Spring Awakening

Sexual expression and repression, abstinence only education, and the ramifications of illegal abortion may not be the stuff of most Tony Award-winning musicals, but this year’s “Spring Awakening” is no typical Broadway show.

Based on the play of the same name written by German playwright Frank Wedekind in 1891, the show tells of the sexual awakening of teenagers in a society that refuses to talk about sex. Banned repeatedly for nearly 100 years due to its subject matter, a performance of the play was shut down in New York City in 1917 by officials claming the material was pornographic. Only an injunction by the Supreme Court allowed the show to go on, but it closed after a single performance.

Parents shrink away from telling their children about sex, leaving teens to educate one another without the benefits of maturity and life experience. Birth control is neither discussed nor available. Fathers sexually assault daughters while mothers turn a blind eye, yet it is the children who feel guilty and ashamed. Young adults are seen but not heard, except by each other.

Almost unbearably exhilarating and quietly devastating, the musical version currently playing at the Eugene O’Neill Theater features a dynamic pop/rock score by Duncan Sheik (think “Barely Breathing”) and Steven Sater, explosive choreography by Bill T. Jones, and one of the most vocally and emotionally pitch-perfect companies of energizing performers – almost all of whom are in their late teens to early twenties – one is ever likely to see on a Broadway stage. Jonathan Groff is a star in the making, and it’s exciting to know you’re getting in on the ground floor of a remarkable career to come. As a charismatic and self-proclaimed atheist who “doesn’t believe in anything,” he is both boldly cavalier and youthfully vulnerable, with a voice that maneuvers comfortably between passionate baritone and sweet falsetto. Lea Michele (who has been with the show since its original workshop at the age of 14) poignantly sets the course for the entire show with a number entitled “Mama Who Bore Me,” a desperate plea for a greater understanding of her body and her emotions. And Tony-winner John Gallagher, Jr. rocks his heart and soul out as the teenager none of us want(ed) to be but many of us are(were) – gawky, isolated, confused, and terribly alone. Special props to Gideon Glick and Jonathan B. Wright, an endearing pair of star-crossed lovers who may very well be the first gay teenage characters to ever (passionately) kiss on a Broadway stage.

Still set in nineteenth century Germany replete with period costume and dialogue, the music, staging, sound and lighting design infuse the work with a modern sensibility. The ever-expanding lines of young adults waiting around the block each morning for student rush tickets and the emotional outpouring that occurs at the stage door after every performance attests to how relatable the story remains to modern audiences. Songs such as “The Bitch of Living,” “Touch Me,” “Don’t Do Sadness” and “Totally Fucked” (it’s my blog so I don’t have to use ***** if I don’t want to – my own act of adolescent rebellion) are veritable anthems to issues of teen alienation, burgeoning sexual need and confusion, and the erupting frustrations that come from being ignored, judged or dismissed – one of the richest scores in decades will make one laugh in recognition and deeply wrench the heart. Hand-held microphones, psychedelic lighting, and fellow audience members seated on the stage serve as constant reminders that our society has not advanced nearly as far as some may wish to believe.

An eruption of choreographed movement in the second act (a volcanic climax that manages to briefly blow the lid off all the repressed feelings that have come before) is the sort of theatrical lightning that will make you want to leap out of your seat and up onto the stage. Whether a teenager living the angst in the moment or an adult reliving the scars of adolescence, the show is uncanny in its ability to both bridge the centuries that exist between the original play and the current musical, and the age gaps that exist between audience members.

Sater’s book rushes headlong toward the finale in the last 15 minutes, which may be an indication that the creators didn’t envision audiences would remain transfixed by the material for longer than 2 hours and 20 minutes. This is their sole miscalculation, as Director Michael Mayer has constructed one of the most transformative and profoundly moving shows I have experienced in over thirty years of theater-going. “Spring Awakening” is a pulsating, bold and daring work that is a must see for all reproductive-rights supporters, the young of age and young of heart (say 13+ if you’re actually willing to engage your teen in thoughtful conversation after) and musical theater-lovers alike.

For more information about the show and to purchase tickets, click http://www.SpringAwakening.com/

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Evening

Grade: D

Also known as that time of day when people take an Ambien and go to sleep.

A woman on her death bed reminisces about the weekend in her life that changed everything – her best friend’s wedding – while her annoying daughters wonder if her memories are real or morphine-induced. Through flashback and flash forward, screenwriter Michael Cunningham rehashes the technique he used in “The Hours,” this time to much, much lesser effect.

There is nothing more depressing than watching actors you admire greatly give uninteresting performances portraying uninteresting characters living uninteresting lives. Vanessa Redgrave lies in bed and gets teary-eyed muttering names like “Harris” and “Buddy” that her daughters have never heard of before. Natasha Richardson is the mother hen daughter who is so dull and wooden she’s barely believable as Redgrave’s daughter (yes, they are mother and daughter in real life.) Toni Collete is the brooding child, unsure of her current relationship and hoping her mother’s life experience will hold some clues to tell her what to do. Yawn. Eileen Atkins is reduced to playing a night nurse and Redgrave’s fantasy angel. Enough said.

Flash backward. Claire Danes is the younger version of Redgrave, a bohemian singer in desperate need of Marni Nixon (is there anything more irritating than crowds looking on adoringly at someone who can barely carry a tune?) Mamie Gummer (apparently Meryl Streep’s daughter, a factoid I was clued into when I whispered to my partner, “They did a good casting job, she looks just like a young Meryl.” Okay, so I’m an idiot) is the panicked but indomitable bride-to-be, committed to marry the man she can have because the man she loves isn’t all that interested. Hugh Dancy (Vanessa’s aforementioned Buddy) is the brother of Mamie and close friend of Claire’s (are you getting all this?) He gets drunk and very weepy. His sexuality is in question. All three seem to be infatuated with Patrick Wilson (Harris), child of the family housekeeper who rose above his status to become a doctor (this will be quite important, since he won’t be there when someone he loves needs him the most, and regret is a critical motif throughout.) As always, Wilson is gorgeous to look at but has virtually no screen presence, so everyone’s adoration of him seems questionable. Glenn Close is mother of the bride. She is also one of my favorite actors of all time. She is quite dreadful here. Overly made up, puffing on cigarettes like Norma Desmond and overacting a storm with facial expressions designed to hit the last row of Radio City.

And then Meryl Streep (Mamie later in life) arrives to visit a bedridden Vanessa Redgrave. We prepare for fireworks and revelations. We are given tedium. Literally nothing of interest happens between them. Meryl gets back in a cab and goes home.

Brothers get drunk and deliver touching but inappropriate toasts to the bride. Kids being kids take off all their clothes and jump off cliffs into the watery depths below – someone will not survive to the end of the movie. Former lovers meet on a street by accident years into the future, Barbra Streisand musses with Robert Redford’s hair and he takes a protest flyer from her. “See ya, Katie.” Only this time Patrick Wilson remembers the heavenly stars he named for Claire Danes, it’s raining and not outside the Plaza Hotel.

Nothing is quite impressed enough with itself to be truly pretentious, nothing emotional enough to be genuinely melodramatic. It’s all just a total flatline.

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More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0765447/

Sicko

Grade: A-

Michael Moore is an American hero.

Whether skewering corporate greed, making the case for stronger gun laws, or passionately condemning George Bush for the Iraq war, Moore is a national treasure and a whistle-blower of the first order.

Admittedly, it is often painfully frustrating to sit through a Michael Moore documentary since – the last time I checked – corporate greed continues to flourish, the NRA continues to own Congress, and John Kerry, well…don’t even get me started.

But Moore is an indignant laser beam of light, and his films make such passionate, irrefutable cases for change that one can’t help but hope the Capitol morons and White House evil-doers in our midst will finally get clued in and do some things that are actually in the best interest of the country.

As someone whose work is intimately connected to the inadequacies of health care, there is little in Moore’s latest expose that comes as much of a surprise. While impossible to depart Fahrenheit 9/11 without a knife-in-the-gut sense of moral outrage, here Moore further elucidates what most of us already know – HMOs are all about profit over health, socialized medicine is superior to our own system and anyone who says differently is either ignorant, blindly patriotic or lying for profit, and our elected officials do nothing to improve things because they are in the back pocket of the health care lobby. As in most of Moore’s movies, the Republicans may win the booby prize, but not even Democrats like Hillary Clinton come away unscathed – if anything, they are judged more harshly because they actually know better but remain silent. One cannot help but come away feeling utterly disgusted by the lack of leadership and stunning cowardice that permeates this season’s roster of Democratic Presidential hopefuls, who won’t go near the hot potato that is health care reform with a ten foot stethoscope.

But I digress.

In typical Moore style, we meet a parade of individuals whose lives have been shattered by the health care system. But Moore’s brilliance lies in the fact that, rather than focusing on the 50 million Americans without health insurance, he chooses to focus on the 250 million of us poor suckers who do, and whose lives have been devastated regardless. Health care plans that deny coverage for life-saving treatments, as told to us by the survivors of those the system murdered. Hospitals refusing to treat children on the brink of death because they weren’t properly affiliated with the right insurance carrier. Bureaucrats whose sole job it is to find pre-existing conditions or a form with a misplaced checkmark that will enable companies to deny coverage. With his unique mixture of smartly manipulative pathos and often belly-laughing humor, the absurdity of it all will simultaneously chagrin and upset the hell out of you – it’s what Moore does better than anyone.

Sidetrips to Canada, England, France and, yes, even Cuba – socialized medicine nations all – can’t help but make you want to pack your bags and leave on a jet plane. A Canadian couple takes out health insurance because they’re coming to the U.S. for a single day and fear what might happen to them if they get hurt on our shores. An incredulous Brit giggles into the camera because she can’t quite comprehend the concept of paying to have her baby delivered. A cashier has been set up in a hospital not to collect payment but to reimburse patients for travel expenses, and a doctor is paid more money for every patient whose blood pressure he helps lower and every smoker he helps kick the habit. Every argument we’ve heard ad infinitum about the perils of socialized medicine Moore deftly flicks off his shoulder for the money-grubbing propaganda it is.

No Michael Moore film would be complete without some unnecessary schtickiness and some self-important overreaching. Over-acted 1950’s advertising footage that runs throughout the film gets very old very quickly, a 15-minute side trip comparing France’s daycare, college education system and vacation policies to ours is a detracting diversion that borders on America-bashing just for the fun of it, and an analysis about why American politicians like to keep our poorest citizens in a constant state of fear and disempowerment comes across as more than a little trite. Moore still over-inserts himself into the story (although somewhat less than in previous films) and – especially in a boat trip to Guantanamo Bay where accused terrorists are receiving better health care than many of our 9/11 heroes – Moore inserts comedic skits where the facts should be allowed to speak for themselves.

But, when one of those heroes begins to cry upon discovering that the nebulizers that help her breathe and cost her hundreds of uncovered dollars in the U.S. run about 5 cents a piece in Cuba, Moore yet again establishes himself as a truth-teller and advocate for our times.
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More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0386032/

Waitress

Grade: B

I miss “Felicity.” It was a close call, but I always preferred Ben over Noel, whereas my partner preferred Noel over Ben. Just one of the many reasons our relationship works.

Keri Russell is lovely as a waitress with a magical pie-making touch. Stuck in a loveless and slightly menacing marriage, a positive result on a home pregnancy test simultaneously traps her and sets her free. Self-consciously quirky yet sweetly charming, this is the sort of movie that comes complete with sidekick waitresses – one with a goofy but lovable boyfriend in a bow tie and another with a big SECRET that the audience knows an hour before the characters do, a cantankerous and crusty diner owner with a heart of gold hidden just below the surface, and a fairy tale ending that’s never for a moment in any doubt.

Funny in a breezy, kind-hearted sort of way, dialogue is just a touch stilted and characters just ever-so-slightly caricatured, falling somewhere between the dark comic reality of an “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” and the far more tame “Alice” TV sitcom version. Picture midway between Ellen Burstyn and Linda Lavin, and you kind of end up with Keri Russell – vulnerable, hopeful, resigned, sarcastic and spunky. Happily, no one tells anyone to “kiss my grits,” but there are moments that come perilously close.

As the Ob/Gyn love interest, Nathan Fillion provides little real chemistry with Russell, but rather a nice sense of friendship borne out of mutually quiet desperation. Jeremy Sisto gets the thankless task of playing a massively-insecure and borderline pathological husband, but somehow manages to make him just a bit more sympathetic and pathetic than the screenplay allows. The real relationship here rests between Russell and the wonderful Andy Griffith, an old grouch who understands the true meaning of a road not taken – their brief scenes together provide the film with its genuine heart.

As with all fairy tales, abortion is never an option, the husband smacks but never hits, and a Deus ex machine is waiting in the wings so our waitress can indeed live happily ever after.

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More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0473308/