The Dining Room by A. R. Gurney (A New Leaf Theatre)

Friday night I saw A.R. Gurney's "The Dining Room," performed by A New Leaf theater company, whose excellent production of The Permanent Way by David Hare in early 2007 was my introduction to their work. This production is even better. A New Leaf stages their work in a small space in the Lincoln Park Cultural Center, and both productions I've seen were intimate and simple, with practically no props - as far as I remember, nothing beyond a dining table and chairs. (I prefer this approach in intimate theater. With movies lavishly leaving no detail to the imagination, I find myself most engaged by theater that asks me to provide my own share.) The lighting was warm and effective, the kind of quality work you're not supposed to notice.

"The Dining Room" is a meditation on the place that the formal dining room holds in society. Each scene focuses on new characters, and it's their relationship to that room and to each other that he explores. Some of the scenes might have been bringing characters back at different times in their lives, but they might as easily have been similar people. The acting in this production was uniformly far above average, and I felt I was watching a troupe of Alec Guinesses and Peter Sellerses. They might walk out one door as a young child rowdy with birthday excitement and walk in another with the arthritic pains of an elderly person. (These photos only begin to do the effect justice.) There wasn't a weak link in the bunch (Marsha Harman, Max Lesser, Nick Mikula, Melissa Pryor, Christine Stulik, Tiffany Topol, and Steve Wilson), which, as much as I love Chicago storefront theater, I must admit is rare. After the play, I imagined the evening in time-lapse photography, as a blur of characters surrounding the table - in every seat, underneath, and all around.

The play itself, organized so prominently around an artifact of daily life, felt fresh and thoughtful, weighty enough to satisfy but not as heavy as many classic dramas. The script evokes an entire palette of emotions, asking what role the formal dining room played in its heyday and what we're losing in its decline. Those might seem to be strange concerns for a play, but the setting facilitates a sideways approach to more traditional subjects such as love, death, class, and family. Of course, though the play implies universal relevance, in reality not everyone can afford a formal dining room. The play uses maid characters to bring in another point of view, something it could have developed just a bit more for balance.

I'd never see a Gurney play before, and I was curious to see what his other major works are--wondering what to keep my eye out for in future productions. Most artists with any longevity to their careers seem to end up with some persistent aspect of their reputation that they can complain about in interviews, and Gurney's association with WASP culture appears to be his. (I wonder if Whit Stillman is a fan.) I also learned that Gurney has been heavily prolific throughout his career, with several successes on and off Broadway. "The Dining Room" is his most famous play and is generally considered his greatest success.

As for his other work, one critic wrote that "The Cocktail Hour shows Gurney at the top of his form...a very entertaining comedy filled with sophisticated humor." Critic Richard Gilman, writing in The Nation, grouped "The Middle Ages" and "The Dining Room" as plays that "display most of Gurney's methods and concerns. They wander around in time--The Middle Ages begins in the mid-1940s and ends in the late 1970s--their scenes are connected not by narrative progression but by a ruling idea, and they deal with aspects of WASP life." And Frank Rich wrote that "'The Perfect Party' seemed to be a metaphor for the relationship between a playwright, his audience and his critics--with a strong statement about esthetics thrown in." He labeled this play as "surely Mr. Gurney's funniest, meanest and most theatrical play yet." Another play often mentioned is "Later Life." I look forward to reading or seeing some of them in the future.

The Play's the Thing

Been taking a nice long siesta from blogging to enjoy the holiday season. I used some of that time to take advantage of Chicago's phenomenal theater scene.

I saw an excellent production of Noel Coward's This Happy Breed (TimeLine Theatre Company), so moving. I've never seen or read anything by Coward before, and someone told me this play is atypical of his work. World Book says his "witty romantic comedies" like Blithe Spirit are typical. This Happy Breed, by contrast, is a two-generation family drama set between the world wars. Though light and often very funny, it is also sweet and touching in its treatment of an ordinary family during times of war and strife (including labor unrest). On the one hand, it seems to come close to endorsing a message of conformity and class mobility, but ultimately I think that reading would be unfairly ideological. One should probably argue that the rebellious daughter, Queenie, is punished more for her self-hating snobbery than for ambition. At any rate, the characters are gorgeously well-rounded, and the play seems inspirational in its view of "ordinary" people taking the problems of the 20th Century in stride. Simply as a family drama, the story is thoroughly gripping. Even more than usual, TimeLine's production was excellent, especially its actors.

Meanwhile, Steppenwolf Theatre Company, About Face Theatre and Tectonic Theater Project got together to produce Tennessee Williams' One Arm, and the results are nowhere near as good, and I put the blame squarely on Williams. Of course, the story is based on an unproduced screenplay Williams wrote (re-written from a much earlier short story), so director Moises Kaufman should get some of the blame for choosing to produce it. Steppenwolf synopsizes thusly: "Ollie, a military boxer whose limb is lost in a car accident, turns to a life of hustling in Williams's revealing and personal tale that was never allowed to be produced in his lifetime." The draw for me was simple: Tennessee Williams uncensored. A big problem for me is that the story is still hopelessly pre-Stonewall in its conception. The hero is not gay, just gay-for pay, and Williams' hero-worship of him is distastefully old-fashioned. Mildly interesting as a footnote to his career, but far from relevant today. Kaufman emphasizes Williams' thematic interest in the idea that we are all disfigured, we're all wounded psychically. It's well-worked territory now, which certainly isn't Williams' fault, but the main problem with Ollie's story is that he is completely irrational. If we're all wounded, then what makes his wound such a special burden that we could sympathize with his act of murder? His lack of discipline is simply distatesful, and the play's failure to explore his psyche more deeply keeps it from achieving a morally complete vision. There are some interesting ideas, especially in the second act when issues of the death penalty and the justice system come into it; and, after a few inert scenes involving johns and porn-producers, there's a moment that's at least erotically interesting (if not erotic) that takes place with a young preacher. Despite the big disappointment of the script, the production was crisp and excellent, with good acting: Reynaldo Rosales in the lead was excellent, with the exception of an accent problem. I also thought Shané Williams was outstanding in her brief scenes.

A much better story of gay interest was "Arrangement for Two Violas," from Voices and Visions Theatre Company. The script tells the story of a love affair between two Wisconsin doctors in the 1930s, and though it certainly didn't always feel historically accurate, I didn't care in the least because the story was so good. I'm fascinated by the way women write gay male romances, and this one completely feels like a gay male love story written by someone who is not a gay man. I have no idea what Susan Lieberman's relationship is to gay men in general, but I got the impression that she was approaching these characters as human beings, and that's really what mattered to me. She also succeeded in one tactic that countless scripts (film/theater) by gay men fail to do: she concentrates on the differences between the two main characters, which is a basic ingredient for good romantic stories. You'd be surprised how many people put way too much emphasis on the same in same-sex relationship. Take any two people in love, and it's their differences that creates the tension that makes their relationship interesting. Though both of these characters are gay doctors who enjoy playing viola, they are as different as night and day: one ambitious, overreaching, experienced and worldly, the other an accepting peacemaker who enjoys his small-town ties too much to eject them for anonymous city life. You could easily read their relationship as a commentary on the plight of gay rights in America today (more than in the 1930s), addressing such topics as how fast to proceed, how much to demand and the fundamental question of what place gays can have in this particular society. Lieberman finds some wonderful meaning in the "two violas" metaphor, which I won't spoil here, and though this young script needs some polishing (a couple euphemistic references to "carrots" have got to go), it's already one of the better gay stories I've seen on stage or screen. John Sanders just captured my heart as the character Peter (an easier character to love than Henry, played by Stephen Rader). I shook hands with him briefly after the show and it was difficult to have to watch his mask come off, because I think I'd developed a bit of a crush on his character.

Then last night I saw one of the best plays I've ever been lucky enough to see: Arcadia by Tom Stoppard at Remy Bumppo Theatre Company. A big fan of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern since I read it in high school (I even liked the movie), I thought I'd give this play a try, especially given the strong reviews. I'm happy to say Arcadia is dizzyingly witty, broadly intellectual and deeply felt in terms of character (something critics say his earlier plays often lacked). It's always refreshing to encounter a storyteller who assumes you have a brain and an education, but this play is particularly rewarding. It employs comedy, drama, and mystery to keep you riveted, entertained and moved; and it refers to history, physics, literature and botany to keep your mind stimulated. The scenes work beautifully when there are several people and gorgeously when there are only two. Its debates are so interesting you almost wish you could join in, and it has some one-line rs that Shakespeare or, more aptly, Shaw would like envy. I can't shake the play out of my head--I look forward to buying a copy of the script and re-reading it.

Not Yet Time for Lullabies

Did you catch Broadway: the American Musical on PBS this past week? A 6-episode chronological history, the documentary features an amazing array of footage and an excellent soundtrack. I haven't seen the last two episodes yet, but the first four are excellent, especially the first two episodes about early Broadway history, which were so interesting that I found myself taking some notes (and making a list of films to rent). A welcome part of the documentary's focus is on African-Americans, and for the first time I feel like I got some insight into blackface and minstrel shows (the story of Bert Williams, an African-American star who performed in blackface was fascinating). And the discussion of Al Jolson was interesting enough that I'm considering watching The Jazz Singer for the first time. The episodes piqued my curiosity about vaudeville and Les Folies Bergere, which were only mentioned; I'd like to learn more about pre-Broadway entertainment. I was also interested by Marilyn Miller, whom I'd never heard of before, and the wave of Irish Cinderella stories--this was the 20s, I think.

The Ken Burns-like documentary comes not long after another excellent doc showed in theaters around the country, Broadway: The Golden Age. That film is a very low-budget, DIY affair, a true labor of love by filmmaker Rick McKay, and its biggest obvious achievement is to grab interviews with a host of Broadway luminaries before they all up and die. Their enthusiasm, their talent, their humor zings off the screen like fireworks. So much ground is covered, you know you'll want to see it again. The most fascinating piece of information to jump ou at me was the fact that, aside from Brando, the actor who the Broadway stars of this era most looked up to was a woman named Laurette Taylor. Their praise for her live work was beyond enthusiastic--absolutely the stuff of legend and cult--and it made me want to check out the film work she did near the end of her career.

And earlier in the year came Broadway's Lost Treasures and a sequel, Broadway's Lost Treasures II. Basically, these specials pull together live performances of Tony-nominated numbers from Tony broadcasts throughout the years, especially one anniversary special from what looks like the 70s. It was eye-opening to see the relative lack of big production values not too long ago--no wonder Broadway tickets are so expensive now! The programs are very educational, with some jaw-droppingly good numbers sprinkled throughout. (Two of my favorites are "Lullaby of Broadway" from 42nd Street because Jerry Orbach's voice knocks me out; and a Gershwin number, "Kickin' the Clouds Away," sensationally choreographed and danced by Tommy Tune--and Twiggy!)

So what's going on with Broadway now? Is all this interest a sign of revival? With the success of the film version of Chicago, as well as the stage success of such interesting musicals as The Producers, Urinetown and Hairspray, perhaps. On the other hand, the PBS treatment also seems a little foreboding, as if Broadway had joined the Cultural Extinction Watch List. I tend to think it's a bit of both.

Last night I saw a highly enjoyable play here in Chicago called Pulp, an original play inspired by those campy old 50s pulp novels whose cover art has become so popular. I figured it would be an evening of irony, perhaps even indulging a sense of our own superiority--in other words, cheap laughs. But instead the production turned out to be surprisingly fleshed out, balancing funny camp humor with sweet--even saucy--romances. The whole evening--90 minutes without an intermission, just the right length--kept a light touch without ever feeling empty. Terry Logan, a pilot from WAC, arrives in Chicago and finds a family of friends at The Well (the name of the bar is a tip of the hat to Radclyffe Hall) and the fun begins.

I wouldn't be surprised if this production shows up Off Broadway sometime, perhaps as part of a fringe fest, the way Urinetown got started--it could even be a hit, if it's lucky. Through unusually good casting (the 5 actresses are all excellent), crisp pacing, original songs (!) and lighting cues that smartly emphasize the humor and melodrama, the play is garnering excellent reviews from even our stingiest local rags. This is by no means a show only for lesbian audiences.

Which reminds me, I'm looking forward to reading Michael Bronski's recently published collection of prose nuggets from gay male pulps of the same era. Bronski is a brilliant writer on cultural topics, esp. all things queer. In Zmag he recently wrote about what he learned in researching the book--an interesting essay to whet your appetite for the book, Pulp Friction.

Finally watched HBO's production of Angels in America this weekend. It was brilliant. Mike Nichols' direction is excellent, the special effects fantastic (statues coming to life, the angel bursting through the ceiling, an amazing zoom towards a passenger window of a flying plane), and the theme is pretty (one of Thomas Newman's best), but the acting is absolutely outstanding. I'm not a huge fan of either Pacino or Streep, but here the two live up to every bit of praise they've accumulated in their legendary careers. Pacino sinks his teeth into Roy Cohn as if the part were written for him (finally a great use for his increasingly growly voice), and Streep is terrifying and tragic as Ethel Rosenberg, yet--though I've always thought of her as rather WASPy--also convinces and inspires as an aged rabbi. Likewise, Emma Thompson is ravishing as the angel (and enjoyable as a dyke nurse), Jeffrey Wright has some profoundly powerful exchanges with Pacino, Mary Louise Parker, that muse, is excellent as always, and the trio of Justin Kirk, Patrick Wilson and Ben Shenkman generate real heat and drama in their love triangle. Simon Callow and Michael Gambon are hilarious in what are basically guest appearances as the Dickensian ghosts of Prior's ancestors.

It helps that this was my third time through the play (having read it once and seen it once on stage in Chicago), but seeing it on film really helped me appreciate the text more deeply. I'm impressed now (being on the other side of 2000) with how the whole thing is a kind of fantasia on millenial themes, and a comic one at that (much more than I'd remembered). I was much better able to understand the parallel hallucinations of Prior, Roy, Harper and--arguably--Hannah as a playing out of their inner conflicts (Prior's and Harper's abandonment issues, Roy's repressed conscience, Hannah's spiritual beliefs). That they all work together thematically makes it all the more brilliant. Making the play into a film also obviously encouraged the filmmakers to draw out the text's classic film motif (The Wizard of Oz, Sunset Boulevard, La Belle et La Bête, etc.), yet they dropped the "Very Steven Spielberg" line, a good choice--it works on stage as a cinematic reference but here would be too self-referential. Seeing it on TV also put it into a context I'm used to where cross-cutting between various storylines and sets of characters is common. It also shrunk this epic down to a slightly more manageable size, which is why, I think, for the first time I felt like I could hold the entire play in my mind at once--that is, at least for a moment: if nothing else, the play still reveals itself as the sprawling text of a true man of letters, a polymath. The scope of its ideas is truly epic.