Brush up your Shakespeare

I have now seen both of Propeller's current offerings at BAM, and I am excited to be able to discuss them side by side. But the ensemble is only in town through tomorrow, so before you read on, go buy your tickets! I'll wait.

It's hard to overstate the value of a true ensemble approach to performing Shakespeare. As I said before, I saw and was enchanted by the 1998 Nicholas Hytner production of Twelfth Night at Lincoln Center. But I remember it most vividly as a collection of individual performances, ranging from great (Helen Hunt, Philip Bosco, Brian Murray, Max Wright) to good (Paul Rudd) to poor (Kyra Sedgwick). As performed by Edward Hall's excellent company, Twelfth Night has no "star" except the text, and what a deep and rich text it is. There are more themes and plotlines and characters in Twelfth Night than most directors know what to do with; in fact, the same could probably be said of any of Shakespeare's plays. In most productions (and especially film adaptations) of Shakespeare I've seen, the director decides to emphasize one particular plot or theme and shapes everything else to that end; e.g., this version of A Midsummer Night's Dream will focus all its attention on Bottom, or this will be a blatantly patriotic Henry V. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, but even when it works well, there is nearly always something Shakespeare wrote -- some scene, some soliloquy, some joke -- that (as Malvolio would say) "suffers under probation," or works against the director's pet interpretation, and must therefore be excised or shortchanged to minimize damage to the overall project. Shakespeare's complexity may be a gift to academics, but it can be a stumbling block to directors and audiences.

In Propeller's production of Twelfth Night, no such "interpretation" is imposed on the play; the text seems to dictate every decision. Because men play all the parts, the romance plots don't automatically take center stage, as they did in the Nick Hytner production (I can still feel the palpable sexual tension generated by a frequently shirtless Paul Rudd and a remarkably androgynous Helen Hunt... Yowza). In this production I experienced the Viola/Orsino/Olivia triangle on a more cerebral level, since I had to keep reminding myself who believed what about whom at any given time (e.g., Here Olivia, who is actually a woman, is talking to a woman that she thinks is a man). Meanwhile, the Malvolio/Toby Belch/Andrew Aguecheek/Maria subplot seems uncomfortably prominent, not because the company favors it, but because it is uncomfortably prominent. Watching this production, you realize just how much of the play is devoted to the victimization of Malvolio, and how disproportionate his punishment is relative to his crime.

Seeing Twelfth Night and The Taming of the Shrew in repertory this way made me aware of a relationship I'd never before noticed, a relationship that I am now (almost) convinced is the key to understanding both plays. In each case, we are presented with a character who, based on what we see and what we are told, deserves to have the piss taken out of him or her (as Shakespeare might have put it). But the other characters' plot to "tame" the troublemaker takes on a life of its own, with much darker and crueler consequences than anyone seems to have intended. In fact, the only one in Twelfth Night who doesn't regret the outcome of the Malvolio prank is Feste, the so-called "clown," who dodges remorse with a heartlessly casual, "...but that's all one."

As difficult as it can be to make the various elements of Twelfth Night come together as "one," an even more confounding disunity colors the text of The Taming of the Shrew. Shakespeare's own attitude toward the play's events is impossible to determine: if he intends it purely as broad comedy, why does Katherine so often, and so effectively, appeal to our sympathies? And if he intends to critique the misogynistic social order, why is Katherine's final speech ("I am ashamed that women are so simple..." and all the rest) so long, and so sincere?

The trap laid for Malvolio depends on his "self-love," and the sequence where he reads the love letter supposedly penned by Olivia and says, "If I could make that resemble something in me!" is often cited (somewhat ironically) by scholars as warning against overinterpretation. Propeller's production of Twelfth Night certainly takes that warning to heart; the text is never "crushed," not even a little, to make it "bow" to an external idea of what it ought to be about. Shrew is less stable in its written form, and so it requires more aggressive interpreting, and there were moments here and there when I noticed a disparity between the way I prefer to read a certain scene or exchange and the way this production played it. This Petruchio is a total yob, drunken and thoroughly abusive, and neither he nor anyone else delights much in his gift for comic wordplay (which is the reason I have such affection for this frustrating play on the page). But if that is underemphasized, the cruelty with which he (and everyone else) treats Katherine is made that much more plain, and the fact that the female characters differ only in costume from the males makes the struggle to "tame" Kate seem especially arbitrary. Throughout the play, the ensemble's decisions, even at their most surprising or unorthodox, always serve the text, and they add up to a remarkably consistent whole. Watching both shows, I had the sense that no other interpretation, no other approach, could possibly work as well as the one I was seeing onstage. Which is not to say I'm finished thinking about the puzzles in Twelfth Night and Shrew -- on the contrary, leaving BAM after each show, I had the urge to go straight to my Norton Shakespeare and reread both plays, and as I flip through the pages now, every line feels more alive than ever with possible meanings... which is only appropriate, since Shakespeare's alternate title for Twelfth Night is What You Will.

I'll spare you any more of my amateur Shakespearean scholarship, but I do want to add that both productions are extremely well acted and a joy to watch, very funny and physical and always clear. The company generates a spontaneous energy that nearly disguises the metronome-precise timing of both productions. And the incidental music in both shows, performed and produced entirely by the actors (eat your heart out, John Doyle), is richer and more sophisticated than the scores of most contemporary musicals.

Two more notes on the experience, while we're at it: I love most things about BAM's Harvey Theater, but the cafe area needs more seating, and the auditorium needs more legroom between rows (and at least one of those situations is easy to fix). And also, since I attended both of these performances with my fiance, I owe it to him to point out that he was only joking when he swore off Shakespeare some weeks back. But even if he had been serious, these productions could make a believer out of anybody, and I think they are as fine an introduction to Shakespeare as you're likely to come across. On the other hand, if, like me, you've read and reread these two texts, you may find it a bit of a challenge to strip away whatever conclusions you've reached and experience them fresh. But the rewards, I think, will be greater for your efforts. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do!

Kiss and tell

The conceit of Craig Lucas's Prelude to a Kiss -- an old man and a young bride switch bodies -- is really pretty dumb; it seems like reviewers are contractually obligated to describe it as a (fractured/urban/modern/adult) "fairy tale," but anybody who goes to see this play with that description in mind is bound to be disappointed, because the magic-kiss conceit isn't really the point. It's more of an excuse for Lucas to spin a delicate comedy out of heavy thematic threads: the everyday magic of romantic love, the joys and perils of being embodied, the dangers of commitment, the lessons the young and old can learn from each other and the generational gulfs that prevent us from learning those lessons, etc.

The current Roundabout Broadway production of Prelude doesn't quite manage to find the enchantment in the ordinary romance that begins the show, and so it gets off to a too-slow start. But once they get comfortable together, Alan Tudyk and Annie Parisse are both pretty darn adorable, and Parisse builds the character of Rita just solidly enough before the big kiss to make everything that comes afterward pay off. She and John Mahoney turn in fine performances in Act Two, closely observed and admirably restrained, amusing but never reaching for laughs at the expense of the play. That, after all, is where the real magic comes in -- not in the thin conceit or its equally thin resolution, but in the way the actors allow the switch to illuminate their performances. The supporting cast is also solid, especially Robin Bartlett (Debbie from Mad About You!) as Rita's mom, Mrs. Boyle, and the sets and lighting are fine and unobtrusive (except for a few noisy moving pieces). If Lucas really wanted it to be set in "the present," he could and should have done a better job updating the discussions of Peter's work for the digital age. But overall, if I wasn't completely swept away, I was certainly charmed.

I don't think I'll be going back to the movie after all, because I can guess now why I hated it so much the first time around (besides the unctuous presence of Alec Baldwin). Zany body-swapping screwball comedies are a dime a dozen, but Prelude is something much more delicate than that, and its magic has everything to do with the magic of theatre. If you're smart, though, you'll avoid seeing the Wednesday matinee, when the magic of live theatre may be somewhat obscured by the makeup of the audience. Below me, in the orchestra: old people there primarily to see John Mahoney, a.k.a. The Dad from Frasier. Did they applaud when he first crossed the stage? Oh yes, they did. Were they confused to discover that he wasn't really in the first half of the play? Most likely they were; happily I was in the cheap seats, so I can't confirm. Did they bother to silence their cell phones? What do you think? Meanwhile, behind me in the mezzanine: school groups of teenagers, maybe 8th- or 9th-graders, who tittered every time anybody looked like they might kiss. I don't know who thought the show would be a good match for them -- it's not exactly inappropriate, content-wise, but it's certainly over their heads, maturity-wise, and they (or at least a few of the boys) proved it by responding as though they were watching an episode of Moesha. Perhaps their teacher -- who, I noticed, addressed them before the show as though they were mentally challenged 6-year-olds, which didn't make me optimistic about how well they would behave -- was fooled by the "fairy tale" bill of sale, but I think they would have been happier, or at least less disruptive, at a matinee of Beauty and the Beast.

On the other hand, I'd rather see a group of kids attend a good show than a lousy one, and at least a few seemed to get something out of it. As I was leaving (and glaring, along with most of the other adults in the mezz, in the direction of these kids and their dippy teacher), I overheard a conversation between a couple of old ladies and a couple of teenage girls. "How did you enjoy the show?" the old ladies asked. "I loved it!" said one of the girls. "Oh, really? Then maybe you can explain it to us! I don't think I got it," one of the ladies admitted cheerfully. I rolled my eyes at this -- lady, it's not Beckett -- and didn't stay to hear what the teenagers thought it was all about, but I was happy to see that this play in particular had inspired intergenerational discussion. The old ladies didn't think they "got it," but I suspect maybe they did.

Since I complained at length about the lousy job the Roundabout did in renovating Studio 54, I should here note that they've done far better with the mezzanine of the lyrically named American Airlines Theatre. There are no bad sightlines, from what I could tell, and the seats are numbered right on the actual seat, as opposed to on the armrest (which is just asking for trouble). They are also reasonably wide, with plenty of leg room. That turns out to be vital, because there is no center aisle, so you're guaranteed to have people climbing over you to get to their seats. Still, not a bad experience, as mezz seats go.

Radio static

The Broadway revival of Talk Radio has everything going for it -- great cast, great set, great lighting, costumes and sound design -- everything except a great script.

If you've read any reviews, or any press materials, or if you've seen the poster, you know the main attraction here is Liev Schreiber's performance as nighttime radio host Bary Champlain. And he is pretty terrific. But he's not the only reason to see the show. Sebastian Stan's turn as punky prank-caller Kent is not to be missed, and even if you're not a faithful SVU fan, you'll admire Stephanie March's and Peter Hermann's work, especially since they spend nearly the entire play onstage. The voice actors in the cast, who spend most of the play offstage, are also wonderful -- much better than their material. In fact, everyone in the cast is better than the material, which means the play works really well for the first hour or so and then runs out of steam.

Bogosian's script develops the characters only up to a certain point, and then they just spin their wheels, and all that's left to keep you interested is the social satire, which isn't especially sharp or insightful. I wondered, as the play (and the real-time radio show that is its subject) began, how a real drama could be built within the confines of the set and structure. Unfortunately, the script doesn't rise to the challenge it sets for itself; instead of allowing us to learn about the characters through their interactions with each other, Bogosian has the supporting characters stop the action periodically with monologues that tell us little we don't already know, and made me, at least, roll my eyes and think, "Oh, this is going to be one of those plays where characters talk to the audience for no reason." Stephanie March does particularly well under the circumstances; she's built a lot of solid character work into her moments alone onstage, but the script gives her very little to work with when it comes to building a believable character. (I know, stop the presses: Eric Bogosian doesn't write well for women!)

I read at least one review/article that wondered whether Talk Radio would seem dated, 20 years after its initial production. I didn't see that initial production, obviously, but I'd say the play is only helped by its status as a period piece. The fact that it takes place in 1987, and how that informs details like radio equipment and technology, costuming and makeup, pop culture references and political discussion topics, sustained my interest after the play itself was serving up surprises. I was in the front row, for a change, and so I was able to appreciate every tiny detail of the background, which was useful in those moments when the talk in the foreground wasn't quite doing it for me. Still, Talk Radio's most exciting moment, at least in my experience, comes much too early in the evening, and by the time the play reached its scripted climax I was feeling restless and curiously unmoved by the intense performance unfolding just a few feet away from where I sat. The brightest part of the second half turns out to be Sebastian Stan's performance; I was sorry when he left the stage, because I realized I wasn't at all invested in Barry or in what might happen to him.

It's still a really interesting idea for a play, and watching it come to life onstage is fascinating in spite of the script's shortcomings. Some time ago I linked to a "backstage tour" led by Stephanie March, and it's really quite interesting, so here it is again. Also enjoy the marketing department's attempt to build a free speech controversy around their radio ads. (For what it's worth, I think I'd rather not hear the phrase "your pet's orgasms" out of context on the radio, and I also think the ad would be better without it. So I'm afraid I'm siding with the "censors" here... Nice try, though.)

Come for the drama, stay for the TV

When I read (and reread) the plays of Christopher Shinn, I was disappointed. The plots weren't interesting to me; I didn't care about the characters or their relationships; the universal dysfunctionality where sex is concerned (I would say "sexual dysfunction," but you might mistake my meaning) grew monotonous after a while. But I knew there must be some spark I wasn't getting from the page, because Shinn is highly thought of; that's the only reason I was reading the plays in the first place. So I was excited to have the chance to see Dying City at Lincoln Center.

I liked Dying City more than I expected, and certainly better than any of the plays by Shinn that I've read. However, that could mean I'd like the others a lot more if I saw them onstage, or that I would have liked this less if I had only read it alongside the others. But whatever it means, I'm pretty satisfied that I'm just not cut out to be a Christopher Shinn fan. ("Shinn fan" sounds like some sort of Irish nationalist group. Kind of makes me wish I were an admirer.) Dying City certainly helps me understand why Shinn is as highly regarded as he is, but it still falls just short of where I would like it to be. The characters, though developed in much detail, aren't quite vivid enough to make me care; the dialogue and delivery strives for naturalism, but isn't quite naturalistic enough to make me believe it; the plot does some neat tricks with chronology, but it still isn't quite exciting enough to hold my attention. Things finally start to get interesting in the last half-hour, but by then it was a bit too late for me to become invested; I'd spent too much time all, "More like Boring City."

For me the play was upstaged throughout by the directorial touches and tricks, delicate though they are, and that's not to say I fault the director (James Macdonald). I love the revolving stage (although I'm sure it would make me motion-sick, were I to stand on it for 90 minutes), and what it adds to the play, but there were too many times when I was more interested in trying to catch it moving than in what was happening on it. I found the performances, at first, awkward and stagy, in that too-loud, too-self-conscious "I am delivering naturalistic. Dialogue. On a stage" kind of way (directors of the world, can you not hear that?), but even after the performances settled down (or I adjusted), I found myself thinking things like, "Why are they both still standing, when there's a large couch right there that any normal person would be sitting on by now?" The answer to that, I assume, is that they were blocked in deference to the theatre-in-the-round setup. But I shouldn't be thinking about the way the stage is set up, or the director's attempts to accomodate that setup, when there's a play happening on that stage, mere feet from me. When Pablo Schreiber bounds onstage to begin a scene, I should be more focused on what's about to happen than I am on his costumes and the logistics of accomplishing his quick changes. And when he throws a can of Red Bull offstage in a fit of anger, I shouldn't be thinking about the sticky-sweet smell spreading throughout the theatre. I should be thinking about the play, and whatever it was that made him so angry. The fact that I so often wasn't focused on the play can't be blamed on the direction or the actors—again, the revolving stage was a great idea, and the performances (by Rebecca Brooksher and the aforementioned Schreiber) are quite good. But the play just didn't touch me, intellectually or emotionally or artistically, in any sustained way.

The revolving set has a working television on it, and the screen was pointed toward me when I took my seat before the play began. Shortly after I sat down, the TV came to life with a "chung chung!" I said to myself, "Cool, SVU is on!" And I half-watched the episode (it was a recent one, with the landlord who gasses his tenants) while the rest of the audience filled in. I liked the way the sound of the television was gradually drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and I loved how it became suddenly audible again when the play started (for that matter, I loved the abruptness with which the play started). I loved how the next "chung chung!" ringing out in the now-silent theatre elicited a chuckle of recognition from the audience, particularly the people who were sitting behind the set and hadn't realized it was on. It seemed like we were off to a great start, but the play wasn't ever as interesting as the trappings. The TV was turned off eventually, of course, but not before I found myself thinking, "Yeah, that episode was silly, but at least I cared a little about what happened to Detective Benson."

I wasn't the only one not fully engaged by the drama of Dying City. At the very end of the play, that television—facing me once more, after a full revolution—was turned on again, and for a minute or two everyone could hear the opening of an old episode of The Daily Show. Before the lights went down, the audience got a few chuckles out of Jon Stewart's jokes about Iraq. That's a nice tribute to The Daily Show's writers, but given the supposed emotional impact of the play we'd just seen, shouldn't we have been too numb to laugh? Or, failing that, shouldn't we at least have felt guilty about laughing at these "Mess-o-potamia" jokes, given the play's discussion of how The Daily Show and its ilk are inadequate responses to the administration and the war? Most of all, I thought, in these final moments, shouldn't we be so invested in the life and welfare of the character onstage that the noise coming from the TV is just that, background noise? Under the circumstances, it almost felt like a cheap move, ending the show by getting laughs from somebody else's material. But I don't think that is the intent of the Daily Show clip, just the outcome. And that outcome proved, to me, that the audience was still there, listening and receptive, ready to be engaged.

A word on that audience, while we're at it. David Cote had some not-very-positive things to say ("cheap shots," he admits) about Lincoln Center and its typical audience members in his review. He observes that, during a performance of Dying City, "You hear stillness between lines in the Mitzi E. Newhouse—save perhaps for the confused muttering of an aged subscriber or two." I have as little patience for the confused mutterings of aged subscribers as anyone else, and I wasn't sure how wise it was to see this play at a Wednesday matinee for that reason. I clenched my fists when I got stuck on the stairs going down to the theatre behind a woman who was moving at the exact pace that the set revolves. I held my breath each time a cell phone rang, then grew optimistic after the first few were false alarms (the ringing phones belonged to characters in the play!), then went back to my usual grumpy state when, finally, an audience member's phone did ring during (of course!) one of the play's most tense moments. (The Newhouse is underground! Who even gets reception there?!) I rolled my eyes at the people around me who asked the usher, before the show started, if they could move to another section, because they assumed that since they were facing the back of the onstage couch, they'd spend the whole play looking at the backs of the actors heads. (It's called theatre in the round. I think the director knows you're over here. Morons.) But I have to say, I liked seeing this play with this audience. I liked knowing that the people around me were responding honestly -- most hadn't arrived knowing much about Christopher Shinn, or able to tell their Pablos from their Lievs. But they were there to see a play, and they were for the most part respectful and interested, and the only time I heard any confused muttering was when the play was actually confusing. So I'm glad LCT's patrons are getting more varied fare, but if they're not taken with this particular play, I'm not ready to write off their mutterings entirely. In fact, I think I'd like to hear what they have to say about Dying City. Do you think any of them have blogs?

Who says New Yorkers aren't friendly?

I took the subway to Lincoln Center the other day, and followed the underground tunnels to the little-used exit that led to my destination. The MTA, in its infinite wisdom, had set this exit up so that it could not be used as an entrance: there were turnstiles, but a large, locked gate on the "entrance" side prevented passengers from being able to swipe in. There was no such gate on the subway side of the bank of turnstiles, so you could, if you wanted to, walk through in that direction, but then you'd be face-to-face with the aforementioned gate, so the only real exit options were two "high exit turnstiles" -- you know, those floor-to-ceiling spinning gates that people hate to use. Normally I wouldn't have bothered to take note of all this, but it turned out to be the set for an exciting pre-theatre event.

As I said, there wasn't much traffic at the time, but as I approached the exit I noticed a man standing on the other side of the gate, looking concerned. And then I noticed the cause of his concern: a blind woman, led by a guide dog, was heading for one of the gated-off turnstiles. The drama was already in progress, and I missed whatever happened in Act One, but by the time I got there the man was clearly trying to talk the blind woman out of exiting through the turnstile, and she was clearly not heeding his advice -- in fact, she seemed to resent the intrusion, or so I gathered from the way she was snarling at him. And so he watched helplessly as she and her dog exited through the turnstile and found themselves imprisoned by the gate on the other side. At which point the woman said, sheepishly, "Gosh, I guess I should have listened to you, sir. I'm sorry to have to ask, but do you think you could help me get out?"

Just kidding! What actually happened was, the woman spluttered angrily, "Now what am I supposed to do?!" as if the man were the cause of her being stuck. He didn't really have an answer for her, and I didn't, either; her only options were to duck under or climb over the turnstile that had locked behind her, and she didn't look nimble enough to manage either maneuver, even under the best of circumstances (i.e., sighted and with no dog to worry about). So the man just said sadly, "I tried to tell you not to go through..." And she responded with more incoherent biliousness, finally accusing him, "I asked you a question and you didn't answer me." Although I missed the first part of the exchange, I'm going to go out on a limb here, based on what I saw of this woman's receptivity to assistance, and say that's not actually true.

Ordinarily, my hat is off to anyone with impaired vision who has the courage to navigate the subway system. I find it difficult enough with all of my senses intact. And the MTA probably should do more to prevent something like this from happening. But I don't care what your personal burdens might be, or how much you are inconvenienced by the mismanagement of the subway system -- when a well-meaning stranger goes out of his way to help you, I think you ought to respond with something other than unbridled abuse. Call me old-fashioned.

So now the woman was well and truly stuck, more dependent than ever on the kindness of strangers, and more abusive than ever to the few strangers who were trying to help. I can understand that she was probably feeling a bit humiliated by this point, but she wasn't about to learn any lessons from that! Another woman who'd been looking on came to the defense of the man, saying as gently as possible, "He did try to tell you not to go through there..." And the blind woman snapped back, "Oh, shut up!" Um, lady, I thought, at this moment you are completely at the mercy of strangers. Perhaps you could tone down the bile just a bit. Perhaps informing passersby of their shortcomings should not be your very highest priority at this moment.

Seeing that my help wouldn't exactly be welcomed -- even if I could think of a way to help -- and feeling bad about standing there gawking, I walked on. But I would love to know how the situation resolved itself. I was sort of rooting for the man to just walk away and leave her there; he'd absorbed more than his fair share of hostility already, and perhaps, by the time another helpful stranger came along, the woman might have been humbled into a more grateful state of mind. I'm pretty sure he felt obliged to see it through, though, God bless him. I'm also pretty sure that woman never thanked him for his concern, or apologized for her behavior. And I'm certain the guy will think twice the next time he's tempted to help somebody out (what is it they say about no good deed?). As for me, I think there may be a parable in all this, but I'm not sure I want to know what the lesson is.

Four bells today in the tower of Bray

Sony BMG has good news for Sondheim fans: they've released remastered versions of four original cast recordings. (Read about it here or here -- scroll down to "For the Record.") Of course, I'm not entirely thrilled about this, because I already own three of the four albums. Can I justify replacing them? Maybe I could give my old copies to a home for underprivileged musical theatre fans?

The remastered discs -- with bonus tracks! -- are Sweeney Todd, Merrily We Roll Along, Sunday in the Park with George and Into the Woods. I've been waiting for the Sweeney rerelease for years, ever since the dubbed cassette I'd been overplaying died on me. I keep checking Amazon.com to see if it's available yet, and they keep offering me the recent Broadway revival recording instead. I've heard just enough of that to decide that the John Doyle version of the score was best experienced live, or not at all. And then there's the overpriced Philharmonic recording, which I already have and never listen to, because if I wanted to hear Mrs. Lovett's and Toby's material sung completely off-key, I would do it myself and save on electricity. So this OCR remastering and rerelease is happy news indeed, as the Beadle would say.

It turns out the "bonus tracks" are mostly cuts from the terrific Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall recording, which I also already own. And which is apparently out of print now -- I'd recommend that you buy it used, but as soon as you do they'll probably rerelease that, too. The Into the Woods bonus tracks sound interesting, though: according to Playbill.com, they are "Giants in the Sky," performed by John Cameron Mitchell; "Back to the Palace," performed by Kim Crosby; and "Boom Crunch," performed by Maureen Moore.

We could have a whole other conversation about the video and DVD versions of these shows... and perhaps we will! I've seen the raggedy yet compelling video of the original Sweeney Todd, but never the Philharmonic one. However, I did enjoy this.

I don't like the sound of these 'ere 'boncentration bamps.'

The fiance and I watched Judgment at Nuremberg miniseries-style, over three separate nights. That isn't a completely inappropriate way to take in this movie, since it does have that required-viewing historical drama flavor to it, but I recommend setting aside the time to watch the whole thing at once, if you can. According to IMDb, the tagline promised, "More than a motion picture... It is an overwhelming experience in human emotion you will never forget!" But it also happens to be a very good motion picture.

It must have been a daunting challenge to make a courtroom drama about war crimes that is exciting without being gimmicky, but screenwriter Abby Mann and director Stanley Kramer succeeded admirably with Nuremberg. The reason I recommend watching all three hours in a sitting is that you'll get a sense of how well structured the screenplay is. Take, for example, the moment when Col. Lawson introduces the footage from the liberation of the camps, as part of the prosecution's case. It comes at exactly the right point in the film; had the film invoked the specific horrors of the Nazi genocide any earlier, it would have risked inducing a kind of Holocaust-fatigue. Instead, the script gets you thinking about the characters in this particular story, and the conflicted emotions of Germany's people, and the legal and political questions of responsibility and diplomacy... and then the prosecution introduces the filmstrip, as if to say, you must always remember that the fictionalized motion picture you're watching exists only because of what you see in this real-life film. The footage from the camps, so horrifying and so unflinching, is a dose of perspective exactly when the story needs it.

The screenplay, at least during the courtroom scenes, is necessarily structured as one long speech after another, which is what allows for the virtuoso performances from Montgomery Clift, Judy Garland (who looks horrible, by the way), Burt Lancaster and, of course, Maximilian Schell. But it could also have been dull and static, so Kramer compensates by keeping the camera moving. Ernest Laszlo's Oscar-nominated black-and-white cinematography is terrific, and the camera nearly always finds the angle and the shot that will give you the most information possible. When a witness is testifying, we don't just see the witness box; we're likely to see the defendants in the foreground, listening, or to watch from behind the attorney's podium. This must have made for a long shoot -- I felt particularly bad for the actors who played courtroom guards, standing stock-still in the background of every shot -- but it pays off; it allows for the inclusion of subtle details, like Janning's growing participation in the trial (watch him transition from refusal to acknowledge the proceedings, to impassive listening, to active involvement in the testimony), or the occasional glimpse of the translators to remind you that some of these people are supposedly speaking German. And because the camera isn't constantly cutting back and forth from attorney to judge to witness, as it might during an episode of Law & Order, to accomodate the actors' shooting schedules, you feel like you're eavesdropping on an actual trial. At least, that's how you feel until Kramer decides to use his zoom lens, which he does with lamentable frequency. Is Spencer Tracy about to say something important? Quick, zoom in on his face! And I do mean "quick" -- the camera swoops in for a closeup so fast, and so jerkily, that it makes me giggle every time, which I assume is not the effect Kramer was going for. It looks like the guy with the boom mike bumped the "zoom" button with his elbow. Oh, and speaking of things that make me giggle inappropriately: William Shatner, ladies and gentlemen! He's actually pretty good and not at all scenery-chewing or mannered in his small role in this film, but if you can see him, so young and handsome and serious, and not smile a little, you must not have seen a Priceline Negotiator ad lately.

For me, the movie's weakest scenes are the ones that take place outside the courtroom. Marlene Dietrich, her legendary beauty now bordering on the grotesque (is she sucking in her cheeks, or is she actually starving herself?), is a compelling stand-in for the resentful and conflicted German people, but I confess to being slightly impatient with her chaste and drawn-out courtship of Judge Haywood. I understand the function of the scenes, but after a while I get distracted by Dietrich's painted-on eyebrows. And the brilliance with which the language-obstacle issue is handled inside the courtroom is tarnished a bit by the way it is ignored outside the courtroom -- Why doesn't Col. Lawson need an interpreter when he goes to talk to the Wallners? Why no interpreter when Judge Haywood talks to the German prosecutor, or to Ernst Janning, at the end of the film? If, as it seems, everyone in Germany (or at least, everyone related to the trial) speaks such excellent English, why not just conduct the trial in English and spare the translators the trouble? Nitpicks, I guess, but they remind me that I'm just watching a Hollywood movie, and from there it's a short leap to "Gosh, this movie is long."

I realized, during the last hour of the movie, how little I actually know about what happened after the war, in Germany and everywhere else. (I might have been the only student at Yale who didn't take that Gaddis class on the Cold War.) Looks like I have some reading to do. And on a theatre-related note, Leonard Maltin's movie guide notes that Nuremberg was "later a Broadway play," and I assumed that adaptation occurred some time in the mid-to-late 1960s, in the aftermath of the film's success. But no, apparently it was produced very recently, in 2001. Why do I not remember this? Somehow I can't imagine this material would be as effective onstage. The footage of the camps and their victims, so metacinematic within the film, couldn't retain its impact in a Broadway theatre -- it would feel like a slide show, wouldn't it? And would the events of the trial seem so immediate, and so important, without the present-day context of the Cold War as a frame? But obviously I missed my chance to see the play, so if you saw it, please fill me in. How did it work? Was the casting of Maximilian Schell as Ernst Janning a distracting stunt, or did he steal the show in that role too?

ETA: I figured out why I don't remember the Broadway run of Nuremberg - it happened during my semester in London. That strikes me as funny, because the following Broadway season was full of things I'd seen and heard about on the West End!

In delay there lies no plenty

The capstone of my weekend of (sober) Irish revelry was a trip to Brooklyn to see Twelfth Night, as conceived and performed by the all-male British company Propeller. Full disclosure: we had dinner before and drinks afterward with a member of the company, so I admit I'm not the most objective reviewer ever. But by the same token, if I didn't think the show was great, I probably wouldn't mention it at all. Twelfth Night is my very favorite Shakespeare play, and I am very emotionally attached to the production I saw at Lincoln Center years ago, so I was afraid I might have trouble warming up to a new approach with a "modern physical aesthetic." But Propeller's approach feels very pure, to me; the play is allowed to do its weird magic. I am very much hoping to get back there this week to see Taming of the Shrew, running in rep with Twelfth Night, and so I will put off writing a full review until I can talk about both. In the meantime, take my advice and get thyself to BAM!

After the show last night, we were discussing other coming attractions in New York theatre scene. It's weird and a bit humbling to have that discussion with Brits, because you realize that most of the stuff we're excited about is old news in the West End. What can I recommend to someone visiting from London? Journey's End is great, yeah yeah, tell me something I don't know. I end up getting recommendations instead of giving them: You should really try to see Moon for the Misbegotten; try not to miss Frost/Nixon; get your tickets for Coram Boy. So on my way home I was assembling my personal to-see list.

At the very top is Spring Awakening. I've been resisting spending money on this, because it just doesn't look or sound like something I would enjoy. At all. But I never like to miss anything that's big in the world of new musicals, and lots of people have recommended it to me, so I really am going to see it. Any day now!

Then there's Talk Radio (the websites for these 2 shows are weirdly similar), another show I don't really want to see but feel like I'd be foolish to miss. And I feel almost morally deficient for not having seen any of The Coast of Utopia (or, as I tend to call it, "All that Stoppard at Lincoln Center"). I think I'm too intimidated. I would also like to catch Our Leading Lady, because I was a Lincoln buff in childhood, and I still get excited when I recall my first trip to Ford's Theatre. I am also entertaining the idea of seeing the Keen Company's Tea and Sympathy, reviewed favorably in the NYT this weekend. I wouldn't say I trust the Times's third-string reviewers implicitly, but I was intrigued by what she says about the script's explicitness as compared to the film version, since I saw the movie last year and found it an exercise in frustratingly pointless angst. It would be a treat to see the uncompromised original script.

In the coming attractions category, I'm kind of psyched for Inherit the Wind, because I love me some Christopher Plummer. And Jeff Daniels strikes me as one of those happy few film actors who might be equally effective onstage, so I'm hoping to see him in MTC's Blackbird.

What am I missing? And do you have any comps to give away? A girl could go broke trying to feed this habit...

Proud of all the Irish blood that's in me

Happy St. Patrick's Day! It seems March 17 always catches me with too little green in my wardrobe, but at least I can dress the blog up for the occasion.

Thanks to the "wintry mix" that fell all day yesterday, the sidewalks (especially the intersections) are all but unnavigable today, and I think the last thing I'd want to do is try to watch a parade. So I'm planning on staying indoors, at least till tonight, when I'll be joining my very Irish fiance and his very Irish family for dinner at a pub with a very Irish name. Wish us luck!

Oh, I know! I forget 'and'!

Last night I was reading a wedding-planning guide, trying to get a handle on this whole project I have ahead of me. At the end of a chapter about music, the author devotes a couple paragraphs to the couple's first dance. See if you can spot the trouble with this advice:

One image is of the couple gliding out onto the dance floor, waltzing gracefully with the bride's gown billowing like Anna's dress in the famous waltz scene in The King and I. If that's your fantasy, it's sure to take some work to pull off. Some words of warning: Not every ballad is a waltz.

I may not know much about planning a wedding reception. I may know very little about dancing. But I do know my showtunes. It is certainly true that "Not every ballad is a waltz," and guess what? Neither is "Shall We Dance." It's a polka. (Right now I'm hearing Constance Towers in my head: "Oh, it's really veddy simple, the polker, it goes 'one-two-three-and one-two-three-and one-two-three-and one!")

Anyway, I would never aspire to anything so grand. I think we'll be doing the Laendler instead.