cram into one series? Apparently, an island full.

I kept hoping for the best, that the audience’s cult fascination would stimulate the early inventiveness to return. But no one here seemed to become refreshed, despite the exotic location. With the exceptions of Terry O’Quinn (Locke), Naveen Andrews (Sayid), and Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond), the acting was pedestrian, though there wasn’t much that could be done with the mediocre writing and the consistently unrealistic predicaments. (How many times can someone be shot or stabbed, even in a semi-real, half-dead, time-shifting, largely imaginary place?!)
At least women viewers could rejoice in the frighteningly good looking Sawyer (Josh Holloway) and the men in the exquisite Kate (Evangeline Lilly, who may be the most beautiful woman on television).

At the end, Vincent, the dog, lay down next to Jack on the island as Jack lay dying. There was something strange about Vincent’s face. When I rewound the tape and looked more closely, I realized—he was bored to death.

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

First, the bad news.

We watched The Blind Side last night, the film based on the real story of a homeless black teenager brought into the home of an affluent white family in the south. He went on to become a football star, and the film’s star, Sandra Bullock, went on to win the Oscar and assorted other paperweights.

This is an impressive true story made unbelievable on film. The writing is cornball, the acting predicable, and the situations inflated with so much air as to achieve the quality of meringue. There are so many stereotypes, from unconsciously racist southern belles to taunting football players and misogynistic drug dealers (all of whom, of course, promptly receive their due comeuppance), that it’s hard to find even vegetation that isn’t either overacting or directed incompetently.

If you don’t think the Oscars are primarily political, remember that Sandra Bullock “beat” Helen Mirren, Gabourey Sidibe, Meryl Streep, and Carey Mulligan. In any case, keep a blind eye on The Blind Side.

Now, the good news.

We also saw A Behanding in Spokane last night on Broadway with Christopher Walken, Sam Rockwell, Anthony Mackie, and Zoe Kazan (written by Martin McDonagh).

Terry Teachout, an insanely tough critic at the Wall Street Journal, loved this play, and small wonder. Christopher Walken’s character lost one of his hands nearly a half century ago, and he’s intent on finding it. In the course of his quest, one notices that he’s become a homicidal maniac, surrounded by a very strange lot of people. I won’t reveal some of the lunatic twists and turns.

Fair warning: I can’t begin to imagine this without Mr. Walken in the title role, because I did find myself enjoying him playing the character, and not the character per se. Mr. Walken has the ability to crack me up without moving a muscle (watch his guest host spots on Saturday Night Live) and when he does move a muscle or two, I fall on the floor.

Let’s just say that it’s a bizarre night (following a new and greatly appreciated trend of 90-minute plays without intermissions which start only four minutes late), and that you’ll walk out onto 45th Street with a dopey smile as if you just learned some small secret.

The secret, of course, is managing to find that still-occurring magical night in the theater.

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

We saw A Little Night Music last night on Broadway, and it was the right music. We attended the original over 35 years ago, and we realized that this was our last chance to see Angela Lansbury on stage, and our first chance to see Catherine Zeta-Jones on stage.

Stephen Sondheim is, like a very old Macallan, an acquired taste. (If you don’t believe that, then throw away two hours of your life watching Sunday in the Park With George.) He is too clever by half, and I’m sometimes wondering if I’m watching David Mamet put to music or Gilbert and Sullivan at the wrong speed. In Night Music, he begins with the equivalent of a Greek Chorus, and the proceedings are thereafter like a dance, in waltz tempo.

On top of that, the setting is Sweden a century ago. Not exactly scintillating material. (One throw-away line involved Malmo.)

Ms. Jones is a star. From my vantage point in the eighth row, she is drop-dead gorgeous, but not one of the size 2 walking sticks who flit around the media almost intersticially. She is in command of the stage, has a fine voice, and acts superbly. Ms. Lansbury performs as one would expect, gracefully and well. But what makes this show are the marvelous singing voices of every single cast member, and brilliant direction by Trevor Nunn.

This is a story of infidelity, chauvinism, deceit, and deception. Yet the characters are, astonishingly, sympathetic, and you care what happens to them. Counterintuitively, it has a happy ending.

There isn’t a song that’s memorable except the iconic Send in the Clowns, which even Sinatra felt he had to record. That’s because this is semi-opera, not full-theater. But it’s better theater than we’re used to seeing these days, and it has stood the test of three decades (or a century from Sweden). Go see it before Ms. Jones leaves.

© Alan Weiss 2010. All rights reserved.

Island Moving Company, under the artistic direction of Miki Ohlsen, staged “Dracula” over this weekend at Belcourt Castle in Newport, and it was wonderful and outrageous art. (Disclaimer: We’re contributors to the company.)

Belcourt Castle is part Gothic, part Rococo, part silent move, and wholly eerie. Miki used it to great effect to stage a two-act “Dracula” that crept, marched, slithered, flew, and danced through a half-dozen Hearst-like mansion rooms, with the audience led by six musicians along the way. We witnessed dancers descending acrobatically from curtains during a dream sequence, fights in upstairs hallways, the good Count being raised from the dead by some striking “young vampire brides,” and a final scene where the dancers actually emerge from the audience in a hallway, and push us aside to make room for themselves.

David DuBois seemed to enjoy himself much too much playing Dracula, and danced with terrific grace and energy. Gregg Saulnier was wonderful as Jonathan Harker, dancing some of the longest, continual scenes I can imagine (though I would have happily bid on the opportunity to play the role in the dream sequence). Lilia Ortola, one of my favorites, danced a wonderful Mina, including succumbing to the Count’s charms. I always root for the underdog.

Island Moving Company combines classical dance, modern dance, and highly original production values in these venues, creating outstanding entertainment. We parked in the Belcourt Castle lot, walked the long paths into the courtyard, entered a side door, and then traveled through the huge place following the musicians, dancers, and story line. It’s unique to have the dancers emerge from the edge of the audience and create their own stage and room, often brushing you as they move, leap, and spin. These included, quoting the program, “unruly gypsies”! This kind of staging and choreography, combined with the venue, is extraordinary.

The mansion lends its own idiosyncrasies. At one point, a huge, stained-glass door wouldn’t open for Dracula, and as the audience smiled, David wound up magically entering through another door behind the set, something you’d expect Dracula to be able to manage!

The company stages “The Nutcracker” in a similar vein at Rosecliff Mansion in Newport for the holidays (http://www.islandmovingco.org.).

© Alan Weiss 2009. All rights reserved.

The Greater Providence Area is like a middleweight moving up a class to fight heavyweights in the cultural arena. Pound for pound, there are theater, dining, museums, dance, touring shows, symphony and more far beyond what a city this size ordinarily expects.

As an example, here are two performances you shouldn’t miss if you’re in the area:

Trinity Rep (disclaimer: I’m a former board member) is staging “Cabaret” based on the original Isherwood work, so that the wonderful Rachel Warren as Sally Bowles does not have to channel Liza Minnelli. The Kit Kat troupe is worth the price of admission, and Curt Columbus has directed the superficial patina of gaiety nicely over the looming Nazi menace. Stealing the show—and, frankly, too often off stage—is the emcee, Joe Wilson, who is in fine voice, fine fettle, and fine lingerie. He bears an eerie resemblance to LaToya Jackson, which threw me for a while, but he has better legs. This is a wonderful rendition of a classic work: http://www.trinityrep.com/.

A couple of miles north in Pawtucket at the GAMM Theater (disclaimer: I’m on the board), director Tony Estrella also stars in a screamingly funny “Much Ado About Nothing” that is a masterpiece. Tony is arguably the finest working actor in New England (and possibly beyond), and his Benedick is a tour de force. At times the show had to momentarily stop to allow the laughter to die down. We were lucky to see it with a large group of St. George’s School students who had just read it, so it was a more knowledgeable crowd than would ordinarily be the case. The warden (the play is set in 1945 and, unlike so much of Shakespeare that is just a conceit in modern settings, this play sizzles), played by Tom Gleadow, has evidently been given permission to eat the scenery and, quite positively, there’s little left when he’s done with it. GAMM provides great art in an intimate setting, and this is the first of a paired set, with Romeo and Juliet coming with the same cast: http://www.gammtheatre.org/.

There is far better dining in Providence than Boston (we eat out seven nights a week), so take a couple of evenings and enjoy yourselves!

(Recommended pre-Trinity: Gracie’s, right across the street; pre-GAMM: Chez Pascal, 960 Hope St., Providence, a five-minute drive from the theater.)

© Alan Weiss 2009. All rights reserved.

See my review of “A Steady Rain” a few posts ago.

Here’s what the New York Times critic said this morning:

“A Steady Rain” is probably best regarded as a small, wobbly pedestal on which two gods of the screen may stand in order to be worshiped.

We were close enough for Hugh Jackman to perspire on my wife, which pretty much made her night. The house was packed, though the play doesn’t officially open until Tuesday.

Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman in A Steady Rain are alone together on stage all night, and they are formidable actors. Aside from some very minor mood music and an occasional lighting change against the backdrop, they use only two chairs to tell the story of two cops headed in two directions. While it is 90 minutes of an acting class, it’s not 90 minutes of riveting theater. The plot is obvious, the events expected (though some of the audience gasped at a line you could see approaching you from a mile away), and the ending utterly predictable. It was instructional to see these two guys in a tour de force for over an hour, sustaining energy and pathos, but by the end the energy is exhausting and the pathos becomes bathos. I don’t attend the theater for instruction, but for emotional involvement, suspense, and excitement.

It’s worth seeing Jackman and Craig, but after this and Carnage of the Gods I’m wondering if there’s anybody left who can write compelling drama for the stage, or if we’re just putting actors from other media up there to draw in the crowds. Where’s Arthur Miller when you need him?

© Alan Weiss 2009. All rights reserved.