‘Network’ on Broadway: Faithful to a Fault

I’m going to be a little unfair to Network, the new Broadway play based on Paddy Chayefsky and Sidney Lumet’s acclaimed 1976 movie. Unfair because, in many ways, the stage version is impressive on its own terms. Adapter Lee Hall has kept much of Chayefsky’s pungent, literate dialogue and resisted the temptation to update his ’70s-era satire for a much different media age.  (Remember the days when the worst threat to TV news was “happy talk”?)  Director Ivo Van Hove has contributed his usual inventive staging, with an environmental newsroom set and video cameras projecting much of the action on a large screen at center stage. And Brian Cranston is possibly the only actor who could come close to matching Peter Finch’s Oscar-winning performance as Howard Beale, the deranged anchorman who becomes the “mad prophet of the airwaves.” The play is intelligent, relevant (in a way Chayefsky could not have imagined), and so dense that it makes most other “serous” Broadway plays — American Son, Lifespan of a Fact — look like first-grade primers.

And yet Network is one of the great American films of the ‘70s, and anyone who treasures it, as I do, has to be disappointed.   

Casting is part of the problem. With the exception of Cranston, almost all of the key actors are pale replicas of their screen counterparts. As the principled news president Max Schumacher, Tony Goldwyn has none of William Holden’s craggy charisma; Tatiana Maslany, as the predatory programming chief Diana Christiansen, none of Faye Dunaway’s coiled sexiness. And Joshua Boone, as the corporate hatchet man so memorably played by Robert Duvall in the film, does little but shout. 

Then again, they are asked to do the near impossible: reproduce the very filmic blend of apocalyptic satire and New York soap opera that made the movie so memorable. In some ways, the play is too faithful. The extramarital affair between Max and Diana, in particular, doesn’t really register at all, unable to convey the sexual and emotional tension that provided the human undercurrent for a cold and caustic film. As for Alyssa Bresnahan’s spurned-wife monologue (the speech that won Beatrice Straight an Oscar), it seems like a bolt from the blue, entirely extraneous.

Even Cranston’s riveting performance gave me qualms. His breakdown on camera (with a minute or so of agonizing silence as he gropes for words), is beautifully played, and probably more realistic psychologically than Finch’s more flamboyant turn in the movie. But it smacks too much of an actor’s showpiece for Tony voters (his Best Actor award is all but sewn up). Moreover, it’s primarily played to the camera — his facial contortions blown up so all can see them on the big video screen — rather than to the theater audience. And it actually throws the play a little out of whack. Though he’s the animating character, Network is not the story of Howard Beale.  Just as the fictional UBS network exploits his breakdown for its own crass commercial purposes, so Chayefsky used him as merely the pretext for a larger and more potent critique of corporate amorality. The centerpiece of the film is not Beale’s famous “mad as hell” rant,  but the thundering boardroom lecture that CEO Arthur Jensen delivers, urging Beale to put his messianic rage in service of the new corporate gospel.   

That scene falls flat too. In the film, Ned Beatty boomed out his commandments    “You have meddled with the primary forces of nature, Mr. Beale!” —in a darkened boardroom, his face obscured and viewed from a godlike distance. Here, Jensen (Nick Wyman) simply stands on a raised platform and shouts to Beale below. If ever there was an opportunity, in this video-happy production, for the dramatic use of video (Jensen as a disembodied Big Brother!), this was it. An odd missed opportunity.  

Still, I wouldn’t discourage anyone from seeing Broadway’s new Network. And then going back to watch the movie again, as a reminder of what made it great — and what has been lost. 

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‘King Kong’: Can It Stomp the Critics?

“He’s not a film,” cries director Carl Denham, vowing to bring the giant ape he’s discovered on Skull Island back to New York City. “He’s theater!” 

The guardians of New York theater, it seems, would beg to differ.  King Kong, the new $35 million musical from Australia that has just arrived on Broadway, has been stomped on by nearly all the critics. The New York Times was so appalled that the show is taking up precious space on the Great White Way (instead of, say, a pavilion at Disney World) that it assigned both its Broadway critics to do a tag-team envisceration. Ben Brantley called it “spirit-crushing.” 

Well, it lifted my spirits. Maybe I was primed for some relief after enduring two of Broadway’s recent “serious” plays: Lifespan of a Fact, a ham-handed and witless issue-play about a journalist who fudges facts in pursuit of a ‘higher truth,” and American Son, Christopher Demos-Brown’s contrived, sledgehammer-subtle topical drama about an interracial couple whose son has had a run-in with the police. Good intentions don’t necessarily make good drama.

So it was refreshing, for a change, to bask in the pleasures of the big, brainless Broadway spectacle.

Spectacular it surely is. Kong is a 20-foot-high animatronic puppet, designed by Sonny Tilders, and manipulated with ropes and guy-wires by a team of a dozen puppeteers, many of them visible onstage. (A nod of thanks, once again, to Julie Taymor, who started it all in The Lion King.) He’s got a muscled, mobile, lifelike body and a face that can scrunch into anger, open in surprise, or plunge into sorrow. He’s massive enough to be credible, expressive enough to be lovable, scary enough to cause a few gasps in the front row when he busts his chains, rises to full height and stomps to the apron of the stage. Nor is he the show’s only impressive stage effect: from the opening girder-and-grit scenes of Depression era New York City (where the Empire State Building is just being built — nice touch), to the seasick-inducing waves that rock the ship on its voyage to Skull Island, the show is a visual treat. 

And did I say brainless? Actually, writer Jack Thorne (who won a Tony for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child) has made a number of shrewd choices in adapting the old monster story for the modern stage. He focuses, appropriately, on Ann Darrow (Christiani Pitts), the down-on-her-luck actress, who jumps when a film director (Eric William Morris) promises her stardom, accompanied by a few screams and the ape of her dreams. Thorne has wisely dumped the island’s tom-tom-beating natives (instead, the island appears to be populated by invisible spirits, cavorting amid the hanging vines), and any extraneous love interest for Ann. The focus is entirely on the beauty-and-the-beast story, with a feminist-environmentalist update — a little more politically correct, but no hokier than it was back in 1933.

I won’t make any great claims for the score by Eddie Prefect (additional music by Marius de Vries), a so-so mix of 1930s Tin Pan Alley and pop empowerment ballads. The kindly lug who befriends Ann onboard the ship, unfortunately named Lumpy, is too much of a stock sidekick in what seems a rather underpopulated cast. But I smiled all the way through King Kong, happy just to be in the company of a band of talented, innovative theater artists, taking on a near-impossible stunt and pulling it off. King Kong is enormous fun.

‘The Ferryman’: Broadway’s Wannabe Masterpiece

No need for me to add to the ecstatic praise (“thrilling,” “a masterpiece,” “best play of the century”) that has poured in from nearly every critic for The Ferryman, the Jez Butterworth play that has just opened on Broadway after a much-lauded, award-laden run in London. I can understand some of the enthusiasm. The play has the sort of heft and ambition that is all too rare in New York theater these days: three and a quarter hours long, nearly two dozen characters, a mix of political drama and family soap opera, with interludes of Irish folk songs and step-dancing, and a live goose onstage.  (The last inserted, I half-suspect, just so critics like me will mention it.)  But I had problems with the play. The Ferryman has all the trappings of greatness, without actually being great. 

We’re in the bustling household of Quinn Carney, a farmer in rural northern Ireland in 1981, in the midst of the “troubles.”  It’s harvest day, a traditional celebration for the locals, and Quinn has just learned that the body of his missing brother, Seamus, has been found in a bog — apparently murdered 10 years earlier by the Irish Republican Army for being a suspected informant. The news complicates the already complicated relationship between Quinn and Seamus’s wife, Caitlin, who moved in with the family after her husband’s disappearance. And it sparks a tense confrontation with a local IRA bigwig, who warns the family not to publicly blame the group for his death.

The first act (of three) labors through a lot of exposition, as each member of the family — seven children, a sickly mother, assorted aunts, nephews and uncles — is introduced, usually with a helpful, character-identifying greeting (“Morning, Aunt Cait; morning, Aunt Maggie; morning, Pat”).  If one more kid trooped down those stairs  I was ready to report the theater for fire-code violations. More seriously, the hearty bustle of this very Irish clan — the drinking, the storytelling, the political arguments, the folksy good cheer tinged by melancholy — has a distinctly potted, second-hand feel. The fact that Butterworth (Jerusalem, Mojo) is English should not disqualify him from writing an Irish play. But even Martin McDonagh, another Londoner who has set many of his fine plays on the Emerald Isle, seems to capture the milieu with more authenticity — and less sentimentality.  

The literary allusions and mythic conceits, too, seem a little tired and overdone. There’s not one but two feeble-minded characters who function as seers or dispensers of folk wisdom. One is a hulking, slow-witted English farmhand, who pulls rabbits out of his coat and collects rainbows. The other is a silent, wheelchair-bound aunt lost in dementia, who recovers her senses and voice just long enough to provide spurts of revelatory backstory. As for the uncle who quotes The Aeneid in between swigs of Bushmill’s— well, somebody has to explain the play’s title. 

I found the political melodrama more effective than the family scenes,  and the violent (and somewhat surprising) ending provides a powerful closing kick.  But even here, Butterworth’s plot contrivances strain credulity at several points — particularly the supposed betrayal of the family priest, and an offstage act of violence stolen from Of Mice and Men.  Director Sam Mendes does his usual fine job in managing the stage clutter, and the cast (especially Paddy Considine as Quinn and Laura Donnelly as Caitlin) is uniformly first-rate. I was never bored. But is The Ferryman a masterpiece? Not by a long shot.  

Moviegoing in the Time of Trump

A brief movie interlude: 

I’ve seen a bunch of new films lately — many of them at last weekend’s Hamptons International Film Festival — and what has struck me is how thoroughly my reaction to them, even films that have little or no political content, has been infused by the Trump presidency. Also how inspiring many of them are, at least in raising hope that our current political nightmare will eventually be ended by the basic decency, humanity and good sense of the American people. Am I being too starry-eyed? Perhaps, but a few examples:   

Time for Ilhan is an affecting little documentary about the successful 2016 campaign for the Minnesota state legislature by Ilhan Omar, a hijab-wearing Somali immigrant — the first Somali-born Muslim elected to statewide office in this country. The fly-on-the-wall chronicle of her amateur campaign operation, her delicate juggling of home and family life, and her interaction with a Somali community that defies every cruel stereotype perpetrated by our immigrant-bashing President, is both heartwarming and uplifting. When filmmaker Norah Shapiro turned on her cameras, she had no way of knowing that Ilhan would win — or that her victory would be overshadowed, on election day, by the shocking national rejection of everything her campaign stood for. But the juxtaposition gives the film an extra dose of poignance and relevance.

Roma, Mexican director Alfonso Cuaron’s semi-autobiographical film, set in Mexico City circa 1971, has already won a top award at the Venice Film Festival, and is sure to be in the running for Best Foreign Film Oscar when it opens in U.S. theaters in December. The film is both epic and intimate, focusing on the relationship between an upper-middle-class family and their devoted native-Mexican maid, against the backdrop of the violent political protests that roiled Mexico in the early ’70s. Along with the masterly filmmaking (Cuaron not only wrote and directed, but also shot the film himself in lush black-and-white), the film celebrates the quiet determination of these good people to survive amid the crises and chaos that threaten to engulf them. A beautiful and hopeful film. 

22 July, which has just opened in theaters, is director Paul Greengrass’s riveting re-creation of the terrorist attack by a rightwing gunman who killed 77 teenagers at a political youth camp on Utoya Island off the coast of Norway in 2011. Greengrass (United 93, Captain Phillips) deploys his usual tense and visceral style to convey the horror of the attack, but concentrates most of the film on the aftermath. What stands out is the methodical progress of the legal system to bring the evildoer to justice, the sincere effort by the government to investigate the tragedy — and the absence of partisan bickering or blame casting.  The comparisons are too obvious to belabor. 

Watergate, a new four-hour-plus documentary from filmmaker Charles Ferguson (Inside Job), offers no real surprises or revelations — just a thorough recounting of the Nixon-era scandals, with ample archival footage, fresh interviews (with John Dean, Carl Bernstein, Elizabeth Holtzman and others), and some rather clumsy re-creations of Nixon’s taped Oval Office conversations. Nowhere is Donald Trump mentioned. But comparisons are implicit in almost every scene. On the one hand, Nixon’s crimes seem, in retrospect, even more brazen and nefarious than Trump’s bumbling bad acts. (It’s hard to imagine this President, for all his “lock her up” bluster, actually ordering a burglary.)  On the other hand, Nixon’s misdeeds were at least motivated by what he thought was the national interest (for Nixon, the Democrats really were endangering the country by opposing the Vietnam War). Trump, of course, has no real agenda beyond his own self-interest.   

But what the film illuminates most starkly is how much better the system worked back then. Congressional hearings were conducted in good faith. (The Democrats, significantly, controlled both houses.) Tough questions were asked by Senators on both sides of the aisle. The President used every trick in the book to evade justice — but in the end acceded to court orders, Supreme Court decisions, and the rule of law. The contrast to today, once again, is hard to miss. But Watergate could provide a guide out of our current mess. After a theatrical run, it will air on the History Channel over three nights starting Nov. 2.  

Branson: A Visit to the ‘Redneck Las Vegas’

Though it’s not far from my hometown of Kansas City, I had never been to Branson, Mo., at least not since it became the entertainment capital of the Ozarks. But having just finished writing a book on Las Vegas entertainment, I figured it was high time to at least lay eyes on the town sometimes called the redneck Las Vegas. So I made a quick trip there last week. 

For a New Yorker — or even someone driving down from Kansas City, 200 miles away — Branson is another world. It’s the heart of the Bible belt, where every AM radio station plays either Christian music or right-wing talk, and where my first sight on driving into Springfield, the big town nearby, was a couple of roadside stands selling Trump merchandise.  On investigation, I discovered that the President was arriving on Friday for a rally at the local arena, so I guess you’d call them pop-up stores. But this is definitely Trump country.

I have a feeling the entertainment in Branson has seen better days. There are lots of big names here, but few big stars. Most of the shows, at the couple of dozen theaters lining route #76 and environs, are tributes to stars — 50 Years of Kenny Rogers, The Glen Campbell Songbook, Beach Boys California Dreamin’, and others celebrating the music of Dolly Parton, John Denver, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Presley, ABBA, and more. A few real live stars do come through Branson, usually for one nighters  —  Tanya Tucker, Michael Bolton, Tony Orlando, and Charley Pride are among those scheduled for the next few weeks. The Oak Ridge Boys seem to be in Branson a lot, and comedian Yakov Smirnoff, of all people, has his own theater.  As I said, strange country. 

To get a real taste of Branson,  I probably should have spent my sole night in town at one of the many country-music variety shows, featuring large extended performing families, like the Haygoods, the Duttons, the Hughes Brothers, and the Presley clan (no relation — at least I hope not). But as a snobby New York theater critic, I decided to go for one of the big-city offerings: a revue called Broadway’s Greatest Hits, which alternates with a Sinatra tribute show at the King’s Castle Theater. 

It’s not exactly the Broadway revue you’d see on Broadway. Production values are fairly rudimentary, and there’s little attempt at organization or creative presentation: a cast member simply announces that she’s going to sing “Memory” from Cats — and then proceeds to sing “Memory” from Cats. There’s a nod to Broadway’s past, with a few selections from Oklahoma and West Side Story, but mostly the show concentrates on musicals of more recent vintage (A Chorus Line, Phantom of the Opera, Wicked), and shows familiar from the movies or pop-music charts, like Grease and Mamma Mia.  I kind of doubt that many people in the audience even knew that Mary Poppins actually was a Broadway musical — but here it is, chimney sweeps and all.  

Unlike Las Vegas, where tribute shows like this are generally held to an hour or so (to make sure customers don’t stay away from the casino for too long), Branson (which doesn’t have gambling) lets its shows run for a full two hours, with an intermission.  A long one, in this case — 20 minutes, announced with a reminder that popcorn is available in the lobby and souvenirs in the gift shop. But I don’t mean to be condescending. Broadway’s Greatest Hits was reasonably entertaining, competently performed by a road-company-quality troupe of a dozen singers and dancers.  I admired them for taking on several good numbers from Cabaret and Chicago (including the tricky “Cell Block Tango”) and doing a fair approximation of the Bob Fosse dance moves. And watching them do the complicated, fast-paced, hand-jiving choreography for the “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” number from Mary Poppins reminded me of how good Matthew Bourne’s work was on that underrated Disney show.

This is Branson, so after the show the stars hang out in the lobby and sign autographs.  It’s at least one way to find out who they are — since there’s no program, no cast list, and the performers are only acknowledged (from the stage just before the finale) with their first names. Too bad. But if Maggie makes it to Broadway, I’d go see her again.

From Vegas to Broadway

The blog has been inactive for a couple of months. My apologies — with an explanation. I have just finished the manuscript for my latest book. It’s a history of the 1960s golden age of Las Vegas entertainment — the heyday years of the Vegas show, from the Rat Pack to Elvis. I focus especially on Elvis Presley’s big comeback show at the International Hotel in 1969, the show that not only revived Elvis’s career, but changed Vegas entertainment. Next summer is the 50th anniversary of that show, and the book (from Simon & Schuster) should be out by then. So watch for it.

Now, back to Broadway. Looking ahead at the coming fall season, I am struck, first of all, by an unusual imbalance. For once there are more straight plays — new ones, not revivals — than musicals. I can’t say I’m optimistic about the chances of some of them. The Nap, by British playwright Richard Bean (opening Sept. 27), is a comedy-thriller about, of all things, snooker. The Lifespan of a Fact (Oct. 18) centers on a magazine researcher who discovers that an article he’s assigned to check has been largely made up. (Can fake news be real Broadway entertainment?) Another new play that seems geared for the moment is Christopher Demos-Brown’s An American Son (Nov. 4), starring Kerry Washington and Steven Pasquale as a biracial couple whose son goes missing. And Bryan Cranston stars as the insurrectionist newscaster Howard Beale in a new stage version of the movie Network (Dec. 6). The play was well received in London (and Cranston won an Olivier award for Best Actor), but if it damages my memories of Paddy Chayevsky’s brilliant 1977 media satire, I’ll be mad as hell.

Aaron Sorkin’s new adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird (Dec. 13), which has already drawn fire from the Lee estate for its revisionist portrayal of Atticus Finch, will certainly get a lot of attention. But the most highly touted new drama of the fall season is The Ferryman (Oct. 21), Jez Butterworth’s critically acclaimed, multiple-award-winning play from London, which centers on a family in rural Northern Ireland in 1981, in the midst of “the troubles.” Butterworth (Jerusalem, The River) always thinks big, and his three-plus-hour epic promises to be the serious theatergoer’s must-see of the fall. 

On the musical front, the big event is the arrival of King Kong (Nov. 8), the blockbuster $35 million stage version of the classic monster movie, which has been dazzling audiences in Australia with its giant animatronic ape. I’ve been immersed in Las Vegas glitz for the past few months, and that has only reminded me of how completely out of fashion the big Broadway spectacle is these days. Mega-musicals like Phantom of the Opera or Miss Saigon are pretty much dismissed today as ’80s kitsch; splashy Disney shows, like last season’s Frozen, can’t buy a good review. It’s the little shows (The Band’s Visit, Dear Evan Hansen) that now win the Tony awards — and draw the audiences. But spectacle has its pleasures too: the childlike delight we take in seeing imaginative designers and directors to try to achieve the impossible onstage. King Kong may well (probably will) plummet to earth in a hailfire of bad reviews. But for now, I’m rooting for the big guy.

 

‘Straight White Men’: Faking It

I have to be careful talking about Straight White Men, the new Young Jean Lee play that has opened on Broadway, following an acclaimed off-Broadway run in 2014.  It’s hard to imagine a play more perfectly calculated for this multicultural, gender-fluid, #MeToo moment. Lee is the first Asian-American woman ever to have her work produced on Broadway. The play opens with two “persons in charge” speaking directly to the audience, one identifying as “transcending gender,” and the other as “non-binary.” (I’m steering clear of personal pronouns here; no Twitter backlash, please.) The play is called Straight White Men — which means, of course, it’s going to hold up that unfortunate, un-evolved species to satire, or at least to a kind of anthropological condescension.

Straight White Men has gotten mostly rave reviews, as has Lee’s earlier off-Broadway work (which, alas, I have not seen). But I had a lot of trouble with this play.  Lee’s heart is in the right place, and her theme of white entitlement is certainly apt, especially in the Trump era. But this is a badly written play, directed (by Anna D. Shapiro) with a startling lack of subtlety, and there is hardly a moment in it that doesn’t seem forced or fake. It’s agenda-driven playwriting at its most annoying.

The action (one act, 90 minutes) revolves around three 40-ish brothers and their widowed father, together for a Christmas Eve celebration in their old family rec room. The brothers had a progressive upbringing, trained from childhood to recognize and be suspicious of their own privileged status. We know this because, not 10 minutes into the evening, two of the brothers happen upon an old Monopoly-style board game called Privilege, which they play just long enough to establish the play’s political orientation and get a few easy laughs. (One Chance card reads: “What I said wasn’t sexist-slash-racist-slash-homophobic because I was joking. Pay fifty dollars to The Lesbian and Gay Community Services Center.”)

One brother is a banker, one a novelist, the third a low-level clerk at a community organization. But who can believe in these people as actual siblings? Half the time they engage in the kind of teasing-roughousing-in-joke-sharing behavior that is drawn less from real life than from some cliched writer’s conception of male bonding. (Dad even brings out Christmas pajamas and forces his sons to change into them.) The rest of the time they seem to be learning about each other in the same way the audience does — through clunky expository dialogue. Typical exchange: “When is your novel coming out?” “March.” “Will it be the same kind of thing? What did the Times critic call it? A ‘radical attack on the crassness of American materialism’?”

The play spells out everything like this; it’s all talk, talk talk. “I’ll get some plates,” says one brother, as he goes to get plates for their Chinese takeout dinner. “Let’s pull the table a little closer,” says another, as they pull the coffee table closer to the couch.  (Might I suggest that the stage action precludes the need for these two lines?) What passes for a storyline involves the underachieving older brother, who has moved back in with his father, seems depressed, and gets to express the playwright’s objectifying analysis of the guilt-ridden entitled class.

It may well be (as Jesse Green suggests in his Times review) that Straight White Men worked better downtown, in a more stylized production that doesn’t play like a bad sitcom — with the impossibly handsome Armie Hammer and Good Wife heartthrob Josh Charles overacting in key roles. And it may well be, as a recent Times Magazine profile proclaimed, that Young Jean Lee is “one of the most fearless experimental playwrights of her generation.” But Straight White Men doesn’t come close to convincing me.