Broadway
He Says: MTC’s Cost of Living Spins a Fascinating and Compelling Net of Complicated Care and Sorrow
“That’s from the Bible,” he tells us, as the complications stream out, jumping backward in order to get to the moment that would bring us full circle. To a place where “holidays are hard” and the drinks are on this grieving man. The pain of loneliness sits real and strong on that barstool and we can’t help but be pulled into his orbit. We wonder how he got to this place where there is nowhere to hide, and we feel for his journey even when we, and he, knows the ghost texts aren’t true.
David Zayas in MTC’s Cost of Living. Photo Credit: Julieta Cervantes (2022).
It’s a compelling, emotional beginning; these messages (not) from a dead wife, signaling the complicated sorrow that exists within. This is his cost of living and loving. The monologue, put forth pitch-perfectly by David Zayas (Broadway’s Anna in the Tropics), delivers us completely to the net that was supposed to be him. That’s the lesson in love and attachment, and what is basically at the heart of Manhattan Theatre Club’s solid and engaging production of Martyna Majok’s Cost of Living.
The intimate and seductive play revolves itself forward, delivering two scenarios that resemble each other, but are weighed down by different functions and connections. We try to string together these scenes with each other, and with the one that opened up this strongly crafted play by Majok (Sanctuary City) that was awarded the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Drama after a celebrated run at MTC’s Stage I, but the gaps in that net are too widely spaced. The fascinating part of this puzzle is that we have complete faith that this deeply personal exploration of the human condition will find its way home and that Brooklyn bar, and that we will be rewarded for maintaining that faith.
Directed with a sharp focused empathy by the phenomenally wise Jo Bonney (NYTW’s An Ordinary Muslim), Cost of Living is at the heart of this two pronged revolve, with one side occupied grandly by a young man named John, played strongly by Gregg Mozgala (Public’s Teenage Dick), a PhD student with cerebral palsy who hires a tense and desperate Princeton grad by the name of Jess, played heroically by the exceptional Kara Young (magnificent in Broadway’s Clyde’s). Jess has some struggles that hang with weight on her small frame. She tells John that she is currently working several jobs to keep a float, but this is the cost she has taken on, or been thrust into, it’s hard to know exactly. But their connection is palpable from the moment he decides to hire her to care for him, which she does with an openness and care that is deeply touching.
Unrelated to that, the other half of the revolve belongs to the man we were earlier introduced to and an angry woman named Ani, played to perfection by Katy Sullivan (Goodman Theatre’s The Long Red Road). Zayas’ Eddie, a DUI-suspended truck driver arrives to engage with Ani, his estranged wife, for reasons that are quite hard to distinguish. It feels like guilt and some sort of deep shame, possibly connected to the fact that Ani has lost the use of her limbs in an accident of some sort. We lean into their interactions that are filled to the brim with resentment, anger, and concern, but the lines drawn are hard to make out. It fills us with curiosity and the two, in their fiery exchanges, have me in the palm of their talented hands almost immediately.
Directed with a sharp focused empathy by the phenomenally wise Jo Bonney (NYTW’s An Ordinary Muslim), Cost of Living is at the heart of this two pronged revolve, with one side occupied grandly by a young man named John, played strongly by Gregg Mozgala (Public’s Teenage Dick), a PhD student with cerebral palsy who hires a tense and desperate Princeton grad by the name of Jess, played heroically by the exceptional Kara Young (magnificent in Broadway’s Clyde’s). Jess has some struggles that hang with weight on her small frame. She tells John that she is currently working several jobs to keep a float, but this is the cost she has taken on, or been thrust into, it’s hard to know exactly. But their connection is palpable from the moment he decides to hire her to care for him, which she does with an openness and care that is deeply touching.
Unrelated to that, the other half of the revolve belongs to the man we were earlier introduced to and an angry woman named Ani, played to perfection by Katy Sullivan (Goodman Theatre’s The Long Red Road). Zayas’ Eddie, a DUI-suspended truck driver arrives to engage with Ani, his estranged wife, for reasons that are quite hard to distinguish. It feels like guilt and some sort of deep shame, possibly connected to the fact that Ani has lost the use of her limbs in an accident of some sort. We lean into their interactions that are filled to the brim with resentment, anger, and concern, but the lines drawn are hard to make out. It fills us with curiosity and the two, in their fiery exchanges, have me in the palm of their talented hands almost immediately.
For that reason, we lean into their profane interactions with a level of wonder that is unmatched by the other half, at least initially. Their attachment is intense, yet somehow fascinating to untangle, while the other side of the revolve seems to be getting more complicated and tangled with every turn. Neatly coordinated to keep us tuned in, the dynamics of both of the entanglements surge forth on a set designed with clarity by Wilson Chin (Broadway’s Pass Over), with impeccable lighting by Jeff Croiter (Broadway’s Bandstand), costuming by Jessica Pabst (Red Bull Theater’s Mac Beth), and sound design by Robert Kaplowitz (MTC’s Skeleton Crew) with original music composed by Mikaal Sulaiman (Broadway’s Thoughts of a Colored Man),
Majok doesn’t sentimentalize a soul on that stage, including John and Ani, who live with disabilities; one congenital, the other acquired accidentally. Her writing neither fetishized nor uses them or their bodies as a cheap function of plot. But treats them honestly and with a sharpness that is utterly engaging. “It’s fucking retarded,” John states, like a splash of cold water on the face of an awkward Jess as she struggles to find the correct language to describe him. “I’ve never worked with the differently abled.” This attempt doesn’t go over well with John. And his response tells us all we need to know about him, her, the others, and the play in general.
All four actors are superb, delivering intense attachment to one another in the most compelling of ways. We are enthralled by their dynamics and abilities, making our heart pound with excitement or panic when the poetry of Majok’s play demands it. I’ve never heard a crowd gasp for air so deeply as I did during that one moment of submersion and that other moment of dismissal, mainly because the play, and these actors have taken us inside the space so completely. The emotional core lives strongly; in the way they care, for each other and for themselves, and not always in the best of all possible ways. It spins us around, unleashing us to the elements that will either sting or starve. They are all struggling in their own off-to-the-sides kinda way, pushed to the extreme by love, pride, attachment, obliviousness, and fear. Each somehow almost slipping through the holes in their safety net, unlocking and displaying the coldness of the world, without losing the empathy that Majok has for them all.
Broadway
Broadway’s A Doll’s House Meticulously Stunning Revival Soars Like a Birdie Above That Clumsy Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
For a revival to find its footing, it has to have a point of view or a sense of purpose far beyond an actor’s desire to perform a part, whether it suits them or not. It needs to radiate an idea that will make us want to sit up and pay attention. To feel its need to exist. And on one particular day in March, I was blessed with the opportunity to see not just one grande revival, but two. One was a detailed pulled-apart revolutionary revival of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House that astounded. The other, unfortunately, was a clumsy revival of Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that fell lazily from that high-wired peak – not for a lack of trying, but from a formulation that never found its purpose.
But over at Broadway’s Hudson Theatre, a reformulation chirps most wisely and wonderfully, bringing depth and focus to a classic Henrik Ibsen (Hedda Gabler) play that I didn’t realize was in such need of an adaptation. With no extravagance at its core, Amy Herzog (Mary Jane) dynamically takes the detailed structure and beautifully adapted it with due purpose. It hypnotizes, dragging in a number of light wooden chairs, Scandinavian in style, I believe, onto the stage, one by one, by their black-clad counterparts in a determined effort to unpack what will unfold. There is no artifice to hide behind in this rendering, as designed most impeccably by scenic and co-costume designer Soutra Gilmour (NT’s My Brilliant Friend; Broadway’s & Juliet) and co-costume designer Enver Chakartash (Broadway’s Is This A Room), only A Doll’s House’s celebrated star, Jessica Chastain (Broadway’s The Heiress; “The Eyes of Tammy Faye“) rotating the expanse of the bare stage before the others join her slowly and deliberately. She sits, arms crossed, staring, daring us to look away, while knowing full well we won’t. Or can’t. And without a word, it feels like she has us exactly where she wants us. Needs us to be. And all that transpires before the play even begins.
They sit on that bare and stark stage, waiting, in a way, to be played with, like dolls patiently wanting some children to come and give them a voice through their imagination. As Nora, Chastain delivers forward a performance that is unparalleled. To witness what transpires across her face during the course of this extra fine adaptation is to engage in a dance so delicately embroidered that we can’t help but be moved and transported. She barely moves from her chair, as others, like the equally wonderful Arian Moayed (Broadway’s The Humans) as Torvald, are rotated in to sit beside her, conversing and delivering magnified lines, thanks to the brilliant work of sound designers Ben & Max Ringham (West End’s Prima Facie), that dig deep into the underbelly of the complicated interactions. This pair of actors find a pathway through the darkness, never letting us come to any conclusions until they are ready to unleash a moment that will leave you breathless. This is particularly true for Moayed’s Torvald, who seems decent enough at the beginning, but once the shift occurs, when the beautiful thing doesn’t happen as it should, his unveiling is as gut-wrenching to us as it is to Nora. Even though we knew it was coming long before the play even began to spin forward.
The art of the unfolding is steeped within the whole, refocused inside the brilliant shading, shadowing, and starkness of the cast. As Krogstad, the powerful Okieriete Onaodowan (Broadway’s Hamilton), alongside the deliciously tight Jesmille Darbouze (Broadway’s Kiss Me, Kate) as Kristine, find an engagement that sits perfectly in the structuring. They push the reforming to the edge, approaching and receding away from Chastain’s brilliant centering helping move the piece towards the required conclusion.
The same can be said of the wonderful Tasha Lawrence (LCT’s Pipeline) as Anne-Marie, and the exquisitely emotional turning of Michael Patrick Thornton (Broadway’s Macbeth) as Dr. Rank. Thornton, in particular, finds a telling and emotional space to connect, unearthing an engagement that breaks the circle apart, leaving Chastain’s Nora and all of us observers shattered and broken in its black X’d finality.
As directed with the same magnificently detailed energy and flat-walled framework as the previously seen Betrayal on Broadway and the West End, Jamie Lloyd gives us A Doll’s House that will never be forgotten. The focus is so deliberate, and the formulations are just so strong, pushed forward in black and white by the exacting lighting design of Jon Clark (West End/Broadway’s The Lehman Trilogy). Forced while remaining ever so intimate, the cascading of the statement delivered registers in a precise way, more exacting than I ever remembered, and I’ve seen numerous renditions of this epic play. And even though, from what I hear, many on the left couldn’t see the epic exit of Nora, a moment that typically registers throughout theatre history, the symbol of a woman, steadfast and true, leaving the safe and simple artifice of A Doll’s House for engagement in the hard cruel reality of the world outside is as clear as can be. The delicacies of this birdie trapped inside a cage, poisoned with lies and excuses, and beautifully brought forth by Chastain, registers the reasonings for this revival to exist. It has found a new and deliberate place to sing, and for that, I am truly grateful.
I wish I could say the same about Ruth Stage‘s modern take on the Tennessee Williams (A Streetcar Named Desire) classic, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, currently being re-delivered at the Theatre at St. Clements. As directed by Joe Rosario (Hemingway and Me; Ruth Stages’ The Exhibition), the play doesn’t find its rationale for existing in the modern day beyond the simplistic sexualization of its boxing-ring corners. Matt de Rogatis (Austin Pendleton’s Wars of the Roses) as the tense athletic Brick stays broken and damaged in his corner, riding out the moment, waiting for the click, while in the other corner is the tense Maggie, played without hesitation by Courtney Henggeler (Netflix’s “Cobra Kai“) poised and ready for the bell to ring.
The battle is only heightened by the presence of two other fighters in the opposing corners, Big Daddy, played with determination by Frederick Weller (Broadway’s To Kill a Mockingbird) in the third, and Big Mama, played with a strong intent by Alison Fraser (Gingold Theatrical’s Heartbreak House), in the fourth. And watching and cheering for their own personal perspective wins are the obnoxious Mae, typically portrayed by Christine Copley (although I believe I saw an understudy), the weasely Gooper, played by Adam Dodway (Theatre Row’s Small Craft Warnings), Rev. Tooker portrayed by Milton Elliott (Ruth Stage’s Hamlet), and Doc Baugh, typically played by Jim Kempner (“The Girlfriend Experience“) (although, once again, I believe I saw an understudy).
Generally, this is a battle that rages deceptively strong and subtle for the length of the play, swimming cruelly in the hazy heat of its Southern charm. But somewhere in this modernization, the reasonings never get fully realized, leaving the cast to wander in their stereotypical delivery without a sharp focal point in the horizon to zero in on. Hidden behind the bar and the drink, de Rogatis finds a Brick to be engaged with. He’s definitely handsome and desirable, especially in the eyes of the far-too-straightforward Henggeler’s Maggie the Cat, and his occupation of drinking rings more true than most. I’m not sure if the modernization has been created to fit his chest-baring delivery of a broken Brick, but I will say that his artful approach to the part is one of the stronger components of this otherwise clunky reimagining.
Given so much to unpack, Henggeler runs a little too fast and furious, not weaving a pause into her thoughts and actions. It’s all forward flowing, ignoring the laws of silence and deliberation. Big Mama and Big Daddy, ignoring the fact that they don’t seem to fit in with their surroundings or the set-up, find their way into the same cage as the two central figure fighters, giving us something else to contemplate in their constructs, beyond their tight fitting jeans and dress. There’s not much of a father/son connection, nor does their familial energy register, even as it moves and twitches within the pauses well. The details of attachment are lost, as they talk around things, with everyone else playing at high volume, courtesy of a sound design by Tomás Correa (Hudson Street’s Adam & Eve), delivering the Southern drawl with the intensity of an SNL skit. That’s a problem to the whole and one that doesn’t work for this rendering.
Most of the cast is all hock and no spit, moving around the room with a strange case of physicalized mendacity while never really finding a reason for their existence. The artifice gets in the way of the movement, especially in Matthew Imhoff’s (off-Broadway’s soot and spit) busy and overly clumsy set, with some distracting fading in and out by lighting designer Christian Specht’s (SSTI’s Cabaret). The storm approaching is as false as the formula and the reasoning for this retelling. It showcases some basically good actors embracing the chance to play iconic Big roles that I’m sure they have always wanted to dig their Southern-accented chomps into, possibly because one or two of them might never otherwise get the chance as they don’t exactly fit the literal sashaying of the “fat old” bodies out and around the staging of this play. The idea breeds curiosity, but one that doesn’t save this Cat on a Hot Tin Roof from falling quick and hard from its perch, I’m sad to say. While the birdie in A Doll’s House flies strong out into the cool Broadway air, with solid reasoning on its stark wings, reminding us all what makes for a worthy reimagining of a classic.
You are seriously asking for it, when you make the title for your musical Bad Cinderella, however the show is not bad, it’s just seriously lacking. For an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, which is normally rich in melody, the only song that has any kind of hold is “Only You, Lonely You” sung by Prince Sebastian (Jordan Dobson or in my performance the wonderful Julio Ray). The lyrics by David Zippel and book by Emerald Fennell, adapted by Alexis Scheer are inane. It doesn’t help that the cast for the most part speaks and sings with mouths full of cotton. The orchestrations sound tinny and computerized, The lead Linedy Genao has no charisma or vocals that soar musically, instead she is rather nasal, like Bernadette Peters with a cold. Why this show is two and a half hours long is beyond me.
Grace McLean and the hunks Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman
The show is based in a town called Belleville (beautiful town en Francais), that is based solely on looks and prides itself on its superficiality. The opening number starts with “Beauty Is Our Duty,” the Queen (a fabulous Grace McLean) is into her hunks including her missing son Charming (Cameron Loyal).
Christina Acosta Robinson Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman)
And the fairy godmother (Christina Acosta Robinson) is a plastic surgeon who sings “Beauty Has a Price”. In a day and age, where we are suppose to see past all that, this show is politically incorrect.
Linedy Genao Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman
Cinderella a Gothic, and a graffiti artist, naturally does not fit into the town’s mold of beauty, which is how she earns her nickname. Her rebel move happens when she defaces a memorial statue of Sebastian’s older brother, Prince Charming. Sebastian is more of a geek, and he and Cinderella are in the “friend zone,” since both lack communication skills in admitting their love.
Carolee Carmello Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman
Sebastian is being forced by his mother, the Queen to find a wife at a ball and invites Cinderella. Cinderella’s stepmother (the always remarkable Carolee Carmello) blackmails the Queen to get one of her daughters Adele (Sami Gayle) or Marie (Morgan Higgins) the gig.
Grace McLean, Carolee Carmello Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman)
McLean and Carmello are the bright spots in the show and if the show had been about these two, maybe we would actually have a show that could work. These two steal the show.
Linedy Genao, Jordan Dobson, Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman
Cinderella has not one, but two what should have been show stopping numbers “I Know I Have A Heart (Because You Broke It)” and “Far Too Late,” but she does not have the vocals, the character development or the star power to carry them off.
The set and the revenge porn costumes by Gabriela Tylesova, are just over the top, with the storybook set faring much better than the over complicated flowered pastels that waltzed across the stage.
The direction by Laurence Connor is just dull and lacks oomph.
If you like buff men and Chippendale type choreography this is the show for you.
Bad Cinderella, Imperial Theatre, 249 West 45th Street.
On Friday, March 24th, the 96-year-old John Kander was given a Mayoral Proclamation from Mayor Eric Adams in celebration of the first performance of his new Broadway musical New York, New York. Following the proclamation, Lin-Manuel Miranda unveiled the sign renaming 44th Steet ‘Kander & Ebb Way. On hand was the Manhattan School of Music to performed the iconic Kander & Ebb song “New York, New York.”
New York, New York opens Wednesday, April 26, 2023 at Broadway’s St. James Theatre (246 West 44th Street).
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