The Russian Play at The Shaw Festival – A Review

A “like-a-joke” is a dismissive term of art in the world of TV sitcoms. It denotes a snippet of dialog that is structured like a joke, that is recognized as a joke, that triggers the laugh track, but that is not actually funny. To my way of thinking Hannah Moscovitch writes like-a-plays. I should temper that nasty crack by admitting that I have only seen two of her plays, The Russian Play and Bunny. Neither seemed to have much of interest to say.

The Russian Play, now playing as a morning one-act in the Royal George Theatre at The Shaw Festival, tells the story of Sonya (Gabriella Sundar Singh), an illiterate peasant girl working as a menial in a Stalin-era flower shop. She falls in love with Piotr (Peter Fernandes), a grave digger, who gets her pregnant and, thoughtfully, gives her an abortion and helps bury the fetus. She discovers that Piotr has a wife in Moscow and to add insult to injury she gets fired for spending so much time with her grave digger. She flees to another city where she becomes the mistress of Kostya (Mike Nadajewski), a kulak, a member of a wealthy peasant class, who has dodged the Stalinist purges of these ”enemies of the people” by cozying up to the secret police. When the affair goes sour, Sonya finds herself in the clutches of the secret police; she is tortured and sent to prison where she reconnects with Piotr who is now kept busy digging graves for the ever growing ranks of state enemies. Piotr tells her that his wife is dead and that she is the only one he loves. She dies in his arms and he buries her. A sad tale, indeed; a peculiarly Russian story as Sonya tells us.

You see Sonya also serves as both narrator and commentator on the action, breaking the fourth wall with some regularity to provide us with regular often amusing bulletins. Another, wordless character, the Violinist (Marie Mahabal) serves as an additional commentator, perhaps meant to symbolize Sonya’s inner self. When Sonya’s heart breaks, the Violinist shakes a box full of fragments of something or other and bangs it on the floor. The cast, for reasons that were unclear to me, speak in thick Russian accents. These devices tend to drain the main action of whatever emotional impact it might otherwise have had.

So what’s the point? That love stinks? Sonya says as much, but the J. Geils Band said it better. That Stalinist Russia was a nightmare? It needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us this. There’s plenty of sound and fury in Moscovitch’s piece and while she is certainly no idiot it winds up signifying very little.

Director Diana Donnelly has given the play a lively production, with a nice design by Gillian Gallow and effective lighting by Michelle Ramsay. Sundar Singh throws herself into the role of Sonya but has trouble navigating the shifts from character to narrator to ironic commentator and back again. She is at her best in the brief moments in which she mimics her cruel boss at the flower shop. Mike Nadajewski turns in his usual assured performance as Kostya but it is too little too late.

The Russian Play was an early effort by Moskovitch, one that established her reputation. It shows promise and I look forward to seeing a later play of hers in which that promise is realized.

The Russian Play runs through October 12, 2019

The Shaw Festival
www.shawfest.com
(800) 511-7429
(905) 468-2172

Sex at The Shaw Festival – A Review

I have wanted to see the 1926 play Sex ever since, as a Mae West-besotted undergraduate, I first became aware of its existence. Mae wrote, produced, directed, and starred in it and went to the slammer because of it. Who wouldn’t want to see it? Thanks to Peter Hinton-Davis and The Shaw Festival my curiosity is finally satisfied.

Sex wasn’t what I expected. Is it ever? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I mean the play, of course. Rather than a comedy romp like her later films, the play is an old-fashioned melodrama, filled with all the hoary conventions of the genre, and yet it holds up remarkably well. Very well, in fact. So much so that it’s surprising that it is only now getting its Canadian premiere.

The story behind the play is almost as delicious as the play itself. Roundly denounced by critics and assorted bluestockings when it debuted in New York, it ran for almost a year before the forces of decency managed to get it shut down and have the entire cast and production team dragged into court. Surprisingly, they were convicted (although most of the cast were given suspended sentences). Mae went to prison – on what is now Roosevelt Island, not Jefferson Market as the program would have you believe – where she was wined and dined by the warden. She was sentenced to ten days and served eight thanks to good behavior. It was a publicity gold mine. As West herself remarked, “I believe in censorship. I made a fortune out of it.”

The play tells the lurid tale of Margy LaMont (Diana Donnelly), a “woman of easy virtue” who is not only inured to the marginal life she leads but who takes a distinct pride in being so good at it. She shares digs in Montreal – Sin City in the Prohibition era – with Rocky Waldron (a perfectly cast Kristopher Bowman), a petty criminal who specializes in seducing wealthy American women who have come north for a walk on the wild side, drugging them, and robbing them blind.

Margy returns one night with her friend and frequent customer, Lieutenant Gregg (André Sills), an English naval officer, only to discover Rocky’s latest victim passed out and near death. They revive her, but when the police arrive she accuses Margy of being the perpetrator and pays off the cop to get her out of her predicament. Margy finds it wise to skip town.

In Trinidad she meets – and enchants – young Jimmy Stanton (Julia Course), the innocent scion of an immensely wealthy Connecticut family. Jimmy proposes marriage. Lieutenant Gregg has also sailed into port and he, too, has a marriage proposal, one tied to a new and respectable life in Australia. Margy chooses Jimmy and returns to his palatial family home to meet his parents. I won’t give away the payoff to the plot, but it’s a doozy.

West’s play is a fascinating companion piece to other, more polite plays of the period that have survived the test of time and are regularly revived. Her portrayal of the underworld, the existence of which polite society of the day refused to recognize, is unvarnished but sympathetic. In this world, sex is currency, power, and social mobility all rolled into one. And women control most of the supply, a supply for which there is an ample demand. In this respect, the play is strikingly up to date and has a great deal to say to the twenty-first century audience.

Hinton-Davis has given the piece a sturdy if perhaps not definitive production in the intimate Jackie Maxwell Studio Theatre. As a director, he likes to add … let’s call them grace notes … between scenes. Some work better than others but all slow down the pace. In the current fashion, he gender-swaps a few roles and, in a surprising break with current orthodoxy, he actually lets men play women’s roles. Jonathan Tan makes a perfectly believable, waif-like street-walker, while the excellent Julia Course makes a perfectly unbelievable young man.

One of Hinton-Davis’ best conceits is the music that accompanies the play from well before the opening scene until well after the final curtain. It is eclectic and not always of the period, but it is seldom less than apt. Most of it is recorded but there are live renditions of songs by several cast members, including most memorably Katherine Gautier, Monice Peter, and Allegra Fulton. Kurt Weill’s “Pirate Jenny” song serves as an envoi as the audience leaves the theatre and it is just perfect. Ryan deSouza is the music director.

The cast is universally excellent with outstanding contributions from Ric Reid as both a corrupt Montreal cop and Jimmy’s father; Fiona Byrne as Jimmy’s mother, who has a dark secret; and Allegra Fulton (who is a smashing Amanda in The Glass Menagerie) doing a Carmen Miranda-esque rendition of “Rum and Coca-Cola” in the Trinidad sequence.

In the Mae West role, Diana Donnelly faces the challenge of replacing the irreplaceable. Both she and the director wisely avoid the trap of trying to make her a Mae West impersonator. Her Margy is slender and slutty with a voice that could cut glass. She acquits herself admirably, but I kept wishing the role was filled (if that’s the right word) by someone a bit more zaftig and blowsy with more of the take no prisoners swagger that was Mae West’s trademark.

But why am I looking this gift horse in the mouth? Sex is a theatrical rarity and this revival long overdue. Who knows when you’ll have a chance to see another production? Come up and see it sometime!

Sex runs through October 13, 2019.

The Shaw Festival

www.shawfest.com

(800) 511-7429

(905) 468-2172

Jumbo At The Blyth Festival – A Review

Few people associate P. T. Barnum with southern Ontario. Yet one of the most traumatic events of his storied career occurred in St Thomas, a city not far from the shores of Lake Erie. There, in 1885, during a Canadian tour, his circus’s prize African elephant, Jumbo, was killed by an unscheduled freight train as he was being led to the boxcar in which he traveled. The Blyth Festival is now telling the tale of Jumbo’s death and its immediate aftermath in an ambitious but ultimately unsuccessful play by Sean Dixon titled, appropriately enough, Jumbo.

The play is an uncomfortable mixture of styles and moods. The first act introduces us to the members of Barnum’s traveling circus, all actual historical figures, and to the history of Jumbo, purchased from the London zoo when he was quite young and no one knew how large he would eventually become. Dixon uses short, fragmented scenes to give us a sense of the razzle-dazzle of the circus and the colorful characters who inhabit that world. This is an approach that other Blyth productions have used quite effectively. Unfortunately, few in the cast possess the requisite circus skills to make any of this truly compelling. Only the Spanish acrobat, Juan Caicedo (Mark Segal), who does a Cirque-du-Soleil-like aerial turn in the tight space between stage and audience, impresses.

Director Gil Garratt hasn’t helped matters by using placards set on easels at the sides of the stage to indicate the geographical location of the many scenes. It adds an old-fashioned, period flavor to the proceedings, but having an actor change the signs, first one, then the other, slows the pace to a molasses-like crawl. Then, too, there are gaps between short scenes you could drive the proverbial truck through. A little tightening would go a long way.

Of course, the center of Act One is Jumbo and both playwright and performers do a good job of making him a real presence and a believable character. The best parts of the show are scenes in which we come to appreciate the bond between beast and keeper and the almost loving relationship that grows between Jumbo and the bearded lady of the circus (Lucy Meanwell).

Act One ends with Jumbo’s fatal accident which Garratt has staged very effectively. Deprived of Jumbo’s charismatic presence, Act Two suffers as it struggles to find the right tone, lurching from straight drama, to commedia dell’arte comedy, to a sort of expressive dance, and back to straight drama. When the play shambled to a close, few in the audience seemed to be aware that it had, in fact, ended.

There are some good performances. The aforementioned Mark Segal as the aerialist Caicedo is physically compelling, although his Spanish accent was often impenetrable; he also is effective in Act Two as a local butcher ready to hack Jumbo to pieces. Tony Munch is touching as Jumbo’s devoted keeper and Michael McManus is a standout as “The Armless Wonder.” Peter Bailey gives an animated and ingratiating performance as an African-American veteran of the war between the states, although his function in the play was something of a mystery to me.

The indisputable star, however, is Jumbo, or rather the enormous and ingenious life-sized puppet Gemma James-Smith has created to represent him. Almost literally a thing of rags and patches, her creation is remarkably life-like and believable thanks to some exquisite puppetry. Kurtis Leon Baker, who also plays other roles, does a masterful job of manipulating the large head and ears, while Tony Munch unobtrusively brings Jumbo’s trunk to life. When Jumbo turns his sad, soulful eyes to the audience he almost seems to be saying, “Why can’t I be in a better play?”

[Photo: The cast of Jumbo by Terry Manzo, © 2019 courtesy of The Blyth Festival.]

Jumbo plays through August 10, 2019

The Blyth Festival
423 Queen Street
Blyth, ON N0M 1H0
(877) 862-5984
https://blythfestival.com/

Cakewalk at The Blyth Festival – A Review

The mission of the Blyth Festival in tiny Blyth, Ontario, is to produce new Canadian work on rural themes. That might seem a tough nut to crack, but they’ve been at it successfully for 45 years now and the quality of the plays I’ve seen has been remarkable.

Not everything they produce is new. They regularly remount productions from earlier years that have stood the test of time. A case in point is Cakewalk, a very funny, old-fashioned, family-friendly comedy by Colleen Curran from 1984. It was Ms. Curran’s first professionally produced play and it is a remarkably solid piece for a tyro playwright.

Director Kelli Fox has wisely chosen not to update the play. A medley of pop hits from the era (courtesy of sound designer Verne Good) ushers us back to 1984 at the Canada Day celebration of a small Ontario town. The setting is a basement room where five of the fifteen contestants in the best cake competition will be sequestered awaiting the call for the judging.

Curran has assembled an assortment of characters that opens up great comic possibilities. For starters, there’s Vivien Leigh Cleary (Rachel Jones), a nun, somewhat uncertain in her vocation, who has come to the competition in mufti, feeling that appearing in her habit might draw unwanted attention and asking her best friend to keep her “secret identity” secret.  That friend, Martha (Rebecca Auerbach), runs a new-fangled healthy food restaurant called Heaven on Earth with her draft-dodging American husband; she is eager to have kids but despairs of ever being able to conceive. Ruby (Catherine Fitch), the wife of a tow truck operator who has set a goal of towing every car in town, shows up in her Cub Scout den mother uniform, convinced it will win the judges’ sympathy. Augusta (Caroline Gillis) has decided to enter the three-tiered cake she has created for next day’s wedding of her daughter, Tiffany (Lucy Hill), who is most definitely not amused. Finally there is Taylor, a painfully inept but ever so sweet archaeologist who is the sole man to enter a cake in the competition. He’s single and looking for love. No extra points for guessing who he falls for.

The plot careens along its zany course as Ruby, desperate to win, begins sabotaging other contestants’ cakes, attempts to get Martha disqualified, and finally makes cakes mysteriously disappear. Meanwhile, Augusta is determined to keep the wedding cake from the grasp of daughter Tiffany who is equally determined to claim it lest the surprise on her wedding day be spoiled. Of course, Taylor and Vivien fall hopelessly in love the moment they set eyes on one another, a totally unbelievable moment that the actors and director manage to make utterly believable.

The cast, many of them longtime Blyth veterans, is terrific. Catherine Fitch, who I love every time I rewatch Slings and Arrows, makes a delightfully bitchy villain of Ruby. Caroline Gillis (Slings and Arrows again) is spot on as the mother saddled with an impossible daughter and Lucy Hill as that daughter is a delicious bit of overwrought crumpet. Rebecca Auerbach creates an utterly sympathetic Martha. Rachel Jones does a masterful job of tiptoeing through the minefield of playing a nun in the throes of first love; she is utterly charming and very funny. Nathan Howe, who was so enjoyable as an amiable doofus in last season’s Wing Night at the Boot, is just as engaging and loveable this time around. At play’s end we feel genuinely pleased that he and Leigh have found one another.

Is Cakewalk perfect? Of course not, but in a way that’s beside the point. There is so much good humor and heartfelt humanity in this piece that minor flaws become part of its charm. This is the sort of play that audiences love but that hoity-toity New York critics would hate; it’s New York’s loss. Sure, Director Fox might have dialed back some of the performances, but there are times when, as Mick Jagger so sagely observed, too much is never enough. As designer, Laura Gardner, works wonders with what is obviously a limited budget, the bulk of which must have gone into Tiffany’s deliriously tacky wedding gown.

The Blyth Festival is one of Ontario’s best-kept secrets, at least for American visitors. I would urge my compatriots who are heading anywhere near the Canadian shores of Lake Huron to seek out this gem. And if you need further encouragement, the smashing Cowbell Brewery and restaurant is on the edge of town.

Cakewalk plays through August 10, 2019

(Illustration courtesy of The Blyth Festival.)

Blyth Festival
423 Queen Street
Blyth, ON N0M 1H0
(877) 862-5984
https://blythfestival.com/

Private Lives at The Stratford Festival – A Review

Vodka and vermouth, brandy and Bénédictine, champagne and kyr, none of them are more intoxicating or will make you giddier than the combination of Lucy Peacock and Geraint Wyn Davies in the right comic roles. Elyot and Amanda Chase, the not so gay divorcés of Noel Coward’s 1931 confection Private Lives, are just such roles and Carey Perloff’s production at the Stratford Festival’s Avon Theatre allows us to drink our fill.

Elyot and Amanda are exemplary avatars of the English upper classes with no want of money, no apparent professions, and no purpose in life except to gratify the whim of the moment while carrying themselves as if they were characters in a Noel Coward play, which as a matter of fact they are. Five years divorced and newly married to others, they find themselves on their honeymoons in adjoining rooms with equally adjoining balconies in a posh Deauville hotel. When they discover this inconvenient truth the shock of recognition soon changes to the realization that they were, after all, meant for each other and they unceremoniously desert their new spouses, Victor and Sybil, to live in sin in Amanda’s Paris pied a terre. (Although, as Elyot helpfully points out, in the eyes of Catholics they are still married.)

Their rekindled marital idyll soon returns to the bickering of old, the bickering turns to screaming, and the screaming turns to physical combat. Enter Victor and Sybil, who have tracked down their errant spouses. Elyot and Amanda have once again decided to go their separate ways, but by the end of Act III, Coward has delightfully turned the tables, with Elyot and Amanda once again reunited in their loving antipathy and Victor and Sybil at each others’ throats. It seems inevitable that they, too, are meant for each other.

Private Lives may have something to say about “patriarchy” and “misogyny,” although I doubt either word crossed Coward’s mind when he was writing this elegant bit of pure entertainment. Deep down in its private life Private Lives is as light and airy as the profiteroles served in that posh French hotel. It reminds me somewhat of Oscar Wilde in its insistence on the importance of not being earnest.

Of course, it is now hard to pass a day without hearing the words patriarchy or misogyny at least once and some of the current zeitgeist inevitably finds its way into Perloff’s production. It is doubtful Noel Coward, who played Elyot in the original production, delivered the line “I’d like to chop off your head with a meat axe” with the venom Wyn Davies summons up. But then we live in coarser times.

One of the play’s funniest moments occurs when Elyot says, “It doesn’t suit women to be promiscuous” and Amanda replies dryly, “It doesn’t suit men for women to be promiscuous.” It’s as funny today as it was in 1931 and it earns a round of applause. What is probably even funnier today than it was way back then is Elyot’s next line: “How modern.”

So, yes, this is not your parent’s or grandparent’s Private Lives, but it will do quite nicely for our 2019 reality. Curmudgeons may grumble that some of Coward’s lighter than air wit has been lost or that the leads are too old for their parts or that the sets (by Ken MacDonald) are not Deco enough, or that color-blind casting has no place in Coward. To them I say simply, “Don’t quibble, Sybil.” Sit back and enjoy.

If Geraint Wyn Davies is too old for Elyot (Coward was 32 when he played it; Wyn Davies is 30 years older) it can be said that, first, he does not look his age and second neither the actors nor the director have tried to fool us into thinking that Elyot and Amanda are thirtysomethings. If anything, Wyn Davies and Peacock add a note of poignancy that would have been absent if younger players had taken the parts.

Wyn Davies seems to have taken his cue from Elyot’s line that we should all live our lives like overgrown babies and it works beautifully. When he plays the coquette with Amanda he does so with the sly acknowledgement that he must look slightly ridiculous at his age and, as always, his timing is impeccable.

Lucy Peacock, whose age chivalry prevents me from mentioning, is a perfect foil for Wyn Davies and a gifted comedienne in her own right. Her series of reactions when she spots Elyot in the mirror of her compact is a master class in comic acting.

As the new and soon to be discarded spouses Mike Shara and Sophia Walker are delightful. Shara, who has been away from the Stratford Festival far too long, is especially effective as the prim and proper British gent who has fallen for and seeks to “protect” his older wife.

Perloff has directed with a light hand, that is to say deftly. She wisely allows her actors to play to their strengths and has resisted any temptation to lard on “social significance” where none is intended.Private Lives is one of the highlights of what has so far proven to be an uneven Stratford season. By all means add it to your list of must-sees

Othello at The Stratford Festival – A Review

Shakespeare’s Othello is, of course, a tragedy. The tragedy in the current modern dress production of the play at the Festival Theatre is that some fine actors suffer under the misdirection of director Nigel Shawn Williams.

Williams seemingly has never seen a dramatic moment he didn’t want to underline, then underline again. This has worked for him in past productions when used with restraint, notably in last season’s To Kill A Mockingbird, but here emphasis becomes excess. He has bookended the play proper with dramatic tableaux. Before the play begins we see Iago surrounded by black hooded figures dancing frenetically in place to loud hip-hop music as Othello and Desdemona are wed in the background. At play’s end, three female members of the Venetian armed forces drop their weapons and blubber like paid mourners at a Greek funeral. These interpolations are as screamingly obvious as they are unnecessary.

Had he let it go at that perhaps I could have forgiven him, but with the assistance of designer Denyse Karn (sets, lights, projections) he constantly comments on — and detracts from — the drama on stage. Karn’s set is a series of blank walls on which white on black drawings are projected. At first, simple architectural sketches outline doors quite effectively. As the play unfolds and Iago begins to elaborate his evil plans the walls are filled with abstract eruptions of clouds, blood oozing downwards, shattered glass, and cracks. It’s as if Williams doesn’t think Shakespeare is doing a good enough job and that only with a little help will the audience “get it.” Not only do these busy projections fail to illuminate the text, they distract from what the actor is doing downstage. They also have the cumulative effect of looking cheap, which I’m guessing they aren’t.

Another major disappointment is Gordon S. Miller, a fine actor who began his Stratford career as a wonderfully comic presence and has lately graduated to major dramatic roles. Alas, his Iago is unfocused and hampered by poor diction, which garbles words and ill serves the poetry. This is the sort of thing that a decent speech department at a drama school can correct and I am surprised the Festival’s staff of vocal coaches didn’t provide more assistance. Adding to his woes the lighting frequently leaves the bottom half of his face in shadow.

Over the years I have realized that if an actor is doing something amiss on a Stratford stage the director is at fault. Williams seems to have decided that Iago is evil incarnate, which is fair enough and the default reading of the role. Yet he allows Miller to occasionally lapse into comedic phrasing that undercuts the evil and gets laughs when a shudder would be more appropriate. It sometimes seems that instead of embracing the evil in Iago the actor is sending up Shakespeare’s character. What should be a tense journey as Iago ascends to greater and greater villainy until the bloody denouement becomes a bumpy road. This is not to say that Miller’s portrayal is without its strengths; he has some fine moments, which make the shortfall all the more unfortunate.

Amelia Sargisson was absolutely delightful as Eve in last season’s Paradise Lost. It may be that she is too inexperienced to tackle Desdemona, but she gets little assistance from Williams and Karn. This Desdemona is more like the bouncy thirteen-year-old Midwestern president of some pop star’s fan club than the elegant, well-born, intelligent, and self-possessed young woman Shakespeare describes. Her costumes are for the most part tacky and down-market, hardly befitting the “most exquisite lady” she is supposed to be.

Williams and Karn have also done the actress a major disservice by having her play her death scene in skin-tight, almost sheer panties. The Stratford Festival has made a laudable point of making sure its actresses are respected and protected in their costuming. An “intimacy coach” was enlisted for the recent production of Bakkhai and Donna Feore spoke eloquently about how she ensured that the strippers in Guys and Dolls were able to convey the smuttiness of their profession without being literally exposed. By contrast, the scantily clad Desdemona thrashing about on her deathbed is borderline pornographic.

Fortunately, and against considerable odds, Michael Blake is an exemplary Othello. He brings out the character’s natural intelligence as well as the martial derring-do that first attracted Desdemona to him and he speaks Shakespeare’s poetry with admirable clarity. Most importantly, he shows us clearly the many small steps the character takes in moving from calm assurance of his wife’s love to a jealousy that tears him apart. Had the other major characters achieved his level of performance this would have been an Othello for the ages, in spite of Williams’ over-emphatic direction.

Good work, too, comes from Laura Condlin as Emilia, Iago’s wife, who is here depicted as a sort of military attendant to Othello’s wife. Johnathan Sousa deftly conveys Cassio’s seemingly contradictory devotion to duty along with his weakness for alcohol and penchant for whoring. Michelle Giroux portrays the Duke as a Duchess with no damage done, except to the iambic pentameter. Juan Chioran, Michael Spencer-Davis, and Randy Hughson are reliably sturdy in smaller roles.

Williams deploys a relatively small cast (two fewer than the Festival’s last staging of the play), a third of them women, most of whom portray lineless soldiers. But male or female, Williams’ troops betray an almost amusing lack of familiarity with weaponry and military bearing.

Billy Elliot The Musical at The Stratford Festival – A Review

In Billy Elliot The Musical the Stratford Festival has another smash hit musical on its hands. The whoops of joy from young girls, the thunderous applause after every number, and the outpouring of love that accompanies the curtain calls are proof enough of that. And yet . . .

Billy Elliot, with book and lyrics by Lee Hall and music by Elton John, is set in the early 80s in England’s grim, industrial north. Maggie Thatcher is gleefully dismantling Clem Attlee’s welfare state, the coal miners are on strike, and Thatcher is slowly but surely grinding them to dust. Against this Dickensian backdrop a young lad from a coal mining family discovers ballet and the joy of dancing. Will his dream of a career in dance succeed against the opposition of a community, a culture, and a father who have no frame of reference for such ambition? I don’t think it counts as a spoiler to say that of course it does, with all the attendant happiness and tears that tales of this sort generate.

The musical is a somewhat uncomfortable blend of anti-Thatcherite agitprop and a sentimental tale of struggle and success against great odds. In director/choreographer Donna Feore’s epic production politics pales against sentiment, although it’s hard not to appreciate a show that devotes an entire number to bashing the Iron Lady (“Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher”). The story of the miners’ grueling and ultimately tragic strike provides a compelling backdrop but its dramatization struck me as clumsy and forced.

The story of Billy’s awkward encounter with a dance class for girls led by the long-suffering Mrs. Wilkinson, the flowering of his natural gift for movement, and his journey to the Royal Ballet School works much, much better. That’s due largely to Lee Hall’s book, which is not surprising since he wrote the screenplay for the 2000 film on which the musical is based. It is lean and muscular with just the right blend of reality (including potty-mouthed, sexually precocious pre-teens), sentimentality (in the form of Billy’s dead mother who hovers like a guardian angel), and humor that arises from character and situation rather than from pasted-on jokes.

If only Hall’s lyrics were up to the standard of his book. Of course, Sir Elton’s music can’t have provided him with much inspiration. I haven’t been as bored with Elton John music since I saw his Aida on Broadway. He is much better working in the idiom of popular music, which makes “Deep Into The Ground,” described in the show as an old folk song, the best number in the musical. However, his music does rise to great heights in a beautiful dream ballet sequence. Oh, wait! That’s from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

This is the first time I have not been completely blown away by Donna Feore’s choreography. Of course, it’s hard to soar when you are held down by such an earthbound score. Her staging of the early scenes of strife at the mines involves a lot of marching around and posturing while Lee Hall tries to cram the word “solidarity” into a line of music that simply wasn’t meant to contain it.

Far better is the aforementioned dream ballet in which Billy dances with a vision of his older self (Colton Curtis). That number quite literally soars with a breathtaking interlude in which Billy swoops around the theater at balcony level thanks to a Cirque de Soleil-style rig. Feore has also found imaginative ways to make manifest Billy’s growing struggle to free his creative impulses (“Angry Dance”).

Michael Gianfrancesco’s industrial set and Michael Walton’s kinetic lighting are spot on, as are Dana Osborne’s period costumes. Jamie Nesbitt contributed some effective projections and Harry Christensen is credited a “flying director.”

Much of the considerable success of this production, however, comes down to the superb cast Feore has assembled and the touching performances she has drawn from them. Dan Chameroy, who wowed Stratford audiences as Frank-N-Furter in last season’s Rocky Horror Show, is absolutely heartbreaking as Billy’s beleaguered father. As Mrs. Wilkinson, the self-proclaimed second-rate dance teacher, Blythe Wilson turns in another brilliant performance, with a hard as nails façade that belies a warm and nurturing nature. Hysterical comic relief is provided by Marion Adler as Billy’s dotty grandma and sturdy support comes from Scott Beaudin as Billy’s brother and Steve Ross a miner and boxing instructor.

The youngsters in the cast fare well, too. Emerson Gamble is an utter delight as Billy’s unabashed, proto-gay friend, Michael, and Isabella Steubing scores in the small role of Mrs. Wilkinson’s smarty pants daughter.

The role of Billy is so demanding that most major productions double- or triple-cast it so as not to wear out the young actor the part demands. Here the entire burden falls on the shoulders of Nolen Dubuc, an 11-year-old from Vancouver, who appears in every show. In a nice touch of showbiz irony (if you can believe his agent), Dubuc was inspired to pursue a stage career when, at the age of 5, he saw Billy Elliott.

Although only a year or so into his career, Dubuc is already an accomplished singer and dancer. He may not yet be at the peak of his technical abilities but one thing is crystal clear – the kid’s a trouper. He throws himself into every song and dance number with gusto, while projecting an admirable verisimilitude in his spoken scenes; he is completely fearless as a high-flying acrobat; and his energy never flags even though he is onstage for most of the two-and-a-half-hour show. He really does carry the show.

I can’t remember a more explosive star bow at the Festival Theatre and for once the now ubiquitous standing ovation didn’t seem pro forma. Well done, sir. Bravo!

Dinner in the Diner, Nothin’ Could be Finer

The Summerton (SC) Diner serves up southern
cooking at antebellum prices

by Kelly Monaghan

I’m one of those people who dream of pulling off the dusty road into Small Town America, driving past the fast-food franchise joints, and finding the perfect diner: the small local establishment with a short order cook who actually knows how to cook and who serves up the kind of unpretentious, soul-satisfying local specialties that grandmom used to make. Usually, I’m disappointed, finding only the kind of lackluster fare that let the franchise giants take over the culinary landscape in the first place. It’s enough to make you believe that the golden age of diners, if it ever existed, faded away with your parents’ youth.
[Read more…]

Lost In Translation

n Uzbekistan, sometimes the mot juste is not in the phrase book.

It was as if a character from Uzbekistan’s Golden Age of Silent Comedy (if there ever was such a thing) had sprung to life before my eyes in the Ferghana airport. He was tiny with sad brown eyes, a pointy nose, and not a tooth in his head although he seemed well under fifty. On his floppy sparrow’s frame hung a gray suit a good four sizes too big. He was also very, very drunk. How he made it through airport security was a mystery.

As our flight to Tashkent was announced, Ildar (as I had christened him in my mind) arose and bobbed over to an attractive, stylishly-dressed woman to whom he gallantly offered his arm. She reacted with a leap and a yelp. Still single, he joined the rest of us and swayed his sinuous way to the aging Ilyushin turboprop waiting far out on the runway.

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Uzbekistan Hotel Report

The central Asian Republic of Uzbekistan is making a concerted effort to increase tourism, especially to the fabled cities lying along the Great Silk Road which Marco Polo traveled en route to the then-unknown Orient.
This report focuses on hotels in which I stayed and which I visited during a recent two-week visit.

Some General Notes on Uzbekistan Hotels

Uzbekistan became independent in 1991 with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Six years later it is still remarkably “Soviet” in many ways. (In fact, Uzbekistan’s current President, Islam Karimov, who now rails at the injustices of Soviet rule, was the last Soviet ruler of the republic.) If you missed the Soviet Union in its heyday, you can still get a taste of it in Uzbekistan.

Perhaps one reason for the soviet feel of most hotels is that the vast majority of the staff with whom you will come in contact is of Russian (or at least European) extraction; native Uzbeks seemed to be in a distinct minority. Also, every hotel I stayed in seemed to have a few young men in dark, ill-fitting suits standing about the lobby doing nothing in particular. I don’t know for sure if they were “state security” but anyone who has read a cold war spy novel would be hard-pressed to peg them as anything else.

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