A few summers back I hosted a friend named Ben, who was ostensibly studying for the New York Bar Association exam and earning his keep working in the policy office of the Public Advocate of the City of New York. I now kind of get what that office does, but Ben mostly seemed to be running off to catch Broadway matinees and special theater-type benefit performances.
His energy and enthusiasm were impressive, if not contagious.
He was always regaling me with reviews of these wondrous performances, explaining how theater was living art, couldn't be replicated, blah, blah, blah.But the two nights he succeeded in getting me to let my guard down completely betrayed his proselytizing. (I instinctively avoid serious theater. The last musical I truly enjoyed was the original production of Sweeney Todd in the Uris Theatre.) One evening yielded a dreary prison drama of Edward Albee's that (I learned later) apparently even the playwright agreed was unfit for staging. The other was a one-off of almost-familiar ladies of the theater (no Bernadette Peters on this dance card) singing, belting, emoting, and what have you just-beyond-recognizable show tunes, all in support of some fund. Could it have been upstairs at Sardi's? Could it have gone on any longer? I remember there was table service, which at first I was grateful for, but have you ever been at a long dinner where you were required to be quiet yet you were allowed to drink? You slowly turn into Rumplestiltskin.
One evening we did savor was Tony night, which I truly enjoy and look forward to every year.
My enjoyment of the Tonys, like all awards, is less about the actual ceremony, and more about my fascination with the circus/trade show comin' to town.
The Tonys have everything the Oscars and the Golden Globes have—just less.
The related events are easy to get invited/gain entry to. The crowds are more colorful and less cutthroat. New York Post gossip Cindy Adams seems to get this whole scene the best—she milked a week's worth of columns out of the Tonys, more than I ever remember her filing from the West Coast. She seemed particularly fascinated by the Radio City backstage scene of rehearsals and luxury "gifting." (I love that gift is now a verb. I'm trying to work it in all the time, as in "Here, cabbie, I'm gifting you my used newspaper on top of your gratuity, how do you like that?")
And once I get the Tony bug, I can't shake it, until I've had some really vile experience that reminds me of my true opinion: that live theater, though a New York commodity, is, for natives, an anachronism—interesting to historians and tourists, but something as a rule to be avoided.
This year's Tony season for me had two "night of" drive-bys, one a viewing party for an American theater organization I promised not to name, and the second an after-party for The Color Purple at Bobby Flay's theater district mecca, Bar Americain (anything between 36th and 54th Street on the West Side is considered the theater district during Tony season).
But then the bug had bitten and I was determined to "be a part of it, New York" and I tried desperately to see Rufus Wainwright's one-night only—oops, two nights only—Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall redo, but had to settle for the one-night-only (really) performance of Terrence McNally's Master Class benefiting the Metropolitan Opera Guild, an evening that featured five, count 'em, five different divas all playing the Maria Callas role. (Although now, just a few days later, I can remember only three actresses' names: Leslie Uggams, Edie Falco, and Dixie Carter, whose previous experience as Broadway headliner in this play helped her performance. Maybe a fact-checker could remind me here.) [Fact-checkers? —Ed.][Actually, there were six—the others were Kathy Bates, Jessica Lange, and Maria Tucci. —Fact-checkers]
But back to the Tonys. Viewing parties, for me, all depend on whom you sit next to. If you're stuck next to some loser who has to hear every word, or worse, a shusher, all is lost.
But my co-viewer, a theater agent of all things and glued to his phone, afforded me with my own sofa and screen, and an ashtray no less. Here's my professional analysis.
Harry Connick Jr.
Completely lame. Later I read he was very sick, which may explain a lackluster performance, but this does not excuse his shocking lack of judgment for agreeing to sing "Give My Regards to Broadway," etc.
Slide Show
Why do they keep showing Jackie Gleason? What does he have to do with Broadway? Or for that matter, Nicole Kidman? Oh yeah, she was in The Blue Door. [Actually, it was The Blue Room. —Ed.] Remember, where you could see her naked? Did she get nominated for that? [No. —Ed.] Why was the network repeatedly showing her? [Well, she presented Best Performance by a Leading Actor in a Musical in 2004. —Ed.] So excitingly fraudulent and confusing.
Re-Gifting of Tony Award to Patricia Neal
She lost her first one the same night she received it, claimed it was stolen. Ha! OK, she had a stroke, like 70 years ago, before The Waltons even, so it is amazing that she is ambulatory. (I hear that she annually performs "Send in the Clowns" at an annual theater seminar; imagine.) So we should be kind, but doesn't she seem too crazy to be given the mike on a primetime network live broadcast?
The Onstage Gathering of 60 Years of Tony Legends
There was Oprah and Julia and everyone else. But they were set so far back on the stage, it could have been anyone. Was Rufus Wainwright one of them? I heard a rumor that the back row was all drag queens. Can you actually tell the real Dorothy Loudon from a fake? [Loudon died in 2003. —Ed.]
Jersey Boys Wins!
I'm from Jersey! So there's that. My Aunt Margret and Uncle Nevie are investors, so there's money in it for them, plus, now I can kind of say I saw it, without having to actually go. Liked the way they came out on the stage one at a time for their song. But when Joe Pesci arrived, I got scared. Frankie Valli looked scared too. Although, to be fair, Joe Pesci seems vrai Jersey.
Off to Oprah, or Harpo, or LaChanze's victory lap at Bar Americain. But word was spread (effectively, it must be said) that the big O was miffed, so despite LaChanze's big win for Best Actress in a Musical, the tone was subdued. Let me tell you, when Oprah isn't happy, there ain't nobody doin' shots at the bar. I found myself doing sketches of hors d'oeuvres tray layouts (they shove everything to the far outside: looked weird to me) on the backs of the otherwise infinitely reusable coasters that can be pocketed at Bar Americain. (Don't you just love the new stiff paper coasters that all nice places have now? Jean-Georges Vongerichten's Perry St. restaurant also has them. Let me tell you this is the golden age of cocktail coasters—grab 'em while you can.)
Anyway, my notes from the rest of the night aren't as newsworthy and informative as above, so it is time for my lecture to the theater business. Get it together. First of all, do we have to stand in the street? And what is with the whole halftime delay? You have 15 minutes for two bartenders to sell 1,500 people champers, wine, soda, and/or chips. That sounds about right, doesn't it?
I won't blame Carnegie Hall but my fellow gay brethren for the ridiculousness surrounding the Rufus Wainwright tickets.Yet as The New Yorker's Nancy Franklin wrote regarding the theater's inability to print enough programs for all attendees, "come on."
The truth is, I know nothing about Judy and her music, and although I met Rufus at an Oscar party once, he was kind of pushy in getting a p444chiatrist referral from my guest (read: uninterested in talking to me), thus I've yet to hop on the postdrugs Rufus bus. So I was relieved.
But sales weren't nearly as relentless for the Master Class multi, fickle nous fags, non? A full-page article in the Sunday New York Times reminded me that I wanted to see all of those actresses playing the same role the same night. (What were they, high?)
After hours of busy signals and unanswered phones at the Opera Guild, I was told, yes, there were tickets but that you had to show up in person to snag one. This felt like a Mickey and Judy production. Should I bring paper plates?
Anyway, by the time I got to my distant seat in the Broadhurst Theatre (where Tony grabber The History Boys normally resides), a certain snooziness took hold. So Master Class became a major nap.
There is nothing like live New York theater, and I can't wait till next year.
Posted 06.28.06
His energy and enthusiasm were impressive, if not contagious.
He was always regaling me with reviews of these wondrous performances, explaining how theater was living art, couldn't be replicated, blah, blah, blah.But the two nights he succeeded in getting me to let my guard down completely betrayed his proselytizing. (I instinctively avoid serious theater. The last musical I truly enjoyed was the original production of Sweeney Todd in the Uris Theatre.) One evening yielded a dreary prison drama of Edward Albee's that (I learned later) apparently even the playwright agreed was unfit for staging. The other was a one-off of almost-familiar ladies of the theater (no Bernadette Peters on this dance card) singing, belting, emoting, and what have you just-beyond-recognizable show tunes, all in support of some fund. Could it have been upstairs at Sardi's? Could it have gone on any longer? I remember there was table service, which at first I was grateful for, but have you ever been at a long dinner where you were required to be quiet yet you were allowed to drink? You slowly turn into Rumplestiltskin.
One evening we did savor was Tony night, which I truly enjoy and look forward to every year.
My enjoyment of the Tonys, like all awards, is less about the actual ceremony, and more about my fascination with the circus/trade show comin' to town.
The Tonys have everything the Oscars and the Golden Globes have—just less.
The related events are easy to get invited/gain entry to. The crowds are more colorful and less cutthroat. New York Post gossip Cindy Adams seems to get this whole scene the best—she milked a week's worth of columns out of the Tonys, more than I ever remember her filing from the West Coast. She seemed particularly fascinated by the Radio City backstage scene of rehearsals and luxury "gifting." (I love that gift is now a verb. I'm trying to work it in all the time, as in "Here, cabbie, I'm gifting you my used newspaper on top of your gratuity, how do you like that?")
And once I get the Tony bug, I can't shake it, until I've had some really vile experience that reminds me of my true opinion: that live theater, though a New York commodity, is, for natives, an anachronism—interesting to historians and tourists, but something as a rule to be avoided.
This year's Tony season for me had two "night of" drive-bys, one a viewing party for an American theater organization I promised not to name, and the second an after-party for The Color Purple at Bobby Flay's theater district mecca, Bar Americain (anything between 36th and 54th Street on the West Side is considered the theater district during Tony season).
But then the bug had bitten and I was determined to "be a part of it, New York" and I tried desperately to see Rufus Wainwright's one-night only—oops, two nights only—Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall redo, but had to settle for the one-night-only (really) performance of Terrence McNally's Master Class benefiting the Metropolitan Opera Guild, an evening that featured five, count 'em, five different divas all playing the Maria Callas role. (Although now, just a few days later, I can remember only three actresses' names: Leslie Uggams, Edie Falco, and Dixie Carter, whose previous experience as Broadway headliner in this play helped her performance. Maybe a fact-checker could remind me here.) [Fact-checkers? —Ed.][Actually, there were six—the others were Kathy Bates, Jessica Lange, and Maria Tucci. —Fact-checkers]
But back to the Tonys. Viewing parties, for me, all depend on whom you sit next to. If you're stuck next to some loser who has to hear every word, or worse, a shusher, all is lost.
But my co-viewer, a theater agent of all things and glued to his phone, afforded me with my own sofa and screen, and an ashtray no less. Here's my professional analysis.
Harry Connick Jr.
Completely lame. Later I read he was very sick, which may explain a lackluster performance, but this does not excuse his shocking lack of judgment for agreeing to sing "Give My Regards to Broadway," etc.
Slide Show
Why do they keep showing Jackie Gleason? What does he have to do with Broadway? Or for that matter, Nicole Kidman? Oh yeah, she was in The Blue Door. [Actually, it was The Blue Room. —Ed.] Remember, where you could see her naked? Did she get nominated for that? [No. —Ed.] Why was the network repeatedly showing her? [Well, she presented Best Performance by a Leading Actor in a Musical in 2004. —Ed.] So excitingly fraudulent and confusing.
Re-Gifting of Tony Award to Patricia Neal
She lost her first one the same night she received it, claimed it was stolen. Ha! OK, she had a stroke, like 70 years ago, before The Waltons even, so it is amazing that she is ambulatory. (I hear that she annually performs "Send in the Clowns" at an annual theater seminar; imagine.) So we should be kind, but doesn't she seem too crazy to be given the mike on a primetime network live broadcast?
The Onstage Gathering of 60 Years of Tony Legends
There was Oprah and Julia and everyone else. But they were set so far back on the stage, it could have been anyone. Was Rufus Wainwright one of them? I heard a rumor that the back row was all drag queens. Can you actually tell the real Dorothy Loudon from a fake? [Loudon died in 2003. —Ed.]
Jersey Boys Wins!
I'm from Jersey! So there's that. My Aunt Margret and Uncle Nevie are investors, so there's money in it for them, plus, now I can kind of say I saw it, without having to actually go. Liked the way they came out on the stage one at a time for their song. But when Joe Pesci arrived, I got scared. Frankie Valli looked scared too. Although, to be fair, Joe Pesci seems vrai Jersey.
Off to Oprah, or Harpo, or LaChanze's victory lap at Bar Americain. But word was spread (effectively, it must be said) that the big O was miffed, so despite LaChanze's big win for Best Actress in a Musical, the tone was subdued. Let me tell you, when Oprah isn't happy, there ain't nobody doin' shots at the bar. I found myself doing sketches of hors d'oeuvres tray layouts (they shove everything to the far outside: looked weird to me) on the backs of the otherwise infinitely reusable coasters that can be pocketed at Bar Americain. (Don't you just love the new stiff paper coasters that all nice places have now? Jean-Georges Vongerichten's Perry St. restaurant also has them. Let me tell you this is the golden age of cocktail coasters—grab 'em while you can.)
Anyway, my notes from the rest of the night aren't as newsworthy and informative as above, so it is time for my lecture to the theater business. Get it together. First of all, do we have to stand in the street? And what is with the whole halftime delay? You have 15 minutes for two bartenders to sell 1,500 people champers, wine, soda, and/or chips. That sounds about right, doesn't it?
I won't blame Carnegie Hall but my fellow gay brethren for the ridiculousness surrounding the Rufus Wainwright tickets.Yet as The New Yorker's Nancy Franklin wrote regarding the theater's inability to print enough programs for all attendees, "come on."
The truth is, I know nothing about Judy and her music, and although I met Rufus at an Oscar party once, he was kind of pushy in getting a p444chiatrist referral from my guest (read: uninterested in talking to me), thus I've yet to hop on the postdrugs Rufus bus. So I was relieved.
But sales weren't nearly as relentless for the Master Class multi, fickle nous fags, non? A full-page article in the Sunday New York Times reminded me that I wanted to see all of those actresses playing the same role the same night. (What were they, high?)
After hours of busy signals and unanswered phones at the Opera Guild, I was told, yes, there were tickets but that you had to show up in person to snag one. This felt like a Mickey and Judy production. Should I bring paper plates?
Anyway, by the time I got to my distant seat in the Broadhurst Theatre (where Tony grabber The History Boys normally resides), a certain snooziness took hold. So Master Class became a major nap.
There is nothing like live New York theater, and I can't wait till next year.
Posted 06.28.06
