Snarky, Self-Effacing Blog Title

They say that, as a playwright, seeing a poor performance of your work is akin to watching your child being beaten.  I can only imagine what it must feel like to be Martin McDonagh witnessing his baby, “The Lieutenant of Inishmore” being shaken to death in the hands of its inept caregivers.

The script itself is delightfully absurd and subtly sardonic, an opaque and effective satirisation of Ireland and the IRA, if not all terrorism in general.  In the line “All this terror over a cat?!” the final word could be replaced by another noun (say, “oil,” for example) to aptly describe any war, modern or ancient. The writing style is dutifully influenced by Oscar Wilde, Samuel Beckett, and (dare I say it?) Stephen Fry.  With its biting banter and buckets of blood, it has a “Waiting for Godot” meets “Kill Bill” quality that ought to be a recipe for a great time at the theatre.  The special effects are the star of the show, with fantastic crimson splatters, creating comic-book imagery I never imagined possible in a live theatrical setting.  I’m certainly glad I don’t have to clear that set at the end of each night.

The play begins to flag, however, in the first scene, when the actors start delivering their lines.  They begin in hysterics, literally shrieking the text and continue in this vein until the lights dim and the deafening Irish drum jolts the audience back from the white noise of the aforementioned vocal devastation.   The two main characters begin with their energy so high that they leave no room for development, and when they discover that their lives may be endangered by a mad Liberation Terrorist, it’s anti-climactic.  How am I to believe they are any more afraid of death by evisceration than they are of the air they breathe? Every word is delivered with the same frantic fright, and each line is punched so strongly, begging the audience for a laugh, one almost expects a wink and a high hat to elicit crowd response. 

The director and the actors could have done with a few hours watching “Keeping Up Appearances,” “As Time Goes By,” “Dr. Who,” and (dare I say it?) “A Bit of Fry and Laurie” for a better understanding of how to work with modern existential scripts.  These are prime examples of absurd humor performed at its best: quiet and quick, subtle and sweet, poignant and powerful.  Instead, we are left watching a stageful of Ralph Cramdens with no Alice to provide contrast.  This is a sad example of good material that is misunderstood and overly played.  I want my $50 and my 2 hours back.

I liked it; I actually liked it!!

My past few Broadway experiences have been, shall we say, less then stellar.  In fact, I remember recently telling my friend Jacob “Just once this year I’d like to see a musical on Broadway that doesn’t make me hang my head in shame.”  Granted, I haven’t paid for any of these tickets, but in my case I’ve still not been getting my money’s worth.

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels is the best time I’ve had at a musical since Light in the Piazza.  I laughed at every stupid sight gag and pop culture joke, and never has a dog getting stepped on by a dancing porter gotten such a number-halting guffaw.  I was still snickering long after the song started back up.  The script and lyrics were quick and witted, (I’ve been waiting years to hear “Oklahoma” rhymed with “melanoma”.) while still maintaining just the right amount of sincerity to pluck the heartstrings when two lovers say to one another: “I’ll miss you.”  “Will you really?” “Well, not if you don’t leave.”  I misted a little.

The farce dances dangerously close to falling into the Urinetown/Spamalot trap of becoming so self-aware that one is taken out of the story, owing to numerous references to the moving set, the intermission, and the script itself. It redeems itself, however, with genuine earnest ballads and heart-rending character developments to reel the audience back to a proper suspension of disbelief. 

I did not see Jonathan Pryce (sigh) or even his replacement.  Both Freddy and Lawrence were being played by their understudies, Jason Gillmand and Tom Galanitch, respectively.  Both gave fantastic performances, never missing a step.  I literally don’t know what I was missing and didn’t really care.  Lucie Arnaz was apropo as the lonely heiress Muriel who only wanted “to be loved by someone, and to look good in shorts.”  Special praise must be given, however, to Sherie Rene Scott (Christine Colgate), a goddess on Broadway.  She has the most amazing natural mixed belt, growling and blasting in her big production numbers, gentle and sweet during “Nothing is Too Wonderful to Be True” (which will become a staple in all mezzos’ books once it comes off the blacklist), and soaring precariously high (but always easily—never strained) during her eleven o’clock moment—gasps all around the audience.  Idina Menzel is a pitchy hyena by comparison. 

The set design was beautifully stylized as an art-deco tropical oasis set in ‘the now’ with a ‘back-then’ mood.  That blue sequined curtain will definitely be making an appearance on a Tuckaberry set.  Literally everything sparkled, which pleased this viewer to no end.  Costumes were fantastic, with the exception of poor Christina Colgate: no one looks good in a knee-length yellow shift dress. 

What else can one say?  I would actually pay to see this show, and I recommend that you do, too.  It’s an honorarium to musicals of days gone by, with Porter-esque lyrical humor, dancing girls, well-written songs that stick with you, a fabulously clever story, and the requisite razzle and dazzle.  I loved it. 

So in the mail I receive two sheets of folded lined notebook paper complete with spiral nubs and my mother’s graphite words:

“found in basement–rather nice work–maybe early high school”

Inside there is a note passed from a friend regarding a test we’ve just taken and my reply in pink highlighter confirming that it is, indeed, early high school, as I have mentioned my current boyfriend. Then, on the flip side, I discover the prize-winning material to which my mother was referring. Against all rational judgement, I’m going to share that with the world now. Feel free to laugh raucously; I did.

In the warm sun, the dandelion scowls at her surrounding grass.

Security cannot conslole her lonely heart as she peers toward the rose.

She can see the thorns on its weak stem, and its delicate petals so easily destroyed.

When the rose blooms, however, the world rejoices.

The dandelion knows she is stronger.

The dandelion knows she is wiser and deeper,

And the dandelion knows she is jealous.

She closes her mind and dreams of a field full of dandelions

Growing from the crushed remains of roses.

They know they are strong and beautiful.

And the roses are ugly and dead.

And none are lonely.

But alas, her dream is cut short when the lawnmower severs her miserable neck.

I don’t know which is more embarassing: the bitterness toward this unsuspecting rose, or the fact that rose stems are, in fact, way stronger than dandelion stems. On the other hand, I guess the dandelion didn’t know that.

Warning: angry rant to follow.

Brooklyn’s favorite red and white "mart" is dead to me.  First of all, not only do they advertise products that they don’t actually sell (When did you EVER see a red satin tuxedo in their store?  Or a red and white croquet set?  Or that dog with the red spot around his eye?)  But their suckitude expands so, so far beyond false advertising.  Yesterday, I went on the internet to shop for air conditioners.  I found a great little 6,000 BTU Haier complete with remote control for $130 on the Target.com website. 

Shirking my gym plans, I head to Atlantic Center to trusty, helpful, reliable old Tarjay.  I find a red cart and begin to push.  Five feet into the store, the wheels stick.  No, they aren’t wobbly…the front right wheel has ceased to turn whatsoever.  Being responsible, I drag the cart back home to its parking spot and alert a red-shirted glassy-eyed Target employee.  The next cart I select doesn’t even make it off the carpet.  Two carts later, I am on the second floor looking at dehumidifiers and fans.  But air conditioners?  Oh, no.  There’s no room for air conditioners…we need to make space for the sixteen thousand Isaac-Mizrahi designed bikinis for toddlers.  So I turn around and head downstairs–but wait–the cart-carrying device is broken on the down escalator!  So instead of returning this cart to its rightful location, as I would normally do,  I leave it at the top of the escalator to head down to customer assistance. 

After waiting patiently in line, I ask the red-shirted glassy-eyed Target employee at the counter if I could please order the aforementioned Haier 6,000 BTU air conditioner complete with remote control and pick it up at the store?

"we don’t do that."

"What?"  I say.  "What?  It’s the simplest thing in the world!  All stores do it!  You place the f$*%ing order and I come pick up the f$*%ing air conditioner!  Barnes and Noble will order me a $2.00 book, and you won’t order me a $130 air conditioner?!?!?  Your store sucks!"

Okay, what I actually said was "Thank you, anyway" and walked across the street to PC Richard, where I found a cute little 5,000 BTU Frigidaire for $100, complete with French instructions. 

And then I wrote this angry blog about it.

A blog.

I’m writing a blog.

What on earth has posessed my feeble mind?  What Narcissistic inspiration led me to believe that what I have to say is interesting enough to post for the whole world to read?  And what self-serving delusion has clouded my brain into thinking that any part of the world will actually read it?

On the other hand…

I suppose what I have to say is no less interesting than any of the other lonely ether-bound authors reaching wordwise into this vast sea of silicon seeking friendship, understanding, recognition, or a non-fattening way to occupy the time while we all wait for something meaningful to happen.

In my case, that something meaningful  is generally 5:00 PM, when my "work" day is over. 

And that’s really what this all comes down to; here is my brittle rationalization for this decadent self-indulgence:  I’m bored.  It’s very lonely up front at this chilly flourescent office, waiting for the phone to ring so that I can recite in my best receptionist voice: "good afternoon, A.R. Schmeidler."  At least if I’m typing industriously on my 1995 Microsoft keyboard, I can fool the higher-ups into believing that I’m doing (if not actual work) something worky, and they may not discover how completely dispensible my position is and fire me.  Or make me do actual work.

So it’s finally come to this.  I’ve resisted as long as I can.  But like the morsel of food passed across the table accompanied by "try this, it’s terrible!"  I must taste it for myself.

Welcome to my world.