I just 'returned' from a stay-at-home vacation where many loved ones came to us, taking in hours of museums, theater, and music, while they were here. Does everyone know The New York Public Library is celebrating it's 100th year? Go to the main branch (if you haven't already.) The exhibit there of just a tiny, tiny fraction of the holdings of the library will take your breath away...like an early draft of The Declaration of Independence written in Jefferson's hand. Or sketches of a Beethoven work in his wild calligraphic scrawl. And the free book of 100 people choosing their 'favorites' is a treat. Don't forget to show your kids the actual stuffed animals that inspired the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. Greatest of all? The knowledge that anyone in the world can look at anything the library owns for free. Always has been that way, always will be.
Now, to that wild few weeks of gorging on theater and opera--still reeling from it. People being far from perfect, and art being created by people, not everything was without flaw, but all was filled with joys to be had for those willing to accept them. Of the five live events that I wrote of last time, we had one masterpiece of a play with a woefully miscast character, one musical that was two thirds great with fine performances onstage along with the not-so, one divisive work with a towering performance, one masterpiece of operatic literature given an all-but-perfect performance / production...and one of the single most shattering, extraordinary nights in the theater it has ever been my privilege to experience. In order of mention:
Arcadia is the masterpiece of theater writing with the serious casting flaw. Set in the same house in two different time frames, 100 years apart, this is Tom Stoppard at his best, meaning as good as it gets. I have loved reading the work over the years but have never been to a production and feel happy to have seen one filled with great actors. Alas, the young woman playing the precocious young woman in the 'past' was abominable. Sorry to be so cruel to a fellow performer, but damn, she was dreadful. This is a serious disaster for a work about love where the said youngster finds her first blush leads to her demise. In many ways, Thomasina finds the most 'growth' in the play, so the screeching, obnoxious, shallow characterization was a 'tragedy' not in the script. Still, to see and hear this beloved product of Stoppard's brain was still enjoyable. The rest of the cast could not be faulted, including the understudy who went on for one of the other major characters. His name was John Cutmore Scott: he was superb. Pity we did not see the understudy for the young woman.
The two thirds great musical was Billy Elliott. Anything but toned down from the gritty movie, the tale of a spirited youth pursuing the improbable dream of being a ballet dancer in the midst of a miners strike during the Thatcher years is filled with pain, anger, hope, happiness, sadness, humor--and the twin results of loss for the miners as Billy moves on to his success far from his troubled home. If only they had stuck to their guns and given us the grittiness and the fantasy without the assured-audience-approving Broadway excess, even contradictions, for the sake of a good number. And those cloying kids playing 'cute'! Yikes! Thomasina times a dozen. Several times, I wished for a gun, either to kill myself or the brats onstage overacting with hideous grins on their faces . And the 'curtain call' was a complete negation of the story in front of it! The miners 'lose' I wanted to shout! Billy went on to be a major force in ballet, not a grinning tap dancer. Why are all these desperate, forgotten men and women wearing tutus? That is the authors' idea of humor? Yes, seeing this young man tap after so much exertion the previous three hours had its own rewards--up to a point--but more along the lines of 'wow, the kid has unlimited energy' than 'wow, what a great ending'. But the mindless throngs in the seats seemed to eat it up. Not all of them, but most. Give them what they want, I guess. But 'I' did not. Will commend the Billy. He could sing, dance and act very well indeed (no small feet for a pre-teenager) and never fell into the trap of 'Gee, look Ma! I'm dancin' trap. Well, other than the number with his cross-dancing friend and the end. Luckily, the former had dancing dresses (don't ask) to steal your attention away from the kids being cutesy, and the end...finally ended. But not before a giant sign lit up spelling Billy! Give me the gun.
The divisive play with the truly legendary performance was Jerusalem. The jaw-dropping acting came from the unbelievably impressive Mark Rylance. He was 'never forget it' good. The play I could take or leave. Yes, it had plenty of humor (I laughed often if a bit loudly for a few people around me) but a fair share of pretension, assuming the 'meaning' had something to do with the last vestiges of paganism being destroyed by modern technology and inhumanity. (Just once, I'd like to see a play where the 'old ways' are the foolish ones, and the 'modern technological' world is a salvation from mindless adherence to destructive, knee-jerk religious fervor. But I dream...) But half the audience left without even agreeing on a 'meaning'--or if one needed to be present. This is fine. The rather ham-fisted metaphors were not, for me anyway. The minute the Rylance character looked into the eyes of another and she shook from his magical powers, I began to silently groan. Even before then, the 'message' seemed to me a little too telegraphed for comfort. But, hey, many people who enjoyed it didn't think it meant anything more than a character study of one man's dissolution. More power to them.
The operatic masterpiece given the beautifully successful production in Philadelphia is Hans Werner Henze's Phaedra. Modern, allusive, literary (death knells to some), the piece is also filled with lyricism throughout to set the violence, both physical and emotional, in high relief. Truly, despite its lack of tonality (though it has its own strange suggestion of it) the beauties pile up. And what a fantastic--both meanings apply--production. Superb singing throughout its small cast, a few strained notes from the women excepted, in a simple, direct, emotional, highly theatrical staging. It was beautiful, too, just like the music. I was only sad I could not see it more than once. The brochure for next year's program promises a new production of one of my favorite Henze operas, Elegy For Young Lovers. With a libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman who gave us the words of Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress, it has long been known by smart music lovers as a(nother) masterpiece. I'll be there, even if I have to shoot an overacting child actor to do it.
And that perfect night was, of course, Derek Jacobi in King Lear. Words really cannot give the true impression. Staged simply but soooooooo effectively. Shattering. Has to be repeated: shattering!! Played so memorably by everyone. Original, even with centuries of performances. (Who will ever forget the storm scene?) And Jacobi is unparalleled. I mean it. What a fantastic actor he is! One-of-a-kind. Unforgettable. So arrogant in his foolish pride. So pitiable in his madness. So crushing in the final realization of his own failure. A Lear for the ages. What a masterpiece Lear is! (My second favorite Shakespeare, Hamlet being my ultimate.) In fact, what masterpieces I saw. (Oh, and a pretty good musical and a so-so play made cherishable by its star.)
