I’ll start teaching at
Although it might take me a moment or two to get up to speed on an increased schedule, I’m hoping to be able to write about a wider palette of performance, and perhaps expand into posting relevant interviews and features. Feel free to email me personally with any suggestions you might have for coverage, anywhere, any time, at jsdolan@Princeton.edu.
Despite the distractions of traveling across the country and finding my way around a new home and town, I’ve managed to see some things worth a few words here. So, to get back into the habit of feminist spectatorship and reportage, here’s a round-up of my viewing over the last six or so weeks. In this installment, I give you my thoughts on a few performances. In the next, some films at the theatre and on DVD.
The show is tinged with the melancholy and ambivalence that’s pervaded their work together for the last five or so years, perhaps prompted by time passing, love aging and changing, and bodies that can’t be relied on in quite the same way. Also, as they admit at one point here, it’s hard to make comedy out of
Stage pictures repeat profitably, especially Shaw’s tendency to fall to the floor in the same outstretched pose, on her side, arms above her head, her feet sticking out of her too-short pants, shoes off, leaving her palpably vulnerable and confused. The set includes an overturned refrigerator and an old, discarded stove, domestic detritus no longer used to create a nurturing home, but handy for dancing on.
These discarded appliances and a few additional chairs become semiotically rich through each routine, even if they never accumulate permanent meaning. The kitchen antiques here resemble the 1960s pick-up truck Shaw employs to such poignant effect in her solo piece, To My Chagrin, her early 2000’s meditation on her progeny and her own aging.
In Miss America, Shaw and Weaver use the hallway behind the stage’s back wall to extend their playing space, creating a beautiful depth of field that underlines how they engage with proximity and distance, visually and metaphorically. In the duo’s hands, an empty chair acquires affecting meaning; their presence provides a rich aura that imbues a simple piece of furniture with portent.
The pastiche-like script is comprised of various bits and routines that add up to a series of impressions rather than a coherent story, including a fake tap-dance number that sees both performers appearing to dance rhythmically across the refrigerator, stove, and the rest of the stage. The taps are pre-recorded; the performers only imitate the moves required to produce them, but they do so with virtuosity and abandon.
Weaver told me later that this was a Caesar-Coco routine, as was, perhaps, the other sweetly comic routine of the evening, in which the couple stages a discussion of adultery across cultures in different accents and nationally-inflected postures (which they identify ahead of time as American, French, and British, admitting that the accents they create are rather indistinguishable).
The intimate LaMama space and the audience’s clear familiarity with Shaw and Weaver lent the evening a casual, knowing tone. Weaver makes her first entrance through the audience, wearing a thick black fur coat and toting a camera with which she takes pictures that she invites spectators to pose in for her. The business is fun, and the awkwardness of making space for Weaver as she climbs down the seats in the middle of the audience lets spectators see one another as we interact with her.
At the evening’s end, the portraits Weaver took play in a slide show we all watch together, recognizing ourselves and each other, marking the brief but somehow poignant passing of the time we’ve spent together.
I’m always buoyed by seeing Peggy and Lois perform, moved by their creativity, touched by their perspective on the world. I’ve known them for decades now, and sometimes wonder what spectators who’ve never before seen their work would make of their style, and looseness of their script and its compelling way of accruing meaning, rather than staking their claim to some final coherence.
Judging by the audience when I saw Miss America, the insiders seem to bring the outsiders along, so that by the end, we’re all in it together, in the theatre and in an
Bus Stop, Princeton Summer Players,
Since we’ll be teaching theatre at
The student players and especially the adept, pace-conscious director produced a solid production of Inge’s 1950s-era dramedy. The set evoked the simple pleasures of a warm diner on a snowy night, providing a cozy backdrop for stock characters: The big-hearted, tough-talking diner manager, a competent woman complacent in her sometimes affair with the bus driver who often passes through; the innocent young girl in training as a waitress and as a woman, who catches the attention of a passing pedophile but never suffers his unwanted affections; the protective, watchful local sheriff, who keeps a steady hand on the reins and reminds the characters and the audience of the play’s deeply moral center, even when its homoerotic subtext threatens to seep out of the events like the filling in a warm piece of pie.
The disruptive influence blows in with the wind of a stormy winter’s night that strands a long-haul bus at the diner. Disembarking passengers include a flouncy, Marilyn Monroe-type soubrette (Monroe in fact played the role in the film version), who insists she’s been kidnapped by a naïve but forceful young cowboy. The dumb but finally sweet boy-man thinks he’s doing the right thing by taking her home to his ranch to marry her after they have sex (his first). While she initially resists his affections, she’s eventually persuaded that he’s her true love, and off they ride to the ranch. This plot twist is pretty much all that serves as action in the otherwise staid and talky play.
The Princeton student production served the text well, but I couldn’t help thinking why young people in 2008 would want to revive this particular Inge play. If their mission is to produce titles from the American canon, lots of others come to mind that retain some bite and relevance, while they also offer good roles and simple scenery. Bus Stop’s gender and sexuality anachronisms render it toothless now, and this production chose not to mine what could be its more interesting gay subtext.
While it’s not the most substantive or even entertaining American musical ever written (as my partner, the expert, concurs), Damn Yankees offers lots of good music from the nation’s popular songbook—including “Heart” (as in “You gotta have . . .” and “Near to You,” and even “Whatever Lola Wants”—all of which get their due in this by-the-book production. Last year’s summer Encores! showcase was the powerhouse Gypsy, which moved to Broadway and won Tonys for its stars Patti Lupone, Boyd Gaines, and Laura Benanti. This year’s summer Encores! gimmick casts television stars Sean Hayes (Will and Grace) and Jane Krakowski (30 Rock, Ally McBeal) as the demonic Applegate and his side-kick, Lola, and saves the romantic lead for Cheyenne Jackson (now starring on Broadway in Xanadu).
The casting choices undermine director John Rando’s (Urinetown) otherwise quickly paced and entertaining production, mostly because Hayes and Krakowski don’t project personality or charisma into the large
Krakowski, who won a 2003 Tony for her work in Nine, and always scored with her theatre-inspired breakout numbers on Ally McBeal, should know better. She doesn’t do justice to Fosse’s original choreography, recreated here by Mary MacLeod, and seems uninspired by the part. Her performance improves just a little when she moves from body to soul, deciding she loves Joe, instead of just trying to seduce him. Krakowski oddly seems more persuasive as the girl next door than as the temptress from hell.
Hayes works best as a walking compendium of queer subtext. Known for his refusal to name his sexual preference during his years as the flamboyant gay man on Will and Grace, Hayes here wears the red accents—amusing socks, neckties, and other accessories—of the devil, but the costume flounces are also reminiscent of the Nance, the gay prototype who used a red necktie to signal his closeted affections in early 20th century America (according to the sexologist Havelock Ellis).
The amusing use of the devilish color here provokes a lot of queer fun. Rando pushes the Applegate-as-gay presumption even further by staging Hayes’ tour-de-force “Those were the Good Old Days” as a Liberace-style piano number, with a white grand graced by a towering candelabra, and Hayes mimicking Liberace’s campy, mincing style. Hayes, who tickles the keys with a wonderful flourish, makes his most successful connection with the audience here, finally letting out the stops on his performance.
Knowing that Cheyenne Jackson, as the transformed Joe Hardy, is an out gay performer also enhances the queer subtext, even though Jackson’s beautiful face and gorgeous body make him a perfectly convincing (and conventional) heterosexual male lead. Some of
Without a queer subtext to enjoy, the production would be utterly run-of-the-mill.
Happy to be back,
The Feminist Spectator