TWO BY TWO

Chalk it up to the luck of the draw, for how else can one account for seeing both Nora’s Will (more accurately in the original Spanish, Cinco Dias Sin Nora) and the latest Tom Hanks movie, A Man Called Otto, in the same evening? That I am still here to report on these events is, in its own way, a positive commentary on my own mental health.

In Nora, the title character commits suicide before the title sequence, leaving a refrigerator full of dishes complete with serving instructions for the family Passover dinner, while Hank’s Otto, an otherwise rather efficient product of a mid-western engineering school, fails at any number of attempts at bringing about the end of his life. These could be funny movies… right? They are not.

My Google machine says these two films are well under two hours in length… each. You could not prove that by me. I found the former very much on the long side, while I would judge the latter as interminable.

I admit to knowing those who are suckers for anything on which Tom Hanks imposes his imprimatur. More than one of these has told me they found Otto extremely moving as evidenced by the empty box of tissues in their possession by film’s end. What can I say other than I disagree?

If you are resolved to see at least one of these two, and Tom Hanks is not a determining factor, I would urge you to opt for the Mexican production of Nora and do, please, play it on Netflix in the original Spanish with subtitles. As to the other flick, I have been told that Otto is based on a Swedish film (A Man Called Ove) but do not count on this reviewer to do the research and delve into this sorry material yet again.

Tulsa King, a series starring Sylvester Stallone on Paramount+, evoked an entirely different response… until it didn’t. The first two episodes were simply terrific. A classic fish out of water situation with a star who, at seventy something, seems at the top of his game. My countenance wore a grin throughout those segments for, what can I say? It was nice to be in the company of true professionals who seemed expert at knowing how to stretch a thing without tearing it.

The euphoria did not last. Episodes three and four, while containing all the same elements of their predecessors, added a bit more to the mix. It was as if the chef made the mistake of pouring way too much salt into the stew. I did a cursory check of credits, did not notice any important personnel changes in the creative team, but I’ll tell you… something happened. No one in the business of making series television runs out of gas this fast. Someone left the cake out in the rain, and I am not sure I have the desire (or the energy) to check back for episode five… even though (theoretically) it could break the existing tie between two good episodes and two not so good.

White House Plumbers is a political satire of some very serious malfeasance in our nation’s history. Or is it? A “satire,” that is. I take my political dramas seriously… and, let’s face it, there are not a lot of laughs in All The President’s Men. This multi-part HBO mini-series owes more to Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado than it does to Woodward and Bernstein.

Justin Theroux plays G. Gordon Liddy, Woody Harrelson essays E. Howard Hunt, and Lena Headey (of Game of Thrones fame) pretty much steals all the acting kudos as Mrs. Hunt.

I honestly don’t know what to make of this series. It presents Liddy and Hunt as unbelievable, farcical, clowns… and then, I dunno… it sort of begs the question that maybe… just maybe… that is who they were. All that said, overall, there may just be enough entertainment value herein to make your viewing worthwhile.

That last statement about the “overall” does not apply to You Hurt My Feelings… a new, so-called, comedy starring Julia Louis-Dreyfuss who I would guess is rich enough to pay to take this film out of circulation. She should do just that. The phrase “no redeeming social value” comes quickly to mind. There is not a line of dialogue, a single scene, a directorial nor an acting moment that would not have more properly been relegated to the cutting room floor. Ms. Dreyfuss has never looked worse and that is only one of the many reasons she should do all that is possible to prevent this abomination from further public display. Nicole Holofcener has had some success as a writer (The Last Duel), some credits as a producer, and has done some directing sporadically for television. She should stick to writing… preferably period pieces with lesbian underpinnings.

The only good news of the evening came at the end of this Amazon Prime presentation (for which I paid perfectly good money) in the form of a blurb for the now somewhat ancient TV series, Saving Grace, starring Oscar winner Holly Hunter. I urged my guests to hang in with me for another 45 minutes or so just to watch the first episode of this terrific series of yesteryear if, for no other reason, than as an opportunity to get the bad taste of You Hurt My Feelings obliterated. It almost turned the evening around. This off-beat/fantasy/cop series has long been one of my favorites and I was happy to see that it still held up, even after all these years.

I did this the next night as well, re-running the 20-year-old pilot episode of Alias, starring Jennifer Garner. It too remains as fabulous a single episode as I can recall, save for the horror of discovering that Amazon has introduced commercials into the screening process.

Finally… an upbeat note, there are two very decent new motion pictures rooted heavily in American capitalism. The first is BlackBerry, the story of the creation of the first smartphone and (for some) the invention’s untimely demise. It is a Canadian production with a delightful cast and solid direction. I purchased it on Amazon Prime, but I understand it is also available in theatres.

AIR is the other half of this duo. An Amazon Prime motion picture with a terrific script, and a very nice cast, all dramatizing the true events surrounding a budding NIKE company and their courtship of Michael Jordan. If you think I am going to trivialize this commentary with something akin to “that’s shoe business,” you are wrong. This is a very good movie. It is Cinderella on steroids as Matt Damon courts young Jordan’s mother (Viola Davis) with Nike’s magic slipper and a piece of the action that has made a lot of folks very, happy… and very, very rich. I haven’t seen this good a movie in a while… to which the previous paragraphs bear witness.

I commend you to try this one on for size… I think you will agree with me and, as is often said, if the shoe fits… wear it.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

LET THEM EAT CAKE

It seems to me that there comes a time in life where birthdaysshould no longer hold the meaning they once did; where “enough, already” might be sufficient as opposition to the redundancy and familiarity into which these celebrations invariably descend. After all, most of the “true” adults in my circle are in their 80s. Even my offspring are approaching their eligibility for Social Security.

And yet…

A friend, going back to our college days together, just celebrated his 88th birthday. An elaborate feast at The Mansion on Fisher Island … a guest list of long-time pals and neighbors, along with a gaggle of medical men and women who these days tend to penetrate the social circles of active, affluent, octogenarians.

My own 85th, celebrated at Lawry’s, The Prime Rib… one of the oldest eating establishments in Los Angeles… was an over-the-top family feast, replete with carolers and table-side beef carvings. Three daughters, three grandchildren, along with a collection of spouses. Not one medical degree. We would rely on 9-1-1 should the need present itself. Mercifully, it did not.

None of these fetes came close to the fantasy fulfillment my wife had for her 80th… a replication of her grandmother’s pre-World War II transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary. It fell to me to fill the bill.

My spouse is nothing if not observant. We have been married since the late 20th century. Sometime during those three decades, it must have occurred to her that we had never been on a cruisetogether. 

Perhaps it was something I said about previous experiences I had endured on the high seas… or maybe it was my comparing such excursions to something akin to one of the more modest Hilton Hotel’s, now set afloat on its side: poor architecture, worse food, and a hum-drum clientele. 

All of that may have brought Sharon to believe that I just might be a wet blanket on such a trip, leading her to the conclusion that, like her grandmother and Garbo, she just wanted to take the trip alone. All that would be required of me, she announced, was to greet the ship on the other side of the Atlantic, holding long-stemmed roses. I could do that. But then, I thought: an 80-year-old lady… all on her lonesome on the high seas… for 7 days?

Years ago, when the last of Sharon’s girl-hood friends had succumbed to cancer, I admonished her to get younger friends. She did that. And so it was that I was able to treat her best pal to go along for the crossing on the Queen Mary 2… bound from New York to Southampton… which, not insignificantly, is a nearly three-hour cab ride from the hotel in which we would stay in downtown London. This old guy came through. Still jet-lagged from the previous day’s 6am arrival at London’s Heathrow Airport from Miami, I was up again at 5 am on day two to grab that 6am cab to Southampton in time for Sharon’s9am disembarkation.

The reports from the two women were fabulous. They had a great time and, more importantly, a good part of Sharon’s fantasy was realized… even if she had to wait to be 80 to get it.

There was more to the birthday plan: 10 days in London. Theatre, some shopping, visits to old haunts with some dear pals, including Sharon’s co-stars from her first two appearances in London’s West End: Bill Paterson (Stephen King’s Misery) and Tom Conti (Neil Simon’s Chapter II) along with their equally fabulous… and successful… spouses, Hildegard, and Kara.

We then teamed up for an after-theatre repast with Dame Maureen Lipman, fresh from her triumphal performance on stage in Rose, followed a few days later by dinner with a newer friend of Sharon’s, Anne Reid (Last Tango in Halifax). 

Sharon also did a sold out meet and greet fund-raiser for the Riverside Theatre in a suburb of London where the two hundred who were gathered there all rose to their feet to sing “Happy Birthday” to my beautifully aging star.

How can one top this? That is not necessarily rhetorical. Isn’t it safe to say that now… finally… we have come to that time where a birthday can simply be a twenty-dollar cake from Publix and a wish for many more to come?

Don’t bet on it. 90 looms.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

PERCHANCE TO DREAM

 

The only so-called “straight play” that I had time to see while in London was at the National Theatre… which, should you find yourself in the Home of The Big Ben, is usually a very safe qualitative bet. The quest for quality, however, is not what got me to cross Waterloo Bridge. It was curiosity.

The Motive and The Cue is a backstage drama about a series of dissonant rehearsals in the 1960s for the play Hamlet, to star Richard Burton, as directed by Sir John Gielgud.

I had met Sir John, when as a young MGM press agent, I handled the motion picture, The Loved One. The famed Shakespearean actor was one of the film’s many stars in a most worthy ensemble of players.

I had never met Mr. Burton, but I did see him play Hamlet on the Broadway stage over a half century ago… the very same production that this new play was about. All that supplied reason enough to get me to break away from a Saturday of shopping with my spouse and her pals to take in this matinee performance.

I had only been in London for little more than a day and jet lag loomed. Add to that--the growing fear as I sat in that theatre--that my kids might be right when they nag about my hearing. Throughout the first act I was in a battle between an inability to discern what was being said and a disinclination to stay awake.

At intermission I asked the couple next to me if they were having difficulty hearing… only the American half of the duo copped to having that problem. Ah yes, English as spoken by the English… “there’s the rub.”

I bit the bullet, went to the lobby, and picked up one of those hearing aids they loan for free at the National to folks such as me. That, plus a much more interesting second act, had me more engaged in the drama.

The actor who played Gielgud was spot on. Looked like the gentleman I remembered from our mid-1960s encounter and, best as I could recall, sounded very much like him as well. The Burton avatar did not make as many interesting choices as I thought he should and the gal who played Elizabeth Taylor said her lines nicely, but…. well … Elizabeth Taylor, she ain’t. The very best thing about the play was the staging of the last moments where director Sam Mendes truly earned his salary.

The 1964 presentation of Hamlet, starring Richard Burton, was a great commercial success on Broadway with sold-out crowds for the entirety of its 17-week run. Personally, all I remember of Burton’s Hamlet was that he chose to deliver the first half of “To be or not to be” off stage as he walked and talked while sort of throwing away what is perhaps the most famous soliloquy ever conceived. I was not impressed and remember one reviewer at the time writing, “the swordplay was well done.”  A damning “with faint praise,” bit if ever there was one.

I should not… will not… write of Hamlet without referencing Lawrence Olivier’s version and his 1949 Oscar winning motion picture of this most performed of all of Shakespeare’s plays (Google it. Get it. It is great).

And, as his one-time flack, it would also be remiss of me not to mention Gielgud’s 300 plus performances as the Prince of Denmark, all of which he assured me were even better than that of his Oscar-winning archrival.

 

My evening was capped off at the Kit Kat Club, recreated in the heart of London for yet another revival of the Kander and Ebb classic, Cabaret. If you are in London and you have never seen this fabulous show, then this is worth your time. When you have seen it as often as I, well… it is still worthy but not up to what I have seen in the past on stage or even on screen. The picking of nits aside, Cabaret remains an important work on a lot of levels… quite possibly even more important today given the current political climate at home.

If you have not seen the show…. or if it has been a while … you do not need to fly to London or New York…. check your GOOGLE machine and order up the 1972 movie directed by Bob Fosse, starring Liza Minnelli. Still, after all these years, a stunner.

Then, there is something called “Immersive Theatre.” Several years ago I attended such a production in an abandoned train tunnel in Washington, DC where the company of actors moved freely among the paying customers, interacting with anyone with whom they came in contact… and always in character.

As far as I could discern there was no plot for those of us in the audience to follow, even though there may have been a whole lot going on in the minds of the individual actors who I believed essayed their roles with talent, sincerity, and attention to detail. It was interesting… something to do… but (truth to tell) “interesting” is about all one could say for the evening.

Now comes the Bridge Theatre Company in London and their production of Guys and Dolls, the venerable Frank Loesser musical that has always been one of my favorites. It arrives, coupled with a new kind of immersive experience that has a point.

One could write about the uniformly excellent cast, the terrific pit band, the sets, the attention to detail, coupled with the imagination that enhances the entire evening. One could, but I will not.

What knocked me out was the staging, which had to include a good part of the audience that was immersed onto “the stage” itself… an audience that was obliged to ebb and flow, to allow ingress and egress to the players and the play itself… to follow the unspoken instructions of the ushers, costumed as mid-20th century New York police officers, that would allow the play to move on at its frenetic pace with nary a glitch.

The logistics of how such a thing might be imagined, let alone designed to actually work, boggled my mind. The enjoyment of the audience (both those participating and those of us observing) was enhanced geometrically. It is simply one of the better theatrical experiences imaginable… worth the flight across the pond to England where, with any luck, this production will be running at least through year’s end.

And, lastly, for even though we have several more days abroad, our final theatrical evening was spent at the Ambassadors Theatre’s presentation of ROSE… a one woman show, starring our good friend, Dame Maureen Lipman. It is hard to tell you how good she is without overindulging in hyperbole.

The play by Martin Sherman is remarkable for several reasons beyond its being very well written. For openers, it was created nearly three decades ago, performed by Olympia Dukakis in 1999 at the National Theatre, yet its two-hour plus length remains remarkably current (and, it turns out, prescient) in its depiction of modern-day antisemitism, and turmoil in Ukraine.

The one-woman monologue comes from the soul and mind of the 80-year-old Rose, who we find sitting shiva… mourning for the dead. It is, she tells us, “… not a religious thing; it’s just Jewish.”

You would think there would not be a lot of laughs in an evening such as this, but that is probably because you are not familiar with the unbelievably talented Dame Mo. Playwright Sherman provides her with several opportunities for tears and laughter and she lands solidly on each and every one.

This production will, most likely, not make it across the pond. And that, dear reader, is truly a shanda. 

What? You couldn’t guess? It means a shame.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

VOYAGE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEE

At the outset, let me remind one and all that I am an old man. And that even though I have been seduced by much of the music of the 70s, I did not get there until the late 90s… and that when I refer to the music of the 70s, I mean Billy Joel, Randy Newman, Elton John, Melanie, Leonard Cohen and… well, that’s about it. ABBA did not make my list.

I have never seen Mama Mia, although I have heard the song. I can even hum the first four notes. I am vaguely aware of Dancing Queen, mostly because it is referenced in a Randy Newman lyric in his song Christmas in Cape Town, and I sort of recognized Fernando when I finally heard it played again the other evening at a built for the occasion stadium on the outskirts of downtown London.

Did I not mention at the outset that this comes to you direct from London and not my usual warm island? I am here at my wife’s request, celebrating a significant birthday on her behalf. We are seeing shows, visiting with our English friends, and reacquainting ourselves (post-COVID) with the restaurants and clubs we have always enjoyed in the past.

One of those shows was ABBA Voyage… and it is a trip. Somehow this rock n’ roll group from the late 70s got a lot of folks to put up north of a hundred million dollars to build a stadium and create a virtual reality concert that portends something ominous. There, on huge screens that wrap around a good portion of the arena, are the now nearly octogenarian rockers, digitally modified to look pretty much the way they did 40 years ago, minus that elusive something that is an essential part of personality.

On the stage are the fully decked-out rockers in the flesh… or are they? Calling them as I see them, and with my limited vocabulary in this idiom, they are something like holograms, apparently created by George “Star Wars” Lucas and his Industrial Light & Magic Company.

These avatars rock, roll, sing, and take an occasional “break” to intro a song or make a “joke” about how they are pleased to be looking so young for their age. This, I fear, is what show business is going to be like if the Writers’ strike goes on much longer.

It also makes you wonder if in the future Baz Luhrmann will be able to get financing for a film such as Elvis while introducing such a spectacular talent as Austin Butler in the title role. Why bother when one could simply electronically reproduce the “original?”

I hate to party poop and will not go on about the plastic Disney-like quality of the music itself. Instead, I will note that the audience… and there are thousands of them in this “theatre” … seem to love what they are seeing and hearing. They dance, they wave their arms (do they think they are at a Queen concert?) and they sing along. They are having a very good time, and don’t seem to mind at all the price tag which translates to something close to $200 per ticket…. For a movie without a plot.

In fairness, it is a very state of the art kinda flick, although the state of this art in 2023 is far from perfected. Still, it is impressive. As to what the future will bring, an ABBA lyric just may say it all:

How the brave new world arrives/ and I see how it thrives/ in the ashes of our lives.

 

Barney Rosenzweig