Flaunting Convention
“So,” I’ve been asked endlessly in the past week, “how did you deal with the Republican Convention?” Like so many other New Yorkers who have been similarly questioned, I answered, “I got out of town.” I took the opportunity to drive to the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Canada.
Going there meant driving through New York State. I left on Saturday morning, and stopped along the way to — guess what? — see shows. First stop: Ellenville, New York, to the Shadowland Theatre — a 1920 Art Deco movie house that went to legit theater 20 years ago. Current artistic director William Morris (yup, that’s his actual name!) came out to tell the crowd that filled the theater’s seven rows that the next production would be Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune — “which has partial nudity, adult situations, sexual situations — and is a really good show,” he added with a leer. Tonight, though, was Meshuggah-Nuns, Dan Goggin’s umpteenth variation on Nunsense. Here, a cruise ship production of Fiddler can’t go on, so the nuns pitch in with the surviving Tevye and sub. The ever-clueless Sister Amnesia begged to show her skill as a magician by saying, “Please let me turn some tricks.” Later she assumed that “bagels and lox” meant that one needed locks so no one would steal the bagels. At one point, there was talk of a shipwreck, but we were all assured us that “Nobody dies in a Nunsense show.” That apparently includes Dan Goggin, who won’t let his franchise die a dignified death. Still, the crowd had a delightful time, and that’s all William Morris can hope for when he produces something called Meshuggah-Nuns. If it ever comes to the city — and I’m not saying it should — Denise DeMirjian, Lisa Ferraro, Heidi Landis, David Tillstrand, and Martina Vidmar deserve to come with it.
Sunday, I got on the New York Thruway and asked the toll collector where Woodstock was; I’m sure she assumed I was going there to pay homage to that rock festival of yore. Hardly. I was off to the Byrdcliffe Theater, a former barn that’s still home to a number of flying insects. (When a show is on, bring Off.) I was here to see Madam C.J. Walker, about the real-life remarkable black woman who, by 1917, was ensconced in a 34-room mansion, for she’d become America’s first female millionaire. As I walked in, I asked the usher, “What’s the running time?” and was told “One-fifteen.” That turned out to be not quite true, for the show was actually 40 minutes long; author-performer Jo Tanner then took questions from the audience to fill the rest of the time, and considered that part of the show. This interpretation of running time marked a new low in theatrical returns on a ticket price.
I left midway through the Q-and-A, because I’d started hating the show at the three-minute mark. That’s when the doorbell rang at Madam Walker’s mansion; she called for the maid, who wasn’t around, of course, because this is a one-person show. So Walker herself answered it, and was furious when the tradesman at the door asked for the woman of the house — not assuming it was she. Oh, come on, Madam Walker, how can you expect a guy in 1917 to think that a black woman answering the door is the lordess of the manor? Why does this surprise you? Tanner’s show would be better if she made Madam Walker charming and gracious to the tradesman, before shyly yet slyly telling him, “Oh, by the way — I am the lady of the house,” adding an endearing smile to let him know she understood and forgave his mistake.
After that, Madam Walker spent the rest of the show lording it over us at how rich she’d become. The last straw for me occurred when the sound of breaking glass was heard offstage. Walker snarled to the offstage worker, “If you broke any part of that chandelier, I’m docking your pay,” before turning to us, smiling and confiding, “No, I wouldn’t really do that. I treat my help the way I want to be treated.” Oh, really? You mean to tell me that if you were a maid, you’d like to worry until payday that you’d be docked? I’m only sorry I didn’t walk out then. I’ll grant you, in real life Madam Walker might have been one tough cookie, but I suspect that Jo Tanner hasn’t done her any favors in the way she’s portraying her.
Sunday night, I was off to Little York, New York (which sorta sounds like a song in Tenderloin, doesn’t it?) to Cortland Repertory Theatre, also a barn, but with no insects and more comfortable seats. I Love You! You’re Perfect! Now Change! was the show, and the irony wasn’t lost on me that I’d traveled some 350 miles to see something I could catch a mere 13 blocks from my apartment — and in a much more intimate space. Here, the three-quarter thrust faced a large stage that must have once housed populous comedies like The Man Who Came to Dinner. But Calland Metts, Lori Misitis, Stephanie Monsour-Nixdorf, and Jeremy Zoma filled it admirably, and made me feel they’d work in a different New York city — one with seven million people — if they’d care to make the trip. Once again, I understood the lure of Joe DiPietro and Jimmy Roberts’ observations on heterosexual love, marriage, and parenthood. There’s a good deal of truth in what they wrote and not much glamorization, which is why they’ve had such success.
Monday, I spent the day plowing through used bookshops in the Syracuse and Rochester area. Did you ever see the U.K. version of Patrick Dennis’ famous novel Auntie Mame simply titled Mame with the Lucy-movie logo? I hadn’t, and figured it would be the highlight of the day — for what could I possibly see on a Monday night? But then I learned that the GeVa Theatre in Rochester was opening Broadway Bound the following night, so they had to be doing a dress rehearsal, right? Wrong. I was told they’d done it the night before, and had Monday off. Heartbreak! So I decided to shuffle off to Buffalo and see if I could at least find a reading there. En route, I passed a town called Chili, and while I wish I could say “It’s delightful down in Chili,” I didn’t see enough of it to form any opinion. Soon after, I saw the sign, “Welcome to Buffalo — Home of the Olmstead Park System.” Listen I love Central Park as much as anyone, but that sign should read, “Home of Michael Bennett.” (Or maybe Bennett would prefer that everyone forget that?)
Alas, I could find no theatrical activity in town, so I went to see the Buffalo Bisons play the Syracuse Sky Chiefs in the same ballpark where The Natural was filmed. Because it had rained all day, I was concerned the game might be delayed by another shower, so I took the aforementioned copy of Mame with me. I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only one in the whole ballpark with it.
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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]
