The Stars Don’t Align for “Meteor Shower”

Stars draw the crowds on Broadway these days, but seldom has shrewd casting created such an instant must-see as Steve Martin’s new comedy Meteor Shower. The big attraction is a pair of acclaimed TV comedians making their Broadway debuts: Keegan-Michael Key, co-creator of the superb sketch-comedy series Key and Peele, and Amy Schumer, who has shown her acting chops not only on her show Inside Amy Schumer but in her sharp feature-film debut, Trainwreck. Great to see both of them on stage. Too bad it isn’t under better circumstances.

Martin’s play (which has been staged previously outside New York) is a slim, shaky piece.  A married couple (Schumer and Jeremy Shamos) addicted to new-age marital counseling invite some new friends (Key and Laura Benanti) to their house for a dinner party to watch the eponymous stellar event. But an evening of astronomy and small talk quickly turns into a battle with the bullish newcomers, who seem bent on upending the marriage of their fragile hosts. A decent, if familiar, premise — but any realistic satire of the needs and neuroses of modern marriage quickly goes off the rails into outlandish farce. (Husband blurts out a confession to the guests: his wife once cannibalized her best friend on a camping trip.) And then things really get weird.

My guess is that Martin had in mind an absurdist mixture of Albee and Ionesco, with a dash of Pinteresque menace.  But veteran comedy director Jerry Zaks can’t see beyond the broadest laughs. And he forces his stars to do the same. Key bounds onto the stage as the pompous interloper with such a shrill voice and machine-gun delivery that he might be playing the foppish villain in a Restoration comedy. Schumer is a little more grounded, but she can never really locate her character, and compensates with sitcom mugging and too many piercing screams.

As for the meteor shower, it provides the occasion for one silly, cartoonish sight gag, but otherwise is pretty much a fizzle. Like the play.


“The Band’s Visit”: Is “Nice” Enough?

I don’t want to say anything bad or disrespectful about The Band’s Visit, the new musical that has just opened on Broadway after an acclaimed off-Broadway run last winter. Adapted from a little 2007 film about an Egyptian police band that winds up, by mistake, stranded in a forlorn little Israeli town,  the show is nice. The people in it are all nice. The actors (especially Katrina Lenk and Tony Shalhoub) do a nice job, as does director David Cromer. David Yazbek’s score is maybe a little better than nice — warm, tuneful, with an authentic middle Eastern flavor. I’m just not sure that’s enough to justify all the raves — including a Best Musical of the Year award from my colleagues in the New York Drama Critics Circle.

Understated to a fault, it’s musical made up of vignettes — surprisingly similar to Come From Away, last season’s Tony-nominated musical about another small town invaded unexpectedly by foreigners. But that show had 9/11 to give it some oomph. In The Band’s Visit we get a long night’s journey into … well, not very much. The Egyptians have various encounters with the hospitable but bored townspeople, all of whom seem afflicted with some form of loneliness, romantic longing or spiritual disaffection. A married couple with a baby have grown apart. A young man stands by a pay phone waiting for his girlfriend to call. A cafe owner puts on her best dress and escorts the band’s leader for an evening of sightseeing and talk — reaching out for connection, then pulling back.

This just doesn’t strike me great material for a musical. I haven’t seen the Israeli film on which it is based, but I can guess that it has more anecdotal filigree, and the kind of quirky, laid-back charm that emerges more naturally on film than on a big Broadway stage. I wouldn’t steer anyone away from The Band’s Visit, which has touching moments and has been produced with much care and compassion. But keep your expectations in check.


Greed Is Not So Good (on Broadway)

Can a theater be the reason a play doesn’t work?  I’m starting to think that about the Vivian Beaumont at Lincoln Center. With its cavernous space, thrust stage and semi-circular, steeply raked seats, the place is fine for big musicals (The King and I, South Pacific), but tends to overwhelm smaller, more intricate plays. I had pretty much the same reaction to Junk, Ayad Akhtar’s new play about Wall Street shenanigans in the 1980s, as I did to the Beaumont’s last offering — Oslo,  J.T. Rogers’ play last spring about the Middle East peace talks that led to the Oslo accords. Both take fairly dry historical subject matter and, in order to fashion a compelling drama, hype it to the rafters. Issues and motivations are oversimplified, people turned into caricatures, small confrontations blown up into nuclear explosions. And everybody yells.

Junk, to be sure, has its own problems.  Akhtar (author of the critically acclaimed — by other critics — Disgraced) reaches back two or three scandals into Wall Street’s past, to tell the story of a Michael Milken-like figure using junk bonds to engineer a hostile corporate takeover, and the material seems a bit stale and familiar. The frequent expository dialogue (explaining, say, what a “poison pill” is) smacks of a business-school lecture. Nearly every character is some version of a cliche: the arrogant, cynical Wall Street whiz (Steven Pasquale), the earnest CEO trying to save his family company from corporate raiders, the schlubby investor who wants to back out of a shady deal (with a nod to Glengarry Glen Ross), even the now-overused device of having the play told in flashback through the eyes of a reporter pursuing the story.

Akhtar is a good craftsman, who knows how to put together a play; the action moves along briskly, and the issues are laid out clearly enough for most audience members to grasp, if not totally understand. But he bites off too much. The play has nearly two dozen characters, and seems more intent on leveling a broad-brush indictment of American greed — we’re all guilty! — than helping us understand the human roots of that greed. Moment to moment, Junk (directed by Doug Hughes, with an abstract set of flourescent-lit boxes, where actors often speak directly to the audience) doesn’t have the in-the-weeds authenticity of a film like Margin Call or even Wolf of Wall Street. It may be unfair to expect that kind of filmic naturalism from a stage piece. But especially not on the Vivian Beaumont stage.

“M. Butterfly,” Earthbound

My reaction to the new Broadway revival of M. Butterfly, I’m afraid to say, is a giant shrug. When David Henry Hwang’s play made its Broadway debut in 1988, it was a startling, even daring, effort to make sense of the strange but true story of a French diplomat in China who had a years-long affair with a Chinese opera singer — who turns out to be, not only a communist spy, but a man. Today, in the age of Orange Is the New Black and debates over transgender rights, the shock has largely worn off, and the play comes across as a rather heavy-handed effort to turn a tabloid docudrama into a larger statement on gender confusion, East-West stereotypes, Chinese subjugation of women, the War in Vietnam  — well, you name it, Hwang pretty much throws everything into the pot. Despite (or maybe because of) some rewriting he has done for this revival, the quirky personal story just isn’t able to carry the weight of its social-cultural-historical baggage.

Julie Taymor’s new production is handsome and well-staged, though (except for a couple of dance interludes, choreographed by Ma Cong) without much evidence of her inventive visual style. In my hazy memory of the original production, John Lithgow seemed a much more vulnerable, sexually insecure and believable protagonist than the macho, matinee-idol handsome Clive Owen here. But Jin Ha, in the role originated by B.D. Wong, is sympathetic and reasonably convincing as the gender-bending object of his affection. Still, as post-Vietnam-era reworkings of the Madame Butterfly story go — call me crass, but I prefer Miss Saigon.

“Time and the Conways”: Give It Time

About 20 minutes into Time and the Conways, J.B. Priestley’a 1937 play now being revived by the Roundabout Theater Company, I was feeling the way I imagine John Osborne and the “angry young men” of British drama must have felt in the 1950s: Enough of these well-mannered, well-made plays about the rarefied concerns of the British upper classes! In this case, we’re presented with the Conway family (a widowed mother and her six grown children — four daughters and two sons), a birthday party taking place offstage and a lot of flouncing around and nattering about the charahdes game in progress. But Priestley, unsurprisingly, has more up his sleeve. The opening scene takes place in 1919, amid the euphoria that followed the end of World War I. In the next scene, we are thrust forward 19 years, to see how everything has come crashing down —family money squandered, marriages turned sour, hopes and dreams dashed.

That much is fairly predictable. What lifts Time and the Conways into something special is Priestley’s novel idea to return us, in the third act, back to 1919, where we re-view the characters, in their benighted optimism, from the new vantage point of what happened after. This gives the play a poignance — with a metaphysical spin — that I wasn’t expecting. And though the characters’ disillusionment has a touch of cliché —golden-boy war hero turned alcoholic no-account, idealistic writer who sells out for lowbrow magazine work — Priestley presents them with empathy, gravity and unflinching honesty. The new Broadway production, with Rebecca Taichman (Indecent) directing a solid cast headed by Elizabeth McGovern, is one of the better ones I’ve seen at the sometimes plodding Roundabout, and this revival is definitely worth a visit.


Cruising the Hamptons Film Festival

I just finished a busy weekend of filmgoing at the Hamptons International Film Festival. This annual Hamptons ritual — which celebrated its 25th anniversary this year— has always struck me as a bit of a superfluous stop on the film-festival circuit.  It overlaps with the higher-profile New York Film Festival, just a hundred miles to the west, and most of its big films are second helpings from more prominent festivals in Toronto, Cannes and elsewhere. Still, the festival always brings in a lot of interesting little films looking for attention (especially foreign ones and documentaries), draws an enthusiastic crowd of non-cineastes to its packed screenings, and is increasingly regarded by the film studios as a good place to generate buzz for their big fall releases. Nearly all the major Oscar nominees from last year were previewed at the Hamptons festival — including Moonlight, Manchester by the Sea and La La Land. Unfortunately, I missed all three and wasted my time seeing The Human Stain instead.

This year I worked a bit for my press pass, moderating Q&A sessions following three of the film screenings: Spielberg, Susan Lacy’s admirably comprehensive HBO documentary on the director;  China Hustle, a well-crafted doc from Jed Rothstein on how American investors are being bilked by fraudulent Chinese companies; and Marshall, Reginald Hudlin’s earnest, if simplistic, account of one of Thurgood Marshall’s early court cases for the NAACP, defending a Connecticut black man accused of raping the white woman he worked for.

A few quick reactions to some other films I caught in between my moderating duties:  I liked The Shape of Water, Guillermo del Toro’s monster-in-love movie, starring Sally Hawkins as a mute janitor in a secret government lab, who falls for an amphibious creature being kept under tank and key. Sort of Creature from the Black Lagoon meets La La Land — nervy, wacky, manipulative, but it worked for me.  I Tonya, British director Craig Gillespie’s rambunctious account of the Tonya Harding story, was a little too tricked-up with tongue-in-cheek, faux-reality-TV touches, but it has some white-trash authenticity, and Margot Robbie skates through quite nicely as Tonya. After seeing Darkest Hour, I’d like to call a halt to movie impersonations of Winston Churchill. Following John Lithgow (The Crown) and Brian Cox (Churchill), Gary Oldman’s turn with the cigar just seems redundant, and the material — Churchill’s first weeks as prime minister, when the Nazi march seemed unstoppable — overly familiar. High marks, however, for The Square, a surprise winner of the Palm d’Or at Cannes, Swedish writer-director Ruben Ostlund’s satiric, episodic, provocative and often poignant film about the director of a contemporary art museum (Claes Bang) and his awkward encounters with the alien world of real life. Some memorable scenes, plus a nifty supporting turn by Elizabeth Moss.

The Fall Season: Six Shows I’m Looking Forward To

Broadway’s fall season doesn’t immediately inspire me. Several of the most high-profile new shows come from people whose work I’ve not been crazy about in the past. But I’m always looking for surprises, and here are six upcoming shows that might provide some:

Meteor Shower (opening Nov. 29): Steve Martin’s new play, first staged last year at San Diego’s Old Globe Theater, is about the sparks that fly when two married couples get together for an evening of stargazing. Despite his renaissance-man talents, Martin’s theater work (Picasso in the Lapin Agile, Bright Star) has been pretty disappointing. But this time he has recruited a don’t-miss cast, including two talented comedians making their Broadway debuts, Amy Schumer  and Keegan-Michael Key, and one Broadway vet who has shown unexpected comedy chops  — Laura Benanti, perpetrator of a dead-on impression of Melania Trump on the Late Show With Stephen Colbert.

Time and the Conways (Oct. 10).  There are, as always, too many revivals on Broadway this season. But it’s nice to encounter an old play that you’re actually looking forward to discovering for the first time. J.B. Priestley (An Inspector Calls) is one of those “old-fashioned” mid-century British playwrights — along with Terrence Rattigan — whose work is having a welcome rediscovery. This 1937 drama follows the travails of a British family over a 19-year span in the years after World War I; Elizabeth McGovern and Gabriel Ebert are among the cast.

The Band’s Visit (Nov. 9): Small seems to be beautiful for Broadway-bound musicals these days (see Dear Evan Hansen). Even so, I was a little surprised when this modest show, based on a 2007 Israeli film about an Egyptian police band that winds up stranded in an Israeli town by mistake, won the New York Drama Critics Circle award for best musical almost by acclamation. I found the show (which debuted off-Broadway last December) pleasant but perhaps a bit too modest. Still, I’m curious to see if it blossoms on Broadway, with most of its original cast (headed by Tony Shalhoub) returning.

M. Butterfly (Oct. 26). I happened to be sitting next to director Julie Taymor at a movie screening a few months ago. When I asked what she was working on, she was excited to tell me about her Broadway reimagining of David Henry Hwang’s 1988 play inspired by Madame Butterfly.  Despite some recent misfires, when Julie Taymor (The Lion King) gets excited, we all should be.

Junk (Nov. 2). Ayad Aykhar has won critical raves for his plays (Disgraced, The Who and the What) that explore the cultural tensions facing Muslim-Americans in this country. As sharp as he is as a social-cultural observer. his plays have struck me as rather contrived and didactic. But I’m eager to see him branch out into fresh territory in this new play, about a junk-bond king plotting a corporate takeover in the go-go 1980s.

SpongeBob SquarePants (Dec. 4). Even at a time when Broadway seems laser-focused on the family audience (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is still running), this new musical based on the popular cartoon show seems like a stretch. But with estimable director Tina Landau at the helm and an array a songs by composers like David Bowie, Cyndi Lauper and Sara Bareilles, the show is getting surprisingly good buzz. Stranger things have happened.

And then there’s Springsteen on Broadway (Oct. 12). You’ve heard of him?